Page 120 of Chase
LOGAN
I’m not even out of the car before I see the first camera flash outside Fractal Gallery.
“They tailed us here,” I tell the driver, glancing back to see two paparazzi cars driving quickly behind us, popping on their hazard lights, and darting out of their cars with cameras in hand.
“Running up the fucking sidewalk like rats,” the driver says in his thick Eastern European accent.
“It’s fine,” I tell him. “I can’t avoid it sometimes.”
Fractal Gallery is on a busy street down in the Lower East Side, framed by tall trees and surrounded by bars, clubs, and restaurants. The moment the first camera flashes, groups of people stop and turn their heads, wondering which celebrity they’re about to see.
Guilt pools in my stomach.
I didn’t want to make this aboutme.
I’m here to see Chase shine in his first gallery showing, and I want to get into the building before too much pandemonium happens outside.
“I’m just going to go for it,” I tell my driver. “I’ll see you later this evening.”
“Good luck. You need my help cracking skulls, you have my number,” he tells me.
I step out onto the street and the camera flashes multiply. Faces in the crowd of the sidewalk all turn on a swivel, looking over to see the source of the commotion.
“Big D!” I hear someone say.
“Damien! Over here!”
It’s common for people to actually just call me Damien, knowing me from the show, and I’m never sure if it’s because they don’t know my real name or if they just don’t care.
I smile and wave to the cameras, and as a couple of people bring out their own phone cameras to take selfies without asking, I quickly turn my head to smile for them, too.
“What brings you out here tonight, Mr. Stone?” one of the paparazzi shouts.
“Art showing.”
“What do you think about those new Caitlyn Grener pictures, Logan?” another one shouts, and that one I pretend I don’t hear.
Taking the few steps across the sidewalk toward Fractal Gallery ends up taking a solid three minutes, because I’m unable to say no when people put their cameras up for selfies.
I wave to the little crowd that formed as I push open the door to the gallery, stepping inside.
Luckily, once I’m in there, no one can follow.
I texted Chase last night verifying that he added me to the list, and he confirmed. The opening night is for selected guests, then the rest of the public is open to attend for the rest of the two weeks afterward.
And from the moment I’m inside, it’s clear that this isn’t any normal gallery.
Instead of the normal bright, white, austere walls, every wall in here is black. There’s ambient music playing on the speaker system, and the whole place smells delicious, like some sort of warm spice. The art on the walls is highlightedby targeted spotlights, but the rest of the space is dimly lit, like we’re in some sort of swanky jazz lounge.
Everyonein here seems to be covered in tattoos. The artists and guests are all mingling, and the space is almost completely full, packed with people who are young and beautiful and painfully cooler than I am.
I’m in a tailored slate grey suit with a lavender tie, and suddenly I feel overdressed.
“Hello,” I say at the front desk. “I should be on the list? Logan Stone.”
The woman at the front is wearing black lipstick and has her hair up in two buns at either side of her head. She’s heavily tattooed as well, which I have a full view of through her see-through mesh black long-sleeve.
“Last nameStone, you said?” she asks, thumbing through the list on her iPad.
