There Are No Saints (Sinners Duet #1)
Sophie Lark
1
Cole Blackwell
People I Don’t Like — UPSAHL
Spotify → geni.us/no-saints-spotify
Apple Music → geni.us/no-saints-apple
I saw the headlines that a girl had been murdered on Ocean Beach, her body left floating in the ruins of the old Sutro Baths. I knew it was Shaw, as surely as if he’d signed his name to his work. I didn’t need to see his smug smirk at the showcase to confirm it. He delights in losing himself in the frenzy of beating and mutilation. His subjects can rarely be identified by teeth or even fingerprints.
I already saw the piece he’s showing tonight. Mine is better.
Everything is excess with him. All the color, all the bold strokes, all the symbolism hitting you over the head.
Still, I’m sure he’ll sell a thousand prints, whether he wins tonight’s prize or not. Alastor is nothing if not industrious. His genius for self-promotion far exceeds his genius for art.
He catches my eye as he swaggers into the gallery, giving me the merest suggestion of a smile, a tug of the lips that shows the glint of bleached teeth. I give him nothing in return.
He looks tanned, despite the viscous fog covering the city all week. Several women flock toward him, including Betsy Voss, who organized this event. She smiles up at Shaw, resting her hand lightly on his forearm as she laughs at some joke he’s made.
Alastor grins back at her, his face boyishly animated.
He reminds me of a pitcher plant, exuding sticky sweetness to lure in flies.
I know most of the people milling around, drinking complimentary glasses of merlot, examining the work on display, arguing its merit with increasing abandon as the wine takes hold.
It’s all the same people, the same ass-kissing conversation.
I’m so fucking bored.
The San Francisco art scene is incestuous. Everyone knows everyone else, in both the common and biblical senses. Betsy and Alastor have fucked before, though she doesn’t have to worry about ending up in the Sutro Baths—she’s much too useful as a broker for Shaw’s art.
In fact, the only person within my view I don’t recognize is the skinny girl shoving cheese in her mouth over at Betsy’s excellent buffet spread. Betsy never skimps—she’s provided a generous selection of fresh fruit, sandwiches, and macarons. The girl is demolishing the smoked gouda like she hasn’t eaten in a week, which she probably hasn’t. Another starving artist scavenging on the outskirts.
The girl has tried to dress up for the occasion: she’s wearing a loose white shift dress, crisp and bright enough that she must have acquired it recently. Her boots tell another story—the battered Docs look older than she is. A botanical tattoo runs down one bird-like collarbone.
I’m about to turn my gaze to a more interesting subject when the girl collides with Jack Brisk, curator of contemporary art at SFMOMA. The fault is his—he was gesturing aggressively with his chubby hands—but it’s the girl who pays the price. Merlot splashes from Brisk’s glass down the front of her dress, the wine soaking into the white cotton as if it were blotting paper.
“So sorry,” Brisk says carelessly, barely glancing at the girl, who is clearly a nobody, before turning back to his conversation.
I watch the girl’s face to see if she’ll cry or rage or fall over herself apologizing to Brisk in return.
She does none of the above. She examines the stains, a crease forming between her eyebrows. Then she picks up her own glass of wine and strides off toward the bathrooms.
I begin making the rounds of the pieces I haven’t yet seen. It’s obvious which will be in the running for the prize. Art may be subjective, but quality shines like brass next to gold.
I’m guessing Rose Clark, Alastor Shaw, and I will be the top contenders.
My piece is superior. That should be obvious simply from the crowd of people around it, who linger longer and whisper more intently than they do for anyone else’s work.
The complicating factor is the panel of judges, which includes Carl Danvers, a bitter misanthrope who has never forgiven me for making a joke at his expense at a gala eight years ago. I intended for him to overhear, but I underestimated his capacity for spite. He’s taken every opportunity for revenge since, even at the cost of his own credibility.
Alastor sidles up behind me.
I hear him coming from a mile away. He has the subtlety of a bison.
“Hello, Cole,” he says.
“Hello, Shaw,” I reply.
He uses my given name to annoy me.
I use his surname for the same reason.
He thinks because he knows certain things about me, that there’s an intimacy between us.
There is no intimacy. The emotion is all from one side.
“How’s your weekend going?” he asks, barely able to contain his grin.
He desperately wants me to acknowledge what he’s done. I prefer to deny him that pleasure. But it’s probably better to get this over with so he’ll fuck off and leave me alone.
“Uneventful,” I reply. “I don’t think you can say the same.”
Now he allows himself to grin, showing those perfect capped teeth, those boyish dimples, the gleam in those warm brown eyes that make women go weak with the impulse to smile back at him, to run their fingers through his sun-streaked hair.