Wicked Muse Read online

  I was kind of a dick when I was over there the other day, trash-talking their house and hitting on her. I wish I hadn’t done that. I should apologize.

  Shit, they’re moving, and I may never even see her again. I’ll probably never get another chance. Damn, another black mark in the negative Karma column. They’re starting to add up.

  I make quick work of the drive to the university, parking in the faculty lot across from the Harvey building where my office and most of the design and printmaking studios are located. This building, along with the whole sprawling Virginia Commonwealth University campus, is impressive—even by my impossibly high standards. I sit in my car, just taking the place in.

  The art building is a 19th century Gilded Age wonder built in the Gothic Revival style. It’s massive, imposing, and unapologetically ornate. It reminds me of some of the truly ancient university buildings at Oxford and Cambridge, after which it was modeled. It’s true to that form, right down to the snarling gargoyles hanging off the rafters.

  I make my way down the brick walkway toward the main entrance of the building and am reminded precisely why I’m here.

  In foot tall, slightly tarnished brass letters mounted over the gigantic, carved wooden doors, is his name. I’m about to cross over the threshold into the Guy E. Harvey Memorial Arts Center. This place is his alma mater. He gave the school his time and money while he lived, and when he died, he endowed what is arguably the finest printmaking, photography, and craft typography facility in the entire country. His largess paid for an expansion of the building, the creation of a new exhibition gallery, plus twenty scholarships for students who otherwise couldn’t afford a college career.

  I’m here because Guy was here before me, and he strongly encouraged me to pursue the academic rather than corporate life. Guy Harvey was my dear friend, my mentor, and my idol. He’s been dead more than two years, but I’m still trying to please him.

  I reach forward, grasping the big brass handle on one of the heavy wooden doors, pulling it toward me. I step inside and instantly, the aroma of oil paint and ink, the bite of photographic fixer and aerosol spray mount; these all blend in my senses. It’s the taste and smell of a working design school, all the mediums competing with one another and blending into a heady stew of scent and flavor that’s impossible to recreate anywhere else.

  My office is downstairs in ‘the tombs’ as the locals have dubbed it. It’s a basement space below street level with no windows; a perfect environment for nocturnal creatures as most designers are, as well as darkrooms, photo studios, and light sensitive printmaking arts.

  I press the key into my office door, turning the lock while checking the time. I still have ten minutes to spare before my first scheduled appointment arrives.

  There’s a filing cabinet under my desk. I retrieve the files for the kids I’m supposed to meet today, placing them in order by appointment time. I open the first one and begin reviewing the details contained within.

  She’s a rising junior, accepted by portfolio review into the highly competitive Bachelor of Fine Arts program in Graphic Design. Just one in two hundred applicants make that cut, so that’s saying something. Still, she’s got another cut to get through at the end of her junior year before she can move on to senior level thesis classes and her final degree review. This school is brutally competitive. Only the best and most determined make it all the way to graduation with the coveted BFA degree earned.

  We’ll have to see what sort this junior, Catherine Harvey, is. She’s got a great overall GPA at 3.5, with a 3.8 in her degree coursework.

  I check my watch; it’s three minutes after one. Catherine is late. Not an auspicious start. I need to give her a great deal to think about regarding punctuality. My time is way more valuable than hers.

  I check her file again for faculty notes. They’re glowing for the most part. There is one exception. Liza Johnson, the head of the department and my boss, who’s a real piece of work by the way, has inserted the following: ‘Needs to be challenged more. She’s hit or miss. Her efforts are inconsistent, and her ideas are all over the place. She needs to be managed and taught some discipline in what is—and is not—the correct, systematic approach to problem solving.’

  Interesting.

  From my first interview onward, Liza struck me as the careful sort who wound up in academia because she couldn’t hack it in the real world of commercial design and advertising. This note confirms my supposition.

  Guy Harvey taught me early that if at least half your ideas don’t fall flat, you’re not taking enough chances. I had that philosophy reinforced in grad school at the Royal College and in every place I ever worked afterwards. This is something these kids will learn when they get out in the world, or they’ll never get the chance to learn it at all because they’ll be so scared to fail, they’ll fail for lack of trying. Failing early and often is something I always try to teach my students and practice myself. If you don’t fail, you’re not trying hard enough. Failure is a necessary precursor to success.

  I want to meet Catherine Harvey to see what this kid is made of. The clock says ten after one. She’s late and that pisses me off.

  Down the corridor there’s a commotion. A second later I hear a scuffle just beyond my open door. I look up in time to see Catherine Harvey swing into view, her cheeks pink and bright from exercise. She’s breathing hard and fast from running. Her honey colored, curling hair is a little mussed from sweat and wind.

  “You,” she says, taking me in as I sit behind my desk with an expression of confounded delight. “You? Oh hell no.”

  Chloe, from across the street. Ice-cube, thank-you-very-much-I-take-care-of-myself Chloe. Stunning Chloe. Chloe who refused my ride in order to catch a bus and is now very late.

  Chloe.

  “I need another adviser,” she says without blinking. “You’re the new guy, and this isn’t gonna work.”

  Oh, this is going to work just fine.

  “Sit down,” I instruct her. “You’re late.”

  She hesitates. I see the storm crossing her expression.

  “Sit down,” I repeat sternly. “You’re not getting a new adviser. We’re stuck with each other. Deal with it.”

  This is going to be more fun than I anticipated.

  Much to my surprise, she does as she’s told, taking a seat, clutching her laptop bag close.

  Chloe Harvey. With a 3.8 GPA. A girl who takes chances.

  I’d like to take a chance on her. She’s luscious with her gray eyes, athletic build, and long tangle of whiskey colored curls. She’s altogether perfect.

  But I can’t think like that. She’s my student. And she reminds me so much of someone, something.

  “Interesting turn of events,” I say, lacking any other tack. “So. You’re late because you wouldn’t take a ride to school. I saw you and your housemates moving out this morning. What’s that about?”

  I put on my best authoritative, collage professor tone, but I have my doubts about how convincing I am. I need more practice.

  I’d like to practice on her, bossing her around, making her do my bidding.

  This job just got way more interesting than I bargained for.

  Chapter 3

  Chloe

  No. Noooo. No. This can’t be.

  He’s trying hard to contrive an air of professorial authority, but the curl at his lip betrays him. He’s enjoying himself too much to claim the high ground. He loves the power-play; the fact that he’s in charge, and I’m so clearly not.

  “Excuse me, Chloe. Cat got your tongue? I asked you a question.”

  “Ahm…” I stutter. “The um… the house got condemned and we got evicted. We’ve got be out by tomorrow.”

  This guy makes me as nervous as a whore in church, and for the life of me I don’t know why. It can’t just be his looks. There’s something else. He reminds me of someone.

  He sits back in his swanky Herman Miller desk chair, propping an ankle on his knee; a pose which accentua
tes the bow of his muscled thigh. I look up at the ceiling to keep from looking at him.

  “That’s a tragic story,” he quips, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “I can’t say I’m disappointed. When that fire trap comes down, my own property values go up.”

  Mustering all the self-control I can manage—and I can manage a lot—I choose not to respond to this statement. Nothing useful will come of it. I know what he and people like him think of people like me and my housemates. Our mere existence in their world is viewed as a drag on their ambitions and a threat to their personal gain. They look at us and assume we’re poor because we deserve to be, because we earned it. They need to believe this because if they thought otherwise, then they’d have to confront the idea that their position in the world is just as random, just as incidental as ours. Most of them couldn’t face that idea and keep their sanity, so instead they blame us.

  He glances down at a file folder, then back up at me. “So… Miss Catherine Harvey. Tell me about yourself. Basic biographical info. I see in your file you’re a Virginia resident. You were raised here?”

  I nod, “Yeah. Richmond suburbs.”

  “What else?” he asks.

  I shrug. “Not much else to tell. I work at Little Mexico on Cary Street—bartender. It halfway pays the bills.” He scowls as I say this. “And in the summer, I go to New York. Internship stuff.” He seems happier to hear this intelligence.

  “How many hours a week do you work during school term?”

  Like that’s any of his business?

  “Around thirty,” I say, feeling my defenses raise another degree.

  He sits forward, assessing me.

  “You’ve got two classes with me this term. Design and Typography. I’m a taskmaster. I’m going blow your world up. It isn’t going to get any easier now that you’re in the program. You’ve got to stay in the program, and I don’t see that happening with you working thirty hours a week, plus whatever academic stuff you’ve got on your plate. I’m all for sleep deprivation, but I’m not a big fan of physical breakdown.”

  I listen to this speech respectfully, then I reply, “I’ll be fine. Thanks for your concern.”

  His brow furrows. “You’re not taking this seriously, Chloe. You need to make a choice. Either drop a couple classes—at least one of mine—or quit your job at the restaurant, or preferably both.”

  He’s out of his mind.

  “If I drop two classes, then I just have to make them up next year. Which then doubles me up and we’re having this same conversation again.”

  “Take an extra year to finish school,” he says flippantly, waving his hand like it’s nothing. “Plenty of people take five years.”

  His privilege is showing.

  “You don’t understand how financial aid works, do you?” I ask, more as a statement than a question.

  “Excuse me?”

  Yeah. There it is. There’s that little crease between the eyebrows that forms when you’ve just hit someone with a concept they’ve never considered. They get that confused look, like you’re speaking in tongues.

  “I’m on a partial academic scholarship,” I say. “And a full, need-based financial-aid package. But that money stops after eight semesters. They don’t pay for a five-year, lazy degree. I have exactly four years to do this thing and be gone, or I’m just wasting my time here.”

  Hayes sits forward another inch, considering this new information.

  “Shit.”

  Yeah.

  “Well then,” he starts, “If I was in your shoes, I’d probably cut my losses and go home. You got into the program, and so you probably have a pretty solid book. You can get a job...”

  “Are you fucking crazy?”

  I just can’t help it. He just popped the seal on my self-control.

  “You don’t get to tell me to quit. You’re supposed to facilitate my success, not write me off. That’s not in your god damned job description you little… over-achieving twit.”

  He laughs. He actually laughs. He’s stunned. I’m stunned I said it. Sometimes my mouth gets ahead of my brain.

  “Over-achieving twit?” he repeats. “That’s nice. Well-played, Miss… Miss… Chloe.” His eyes narrow and he sits forward another inch, his expression darkening. “You know what? You don’t have a prayer. You can’t handle two classes with me. My job description does include washing out another round of wannabees before senior year. And trust me when I tell you, I’m doing you a favor because you’d never cut it in the real world. Not unless you made it on your knees—but that only goes so far and it doesn’t last long.”

  My turn to be stunned.

  “You did not just say that.” I spit at him. “You did not just say that to me.” I’m shaking. I’m so angry, I’m actually shaking.

  I take a deep breath. I close my eyes, very briefly, and compose myself. I’ve dealt with people like him before. I can do this. I relax my shoulders, counting backwards from ten.

  “Listen,” I say calmly. “I know you’re new here. I realize you have a lot to prove. So, I’ll give you a pass on what you just said. That can go unreported. Unless you force my hand. But let me put you on notice. It’ll take more than you trying to be an intimidating, bad ass boy-prodigy to budge me. I’m not as easily rattled as most of the kids you’re probably used to dealing with. And I’m a hell of a lot more talented. I can handle the schedule, and anything else you throw at me.”

  He shakes his head, rolling his eyes. “You’re a clueless little girl. You’re putting me on notice? You do understand that five years from now, half the people in this program will be working at Starbucks because they just can’t cut it in the agency world. You’ll be lucky to be at Starbucks. You’re looking more and more like Wal-Mart greeter material.”

  My reaction is instant and visceral. I howl, laughing. It’s reflexive, because he’s just so absurd. When I can finally contain myself—and that takes a minute due to the ridiculous way he’s looking at me—all incredulous like I’m a babbling lunatic, I explain to him how things are.

  “You obviously don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.” I can’t help it that I’m smiling at him, as if I almost feel sorry for his arrogance. “Before you write me off Jethro, make sure you know who you’re talking to. I’ve probably spent as much time inside an actual working design firm as you have, working with real clients, on real projects, with some of the most gifted designers in New York.”

  I’m on a roll, and as I go I see his expression shifting. His smoldering anger molds to confusion, then to something like recognition. I keep going, since I seem to have finally gotten his attention. “As early as you started, I know for a fact I started at least a little earlier. I teethed on Pantone pens and letterpress wood blocks, and I’ve got ink in my blood. In five years, maybe Starbucks will come see me for a re-brand, but I guarantee that’s as close as I’ll ever get to working for them.”

  Some wave of recognition, some terrible reality, washes over him. His eyes widen, his mouth slackens. All the color drains from his pretty, chiseled face.

  “Chloe?” he mumbles. “But… but… You’re Chloe Harvey. You’re Guy’s daughter?”

  He knew my father? Okay. My turn to be shocked.

  “Yeah,” I say, wishing we could have kept that fact on the down-low just awhile longer. People tend to treat me differently when they learn who I am. Who my father was. They either become uncomfortably familiar, gushing, trying to cozy up to me, or they assume I’m a privileged brat who’s here only because of my name. They think I haven’t worked my ass off and then some to get here.

  “I am so sorry,” Hayes says, his face wearing a deer in the headlights glare. “I had no idea—”

  “And if you’d known who I was you’d have treated me with more respect, with deference?” I interrupt him. “You wouldn’t have been all gross and inappropriate? Because of my name and DNA, I somehow deserve better treatment than the rest of your clueless students? Is that about right?”

&nbs
p; The look in his eye shifts as I say this, and I know I’ve touched him, causing a twinge of shame.

  Good. My work here is done.

  I stand up, slinging my bag over my shoulder.

  “Sorry I kept you waiting,” I say coolly, turning. “I’ve got real shit to deal with. I don’t have time for your bullshit posturing.”

  Hayes gets to his feet instantly, following me out into the hallway.

  “Chloe, please,” his tone imploring. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  Remember him? What?

  I pause, turning. “Remember you?” I have no idea what he’s talking about.

  His expression softens. He looks even younger now, without all the posing.

  He takes a step toward me. I see his wheels turning, looking for words that won’t come to him.

  “You were… thirteen,” he says. “And I was fifteen...”

  I blink. Oh shit.

  “At Harvey & Company in Chelsea? Eight years ago?”

  He takes another step toward me. I freeze.

  Hayes. We went to see Ground Zero, and the Metropolitan Museum, and to little art galleries in Soho. We went ice skating at Rockefeller Center every Friday night between Thanksgiving and Christmas. We ate Philly Cheese Steaks while watching Bruce Springsteen play a free concert in Central Park on a Sunday afternoon. And he listened to me talk about my fucked-up world like I mattered. And I listened to him, fascinated by his very strange life. The first boy I never kissed, but wished I had.

  It was all so long ago, before everything really went to shit.

  “Come back and let’s talk,” Hayes says. “We have some catching up to do.” Earnestness warms his tone.

  I swallow hard. If circumstances were different—if I wasn’t homeless, and if he wasn’t my professor… I might be thrilled to reconnect and ‘catch up.’ But as it is, I can’t see anything positive that will come of it. The fact is that I’m not a bumpkin thirteen-year-old little girl any longer, and he’s… well… he’s grown up too.

  I take a step back, hauling in a breath to focus my head, trying to be reasonable and polite. “Hayes, I’ve got a moving van full of stuff I need to get to a storage unit. And then I’ve got to go to work. I need to find a place to stay tonight. Classes start tomorrow.” I offer a tense smile. “Maybe we’ll catch up when things aren’t quite so crazy.”