There Are No Saints (Sinners Duet)

Monday morning Joanna catches me at breakfast.

“Mara,” she says, “about your stuff . . .”

“I know,” I wince. “I’ve been looking everywhere for space.”

“You gotta get it out. I need room for my own shit.”

“I know. This week, I promise.”

That’s a promise I have no way of keeping. I’ve really been looking every day, but I’m flat fucking broke. Even if I can find an affordable studio, I don’t have money for first month’s rent, let alone a deposit.

I borrow Erin’s laptop, planning to scan the artists’ message boards yet again. Instead, I see I’ve got a new email from the Onyx Group, whatever that is.

I open it up, expecting spam.

The sentences that meet my eye are so serendipitous that I read them four times over, stunned and unbelieving.

Dear Ms. Eldritch,

We received your application for studio space. We’re pleased to inform you our junior studio in the Alta Plaza building on Clay Street is currently available.

The junior studio is offered to upcoming artists at a discounted rate of $200/month, payment due at the end of the month.

I have an appointment available at 2:00 this afternoon if you’d like to view the space.

Regards,

Sonia Bridger

For a second I wonder if one of my roommates would be cruel enough to prank me.

But I doubt any of them can spell this well.

Hands shaking, I type back as quickly as possible,

That would be incredible, thank you so much. I will be there at 2:00.

I want to run over there right this second, before they give it away to somebody else.

Two hundred bucks a month is unheard of. I don’t remember applying for this place specifically, but I put my name down everywhere I could find. This feels like manna from heaven. I really can’t believe it. I’m keyed up, terrified that something will happen to fuck this up.

I can barely concentrate while I race my way through the brunch shift. Arthur can tell I’m excited, or maybe just useless, so he lets me off early to run home and change.

I dress in my most professional-looking outfit, a linen peasant blouse and almost-clean jeans, and then I hurry over to Clay Street.

Ms. Bridger is already waiting for me. She’s tall and elegant, with an iron-gray bob and a long, aristocratic nose.

“Nice to meet you, Mara,” she says, shaking my hand. “I’ll show you the space.”

She leads me through the corridors of the Alta Plaza building, which is bright and modern, white paint and blond wood in the Scandinavian style.

“Here we are,” she says, throwing open the double doors of the last studio at the end of the corridor.

I gape around at a dazzling, sunlit loft. The exposed ductwork soars thirty feet over my head. The floor-to-ceiling windows look out over Alta Plaza Park. The air is fresh and cool, lightly scented by the ornamental lemon trees potted along the far wall.

If this is a junior studio, I can hardly imagine what the rest of the rooms are like. It’s easily four times the size of Joanna’s space, bigger than the main floor of my house.

I’m stunned.

“What do you think?” Sonia asks, repressing her smile.

“When can I move in?” I stammer.

“It’s open now,” she says. “I can get you a keycard for the main door. The building is accessible twenty-four hours a day. There’s a mini-fridge in the corner as you can see, and the cafe on the main level makes an excellent iced latte.”

“Have I died? Is this heaven?”

She laughs. “Cole Blackwell is very generous.”

“Cole . . . what?” I say, trying to tear my eyes away from combing over every inch of this perfect space. The art I could make in here . . . I’m itching to get started.

“Mr. Blackwell owns this building. It was his idea to discount the junior studios. He may not have the most cuddly persona, but he supports his fellow artists.”

“Right, amazing,” I say, only partly following this. “Honestly, he could ask for my firstborn child and I’d gladly hand it over. This place is just . . . perfection.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Sonia says, passing me her clipboard. “All I need is a signature. We can start with a six-month lease.”

“Any deposit?” I ask, thinking that will be the killing blow.

“No,” she shakes her head. “Just bring me a check at the end of the month.”

“Cash okay?”

“As long as it’s not all ones and fives,” she says.

“I see I’m not the only waitress you know.”

“It’s almost a prerequisite in this industry,” Sonia replies, adding kindly, “I was a waitress, too, once upon a time.”

“Thank you,” I tell her again. “Really, I just can’t thank you enough.”

“Will you need moving services?” she says. “From your old studio?”

I do need that. Badly.

“How much is it?” I ask nervously.

“Complimentary,” she replies.

“Don’t pinch me, I don’t want to wake up.”

“Speak with Janice at the front desk on your way out and she’ll schedule you,” Sonia smiles.

She leaves me alone to soak in the warm sun, the scent of the clean wooden cabinets, the endless open space that I could run up and down like a bowling alley.

I’ve never been one to believe that when a bad thing happens, a good thing follows.

But maybe this one time . . . it might be true.

By Wednesday, all my supplies have been cleaned out of Joanna’s studio, transported with the greatest care to the new studio on Clay Street.

My roommates are so jealous that they can hardly stand it, except for Peter, who says, “That’s great Mara,” bringing us up to a grand total of fifteen words of conversation.

“Cole Blackwell owns the place?” Erin moans. “You’ll probably see him all the time.”

“You wanna fuck him, too?” Heinrich teases her. “Trying to get a Monopoly on slutty artists?”

“He’s a complete dick,” Joanna says. “Not friendly at all.”

“Gorgeous, though,” Frank adds.

“Oh, wow,” I laugh. “That’s really something coming from you, Frank. You’re picky as hell.”

“Not that picky,” Joanna says. “He used to date Heinrich, after all.”

“Get fucked,” Heinrich scowls.

I’m floating on cloud nine all through my work shifts, dying to get over to the studio so I can work on my collage. I stay late every night, working longer hours than I ever have in my life. I finish the piece and jump right into a new composition, even more layered and detailed. I’m experimenting with different materials—not just acrylic, but lacquer and corrective fluid and sharpie and spray paint.

The studios are separate and soundproof, and no one seems to mind when I play my music loud. The nighttime streets seem distant, glittering like a jeweled cloth laid out below me.

For the first time in a long time I feel hopeful, and maybe even happy.

This feeling intensifies tenfold when Sonia taps on my door on Friday afternoon, informing me that I’ve been shortlisted for a grant from the SF Artists Guild.

“Are you serious?” I squeak.

“The panel would like to come see your work on Monday. If they like what they see . . . they’re awarding two thousand dollars to each recipient, and showcasing one piece at New Voices next month.”

I feel like I’m about to pass out.

“What do they want to see?” I ask eagerly. “I just finished a collage. And I started this new piece, but I haven’t done much yet . . .”

“Just show them whatever you’ve got,” Sonia says. “It doesn’t need to be complete.”

Elation and sickening terror surge through me. I want this so fucking bad. The money would be great, but a spot in New Voices is even better. It’s by invite only, and all the biggest brokers will be there. Getting a piece in the show could really boost me up the ladder.

I look at my work in progress. It’s fucking cool, I’m proud of it.

But I had another idea percolating in my mind . . .

I’ve got a fresh canvas stretched and ready, leaned up against the wall. It’s massive—eight feet high, ten feet long. It would be the largest painting I’d ever done.

I wonder if I should start working on it. Sonia said my painting didn’t need to be complete to show the panel . . . this would be more ambitious.

Maybe too ambitious. It could be a fucking disaster.

I shift back and forth, gazing between my collage and the blank canvas.

Finally, I turn back to the easel. Starting something new would be a huge risk. I’ve practiced the collage technique—that’s what I should stick with for now.

I’m a nervous wreck over the weekend. Any minute that I’m not at work, I’m laboring feverishly on the new collage, trying to get as much done as possible before the panel comes to see it.

Monday morning I spend an hour rifling through my closet, flinging clothes around like that will magically transform them into something wearable.

I can’t decide if I should wear something “artistic” or something professional. This is a stupid dilemma because I don’t actually own anything professional. Most of my clothes are thrifted, very few made in the last decade.

The other issue is these fucking scars on my arms. I’m so pissed that this happened when the others had finally faded. When I was starting to look normal again.

I look like a lunatic. I feel like a lunatic after trying on yet another shirt, then ripping it off and flinging it across the room.

Taking a deep breath, I tell myself the panel won’t be looking at me—they’ll be looking at the collage. And they’ll either like it or they won’t. It’s not in my control.

Snatching up my purse, I head to the studio.

The panel is late.

I keep working on the collage, pretending like I can’t hear the clock ticking away on the wall. I’m too nervous to play music like I usually would.

Finally, I hear footsteps out in the hall and the low murmur of polite conversation. Someone raps on my door, light and formal.

“Come in!” I croak.

The door cracks open, allowing six people to file inside.

Sonia heads the group. She trills, “Everyone, this is Mara Eldritch, one of our most promising junior artists! As you can see, she’s hard at work on a new series. Mara, this is the panel of The Artists Guild: Martin Boss, Hannah Albright, John Pecorino, Leslie Newton, and of course, Cole Blackwell.”

As she reels off the names, I turn to face the panel of artists, most of whom I’ve at least heard of before. My eyes slide across five faces, landing at last on the man I’ve most been wanting to meet: my benefactor, Cole Blackwell.

The room tilts with a sickening jerk.

I see a face that was burned into my brain, never to be forgotten.

Shaggy dark hair. Silvery skin. A soft, sensual mouth. Eyes blacker than jet.

It’s the man who stood over me.

The one who left me to die.

I’m staring at him open-mouthed, frozen in horror.

It feels like twenty minutes have passed.

But maybe it’s only been a moment, because Cole says smoothly, “Nice to finally meet you, Mara. How are you getting along in the space?”

The silence ticks by. I hear several panel members shifting in place while I gape at Cole.

Finally my voice rasps out, “Fine. Good. Thank you.”

Thank you?

What the fucking fuck?

Why am I thanking him? He saw me squirming on the ground like a dying insect and he walked right over me.

He’s staring at me now in precisely the same way: face cold, eyes bright. The corners of that beautiful mouth quirking up as if he wants to smile . . .

This fucking maniac is doing it all over again. He’s watching me squirm. And he’s loving it.

I want to scream out loud, I WAS KIDNAPPED! TORTURED! LEFT TO DIE! THIS MAN MIGHT HAVE DONE IT! And if he didn’t, he was definitely there . . .

“So, what are you working on today?” Leslie Newton says. Her voice is high and bright, as if she’s trying to smooth over the awkward moment.

I’ve got to pull it together. They’re here to see my collage. Everything is riding on this moment. If I start shouting like a madwoman, I’ll lose everything.

I turn toward the canvas, reeling like I’m drunk.

“Well,” I rasp, pausing to clear my throat. “As you can see, in this new series I’m experimenting with non-traditional artistic materials. Seeing if I can create a luxe effect by layering and manipulating alternative substances.”

“And where did you get that idea?” Martin Boss demands. He’s tall, skinny, and bald, dressed in a black turtleneck and Buddy Holly glasses. His voice is sharp and challenging, like he’s accusing me of something.

“I grew up in the Mission District,” I say, trying not to look at Cole Blackwell. “I’m inspired by murals and graffiti.”

I can feel Cole’s eyes burning into my back. Sweat breaks out on the back of my neck, beneath my long rope of hair. My heart is racing and I’m terrified, fucking terrified. I can’t believe he’s standing five feet behind me. Why is this happening? What does this mean?

It’s him, I know it’s him.

He’s wearing a dark suit, just like that night, with a cashmere polo in place of a dress shirt. That’s not common attire—I didn’t make that up, I couldn’t.

Another panel member, a woman in a red wrap dress and chunky bracelets, is asking a question, but I can’t hear it over the pounding in my ears.

“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?” I stammer.

I have to turn and look at her, which means turning toward Cole.

He’s definitely smirking now. Watching me sweat.

“I asked if that figure is a reference to Japanese Neo-Pop,” the woman says, kindly.

“Yes,” I say. “The juxtaposition of cute and sinister.”

I don’t know if that makes sense. Nothing is making sense right now.

“I like the peeled-off layers,” the last panel member says. I think his name was John, but I can’t remember now. “You should consider a piece focused on that technique.”

“Right.” I nod, pushing my hair back out of my face. “I will.”

My cheek feels wet where the back of my hand touched it. Fuck, did I just smear paint all over my face?

My skin is burning, I want to cry. Everyone is staring at me, most of all Cole. He’s draining the life out of me with those black eyes. Sucking me in.

“Well, if no one else has any questions, we’ll move on to the next studio,” Sonia says. “Thank you, Mara!”

“Thank you. All of you,” I reply awkwardly.

My eyes fix on Cole Blackwell once more, on that cold, malicious, and utterly stunning face.

“Good luck,” he says.

It sounds like a taunt.

They file out of the studio, Sonia in the rear this time.

I watch them leave.

I’m gasping for breath in a room that suddenly seems devoid of oxygen.

What just happened, what just happened, what just happened . . .

I should stay right here. I should keep my fucking mouth shut.

Instead, I storm out of the room, chasing after Blackwell.