Page 5 of Pink Ink

She used to be a surrealist painter with an Indonesian flair. She still has her art displayed in museums all around the world, even one in the Merdeka Palace. The portion of her royalties that she didn’t leave to be donated to charities back in Indo have been accruing in a trust I can’t touch until I’m twenty-five.

She may not have known the first thing about operating a camera, but she taught me the art of cinematography and sent me to every class that came up so I could become the very best.

Or at least try to be. I seem to be woefully failing in that department if my grades are any indication. Before Mom died, I had a stellar GPA. Now I have—well, nothing worth bragging about.

I stop at a painting of a shepherd herding a pack of wolves through a maze, and a pit forms in my stomach from the memory of Mom’s dying words.

Find shepherd.

I never got the chance to ask whether there was meant to be athebeforeshepherd.

Honestly, I’m probably looking into it too much. Mom was never very religious, but as she was nearing the end, she sought comfort from anything she could, even if it didn’t make sense to me. Whatever it was that went through her head, it’s too late for me to get answers.

I pause in front of a painting of a dead angel hanging upside down. Folding my hands behind my back, I tip my head to the side. The piece in front of me is… fascinating, to say the least.

Shaw’s pieces usually are. Mom took me to his exhibit in Chicago a couple years back. She had been watching his rise to fame ever since he first hit the news as a teen. The man has talent, but he’s nowhere near as good as he used to be. I suppose what comes up must come down.

The angel is holding together his shattered body with broken fingers. Midnight hues and flecks of crimson blot along his porcelain skin. Pools of scarlet and royal-blue velvet, vases, jewels, and golden filigree decorate his surroundings.

The longer I look at it, the clearer it becomes—the subject is a woman, not a man.

I edge closer to get a better look. Her eyes are hollow. Darkness colors between the cracks of her skin, except for the dull light trickling though from her center. Her fragile hands and fraying threads of gold hold her shattered pieces together. Skin flaps at her hairline like she might have been scalped. Once I lean in, I realize she’s wearing a wig.

The most jarring realization isn’t that she’s trying to hold her body together; she’s covering the swell of her stomach where the shadows within are five shades lighter.

Sat against the backdrop of the neoclassical building of the fine-art department, and the sullen hues from the indignant sky, Shaw’s painting is beautifully grotesque.

The level of detail and thought that has gone into this piece is nothing short of genius. A hundred years from now, critics will look back at this and sing praises about the masterpiece. Any art major could have a field day trying to unpack its meaning. Except something fundamental is missing.

I want to know more about the woman. But I’m not knocked off my feet. I’m not going to go to bed feeling the soul-deep ache the artist is trying to achieve. Simply put, it’s lacking.

“Quite the piece.”

I whip my head toward the person beside me and nearly jump out of my skin. How long has he been standing here?

My eyes widen before I force my attention back to the painting, imprinting his side profile into memory. Dark hair, chiseled jaw, glasses, tall,British accent. There’s a relaxed, alluring air about the way he stands, and my God if it doesn’t make me feel a little unsteady.

We can add him to the list of artworks in the building.

If I sneak another peek, I might gawk, and I was raised to be better than that. I can see him out of the corner of my eye, observing the painting just as I’ve been for the past ten minutes. But all I can focus on is the six-foot-somethingfinespecimen beside me.

And the fact that I have no idea what I should be doing in this situation.

What would be normal in these circumstances? Nod? Hum my agreement? Say something mundane about the shitty weather?

“You can tell it was painted by a man.”

Shit. Too direct.

He snaps his attention to me. “Is that meant to be an offense?”

Retreat. Retreat.

Fuck, I should have mentioned the weather. I shift my weight to look him directly in the eyes—which is a big mistake on my part. They’re the most stunning shade of green I’ve ever seen, with deep rings of emerald and rivers of sage. It’s almost unnatural.

My fingers twitch with the urge to draw my camera to capture the details of his face, like the dip beneath his bottom lip and the dark flicks of eyelashes. Even the way the strands of his perfectly styled hair fall atop his head—clean and tidy, but effortless, as if he rolled out of bed, ran his hands through his hair with his fingers, then stepped out the door.

He’s got the whole English countryside business attire down pat with the knitted vest, button-up, Chelsea boots, and a tweed jacket hanging from the crook of his elbow. The five o’clock shadow he’s sporting is the cherry on top.