How The Cookie Crumbles (49 page)

“I cannot get used to the early mealtimes in the United States,” he explained. “I am constantly travelling between here and Buenos Aires, and it’s hard for the body to adjust constantly.”

The Cuban food was delicious and spicy, and I was pretty hungry after all the dancing. Ballroom dancing was so intimate that I felt I knew Antonio very well after only one night. I was pinning up a stray strand of hair, when I noticed him staring at me.

“You are so lovely, Frances,” he declared, and then he leaned around behind me. I felt his hot breath on my bare skin, and then he discreetly kissed the nape of my neck. His lips were electric, and I felt a jolt through my whole body. Good thing I had a full skirt on, since I was pretty sure my panties had just spontaneously combusted.

Jake

The road trip started off slow, but after a big win against Edmonton and then a shootout win against Calgary, we were feeling good. Sometimes picking up chicks in Canada is like shooting fish in a barrel. They already recognize you, and they’re ready to give it up right off. We were at a bar in downtown Calgary where we got the V.I.P. treatment and a special section to hang out in.

A cute brunette was hanging around nearby. She was stacked and wearing a tight skirt and high heels.

“Did you want to join us?” I asked her, motioning over with my beer bottle.

“Sure!” she walked over with her girlfriend, a curvy redhead.

“I’m Vi, and this is Cindy,” she said. “We’d like to welcome you to Calgary, even if you did squeak one by the Flames tonight.”

“Everyone got points, so no harm, right?”

“Well, that’s one way to look at it. And you are Canadian.”

“And I come to the Stampede every year, that’s got to count for something, right?”

We chatted and danced, and the more she drank, the more touchy-feely she got. Later Domer came over and tapped me on the shoulder. “Can I have a word, Cookie?”

“Sure,” I turned back to Vi, “Excuse me a sec, will you?”

“As long as you’re not gone too long,” she cooed back.

“What’s so important?” I asked him.

“We’re going back to the hotel, are you coming?”

“Naw, I think I’ll stick around here.” I motioned towards the girls.

Domer looked at her and frowned at me. “Why don’t you do what you want to do, instead of pretending to do it?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” He was not making any sense.

“Cookie, look at her!” I looked back, and Vi had her head tilted back as she put away the rest of her martini. “Who does she look like?” Domer demanded.

“I dunno, she’s cute though.”

“Yeah, but she looks like Frankie, not exactly the same of course, but sort of similar. Same height, dark hair, a dress.”

I looked again. He was sort of right, but Vi didn’t have Frankie’s energy. The kind of crazy energy that launched a thousand to-do lists. “So, I’ve got a type. Everyone does. Besides, Frankie’s not here.”

“Whatever. See you later.”

Domer was a fucking psychic. Vi was not too impressed when I came and called her by the wrong name. Who cared anyway? I was leaving Calgary the next day, and I wouldn’t be back for the rest of the season.

“Good heavens, Frankie, if I end up as a captive in the white slave trade, it will be all on you!” exclaimed Franco.

“Really? Because that sounds a lot like the fantasy I heard you sharing with Leon last weekend.”

“It’s only a fantasy if they all look like John Cho and not Jackie Chan.”

We were wandering around a pretty sketchy part of Chinatown, looking for Cameron Smith’s studio. Franco had jumped at the chance to see Cameron’s studio, and I was happy to have the security of another person around. So far, Cameron had struck me as weird, even for an artist.

“Frankie, up here!”

I looked up and saw Cameron waving from a window at the top of the nondescript brick building we were standing in front of. He motioned towards a big sliding door and after a brief struggle to wrench it open, we walked in. Cameron’s feet in skate shoes appeared first and then the rest of him in a huge freight elevator with open wooden slats. I did the intros, and then we rose to the fifth floor and walked to a door that was black with red tags on it.

We entered his studio, which was basically one huge room with exposed pipes and wiring, and windows on two sides. It looked like it used to be a factory of some kind. There were huge paintings propped against every wall, some two deep.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” Cameron said, with mock modesty, since he actually looked kind of proud.

“You live here too?” The building seemed more like a factory space, and if he did live here it was probably illegal. Once I looked around, I noticed a small corner with a large unmade bed and a heap of discarded clothing, including underwear. Yuck.

“I’m a starving artist, it’s all part of the image,” he chided me.

Franco was already looking at the paintings and exclaiming happily. They were large-scale works, most around eight to ten feet long and six feet high. He was using a mixture of screen-printing, neon spray paint, and black scrawls of oil stick. I wandered through the studios looking carefully at each painting. They were multilayered and complex, almost abstract but with the occasional hulking figure emerging from the background.

“These works are beautiful, like stare-at-them-all-day-and-lose-my-mind gorgeous. I’d like to eat them!” declared Franco ecstatically.

“What about you, Frankie, what do you think?” Cameron sounded casual, but I detected a little nervousness.

“I’m surprised,” I said honestly. “I don’t understand it, these paintings are way better than the one you had in the auction.”

Cameron shrugged, “I can’t stand Miller, the curator there, so when he came over and asked for that work, I gave it to him. It was a practice piece.”

“Still, it made a lot of money for the arts centre,” Franco pointed out.

“So it was a copy of sorts?” I asked.

He laughed at me, “Yes, you were right, oh wise one. That’s why I was interested in your opinion. Plus the fact that you’re hot.”

I ignored that, and we talked a little more about the art scene, and then he offered us some cold drinks and went to get them.

“Am I invisible?” Franco demanded.

“Hardly,” I replied. He was wearing orange pants, for starters.

“Well, whatever I say, he answers but looks at you. It’s highly irritating.” Franco shook his head, “Anyway, I’m supposed to meet some friends downtown. Did you want to come along?”

“No, I’m good. I’ve got the car, so I’ll stay a little longer here and then go home.” I didn’t feel nervous about Cameron anymore; he seemed more vulnerable and normal in his studio. And I loved the chance to talk about art.

We ended up on the roof of his building, looking out at L.A., drinking Jarritos and talking about the art scene. I didn’t want to get too much sun, so Cameron rigged up an umbrella for shade for me. He was clearly good at mechanical stuff.

“So how did a Scotsman end up in Los Angeles?” I asked, lazily leaning back in my lawn chair and taking in the hazy city view.

“I wanted to be a pro skateboarder,” he explained. “My father lived here in California, so I decided to move in with him and maybe meet some of the skaters I idolized. Probably broke my ma’s heart. It didn’t take long to realize that I was pretty lousy compared to everyone around here. Being the best skater in your village in Scotland doesn’t cut it.”

“And the painting career?”

“Well, I did a lot of graffiti, and I started painting decks for people as well. It evolved, and I ended up going to CalArts. My father was just happy I was doing something. Eventually I dropped out.” He smirked, “I have some issues with authority. But I made enough connections to get a start on my art career.”

After an hour of talking, I was getting hungry and Cameron’s stomach growled.

“Lovely Frankie, I would love to take you out for a meal, but I am authentically broke.”

I knew that even when artists were supposedly “hot” they didn’t make that much money; galleries took half of the price of the painting, and the artist had to cover the cost of supplies, studio rent, and business stuff. Most artists had a day job, so Cameron was lucky enough not to have to do that.

“Have you got anything in your fridge? Maybe I can whip something up.” I got up and brushed off my skirt.

“Just say that word again,” he pleaded.

“Fridge?”

“No… whip.”

I hauled him up to his feet, and we went down to the loft. The fridge was half-empty, but I managed to make some cheese omelettes with hot sauce, a tomato salad and a simple skillet cake with apple slices.

After lunch, Cameron patted his stomach.

“I may have to lock the door and keep you here forever,” he declared and then he leaned across the table and kissed me. His kiss was almost delicate, pressing gently against my lips and moving his mouth across my cheek, planting tiny kisses everywhere he went. He kissed my ear, and then stuck his tongue in it. I jumped, and he laughed heartily and pulled me into his lap.

“Trying to get a reaction from you, my lovely.” He pulled my arms around his neck, and then kissed me harder and pulled me tight to him. His body felt strong and sinewy. I tried to decide how attracted I was to him.

“Can we take this over to the bed?” Cameron suggested.

I shook my head, and pushed away from him. “Sorry, I don’t sleep with guys on the first date. If this is even a date….”

“Why, seeing my paintings is like letting you into my very soul. How about on the second date?” he wondered.

“Doubtful.”

He was good-looking and confident, but had a slightly unwashed quality, so I wasn’t quite sure if I was attracted to him. I was definitely attracted to his art.

“Third?”

I laughed, and he took that for a yes.

“So if we went out again tomorrow,” Cameron suggested eagerly, “Monday could be our third date.”

Jake

Lovey had cornered me on the plane to complain. “Your girlfriend is stalking Amanda, and it’s driving her crazy,” he declared.

“What are you talking about? I don’t have a girlfriend,” I answered.

“What about that plastic blonde you took to Roady’s?”

“Aspen? Definitely not my girlfriend. What’s she been doing?”

“Oh, she got Amanda’s cell number, and now she won’t leave her alone. She’s always bugging her to hang out or do stuff. But if you’re not even going out with her, Amanda can just be rude and block her.” He shook his head at me.

“You’re the one who told me to date an actress, that I could do better!” I said defensively.

“A real actress, not a wannabe psycho. You have the worst taste in women.”

And then he left. I thought about Aspen; she was getting to be a huge pain and lately even the sex was not worth the grief. Maybe it never had been.

By the time we got to Philly, even I was ready to head home, but we were on the road for another week.

“How is Frankie doing at home?” Domer asked me.

“How would I know?”

“I thought maybe you were keeping in touch with her. You mean you’ve never called or texted or anything?”

“Naw,” I replied, I had thought of it, but it felt too much like checking up. But I pulled out my phone and sent her a quick text. She texted right back, saying everything was great and the house was fine. “She’s fine,” I told Domer.