1

Eliza

 

Mistakes don’t happen, only happy accidents.

I press my paintbrush against the canvas, elongating

the bright white streak until it’s stretched to the edge. There, now it looks like it’s supposed to be that way, a blur of light against the bleak New York sky.

It’s a happy accident, not a mistake. There are no mistakes.

I breathe a judgmental laugh out of my nose as I watch a woman come out of the luxury boutique with so many bags she can hardly carry them. Her expression is one of pure annoyance, as though the world has cursed her with so much money.

How can someone have so much, yet be so ungrateful? Is that also a happy accident?

There must be something I’m missing. They say money can’t buy happiness, but being broke hasn’t bought me anything at all.

Except some half-used tubes of oil paint, a simple canvas, and a shoebox apartment that I’m about to miss my rent on if I can’t sell any of my artwork. It’s hard to feel grateful for any

of that, but not being grateful would only prove to my toxic ex-boyfriend Noah that he’s right.

He wanted me to stay in the small town we were both born in. I said, “Fuck it, I’m moving to New York City!”

And… that was about the time we broke up. I can’t say I miss him.

I won’t say it.

But it does get lonely in a place like this. I’ve been running around, trying to get my paintings hung up in galleries and sold, so I haven’t had time to meet anyone. I’m just a lonely girl in a big city, and I doubt that’s going to change until I get some money rolling in.

And that better happen soon. I’ve been living off ramen noodles and tap water for the past two weeks to make sure I have enough money to cover rent, and even that isn’t going to be enough. I need to sell a painting. Even one would cover the difference, but it feels like no matter how many people I show my work to, nobody is interested in putting them in their gallery, restaurant, or bar.

I carefully trace the side of the boutique building on the canvas, and the color of the building nearly disappears into the darkening grey sky. The gold window frames provide a glowing, luxurious contrast to the otherwise brutalist exterior. I do those next, taking great care to capture the warm feeling of wealth they effortlessly exude.

It’s coming along quite well, even with the mistakes I’ve made. The four years I spent getting a degree in Fine Arts weren’t wasted on a girl with no talent. Everyone from my hometown was forced to admit that I knew how to paint when I graduated top in my class, and even Noah was impressed when I made my first sale.

But in the six months following graduation, that was the only sale I made. Nobody wanted to dish out the hundreds of dollars it cost to produce an oil painting from scratch, and my student loans were clambering over the horizon, their green

dollar-sign eyes lit up with the expectation of large monthly payments.

My attention is torn from my canvas as a man walks out of the boutique carrying a black leather suitcase with silver buckles. He walks like he has somewhere to be but has all the time in the world to get there.

I’m stunned for longer than I’m willing to admit, taking in his sharp, almost jarring, features. His overgrown coffee-colored hair is slicked back to reveal thick furrowed eyebrows and eyes so blue that they send an electric shock through me from across the street.

He’s dressed in a deep navy suit, but it’s unlike the ones I see other businessmen wearing as they buzz to and from work on the busy streets of New York. This suit has a sheen to it, a certain level of fineness to the fibers that couldn’t be achieved at anything but the highest price point.

I bet he could pay my student loans. It would be a drop in the bucket for a man that rich.

Alternatively, he could beat the ever-loving shit out of anyone who tried to collect said money from me. His muscles are so big they threaten to tear the fabric of his suit, ruining it and probably giving every woman in the vicinity a heart attack as his perfect physique is laid bare for the world to see.

I try not to stare, but my eyes follow him anyway, gliding along with his handsome yet ominous figure as he ditches the crosswalk and makes several cars stop for him so that he can cross the street where he pleases.

He doesn’t pick up his pace. He continues on at the exact same speed.

Somewhere to go, all the time in the world to get there.

And not a single horn is punched in response to his antics. Not a raised fist or a middle finger comes as a result, as though he has the God-given right to cross the street in the middle of traffic.

Men like him aren’t just confident and attractive.

They’re dangerous.

My heart leaps into my throat, choking me with the pounding adrenaline of getting caught when his blue eyes flicker over to where I’m standing. I duck behind my canvas, letting out a squeak that’s washed away by the sound of resuming traffic.

He saw me! He saw me! Fuck, he saw me!

It’s not like I know him or something. He’s just a stranger, someone who will forget me in a few seconds. I know he’ll be burned into my memory for days, if not months, but he’ll be gone eventually, too.

“Hey.” His voice is so low and penetrating that it feels like it’s coming from inside me.

I look up from my canvas to see the handsome stranger standing right in front of me.

How did he get here so fast?

“Hi,” I say, but that’s all I manage to get out before my throat closes up and refuses to let me explain myself.

I’m just a painter. A painter who paints things, and he happens to have walked right in front of what I was painting.

“I noticed you were painting,” he says, leaning over my easel to see the painted side of the canvas.

Everyone who has walked past me this evening has seen it already, but I feel especially nervous about allowing him to see it. It’s just art, but every stroke has a little piece of my soul in it. I feel like he’s the type of man who could pry those pieces out and use them against me.

Silly, but the feeling remains, regardless.

“Very nice,” he purrs, his Russian accent becoming obvious. He moves closer to see more. “You’re quite the artist.”

“T-thanks,” I reply, trying my best not to be awkward but failing horribly. I don’t know what to do with my hands. They’re hovering over the canvas, my paintbrush wet with a

steely blue-grey paint that matches the building behind my handsome visitor.

I pull my hands behind my back, pursing my lips and praying that’s the last of his comments. I just want him to go away. I don’t need this kind of pressure right now.

“Really beautiful,” he continues, his eyes leaving the canvas and wandering over to me. “A true artist. That’s hard to find, these days. Everyone is using computers, and here you are, putting brush to canvas the way God intended. And outdoors, too. Risky behavior in a city where crime makes money hand over foot.”

I wasn’t under the impression that I was the one taking risks, here, but perhaps he knows more about New York City than I do.

“You’re not going to steal it, are you?” I ask, breaking the one- sided tension with humor. It’s always been my defense mechanism, even when it wasn’t appropriate. I’ve still not learned when to dial it back.

“Quite the opposite, actually,” he replies, his eyebrows rising like a wave across his forehead. “Once you’re finished, I’d love to buy it from you. It would fit perfectly in my cigar lounge.”

My heart rate doubles at the prospect of making a sale. If I got enough for it, just a hundred dollars or so, I’d be able to pay my rent and give myself another month to try my hand at becoming a professional artist here.

A hundred doesn’t seem like a lot to ask from a man who is probably worth a million times that, but I still struggle to put a price on my work. I know he expects me to, but I’m terrible at sales. I’m an artist, not a businesswoman.

I look at my canvas, and suddenly every stroke looks wrong. The building isn’t quite right, the lighting is wrong, the shadow is crooked, the sky is –

“How does a thousand sound?” the man says, interrupting my spiraling thoughts.

“A… thousand?” I ask, looking up at him. I’m instantly lost in his eyes, leaning closer to him until I’m almost touching the canvas. Between the unbelievable sum of money and the way his eyes put me in a trance, I’m having the damnedest time keeping my head on straight.

“Is that too little?” he asks, pulling back a bit. “Perhaps two thousand, then. I know your time is precious.”

I brace myself against the easel to keep from falling over. My legs are shaking so badly that my knees are hitting each other, so I widen my stance, planting myself into the sidewalk so that I can concentrate on responding to this man without sounding like I’ve lost my mind.

“That’s more than enough,” I say, “but it’s going to be a little while until I finish it. Maybe a few days to get it perfect.”

He shrugs his impossibly wide shoulders, and it feels like the entire world moves with them. “No problem. I’ll give you my card and you can call me when it’s ready.”

His hand glides into his suit jacket and comes back out with a black card between his fingers. He hands it to me, and I put down my brush to hold it with both hands like it’s as precious as he claims my time is. I’ve never had someone say that. Most people are eager to waste as much of it as they can before leaving me with nothing in return.

Noah, for example, but I can hardly get a clear mental picture of him in the presence of this new man.

I look down at his card. Lev Andreev.

“And this is half upfront,” Lev says, reaching again into his jacket and pulling out a neatly folded stack of crisp blue hundred-dollar bills. They’re so new that they almost feel fake as he tucks them between my fingers. “Don’t let anyone see you carry that around. This city is full of wolves.”

He winks, and I swear I see the moon in his eyes for the briefest of moments.

“Thank you,” I say, blinking a few times like I’m dreaming. Someone could’ve slipped me something, but who would waste a drug this good on a girl with no money?

I put the money and his card into the front pocket of my black corduroy dress and grab my paintbrush from the easel. I’ll probably get two strokes done before I run to the bank before it closes to put the money into my account.

Lev tilts his head to the side, his powerful jaw moving as he studies me. “I didn’t get a name.”

“Oh, um, Eliza. Eliza Wilson,” I say putting the brush down again and finally stepping away from my easel.

There’s nothing between us now, no illusion of safety as he steps forward and wraps his enormous hand around mine. His skin is pleasantly warm, but there’s a roughness there as well. He’s not soft and fragile like some of the men I know.

Noah! My brain screams it like I’m not even supposed to be looking at another man. Should I feel guilty for enjoying Lev’s company? Noah and I broke up almost a full month ago, and he hasn’t talked to me since.

“Nice to meet you, Eliza,” Lev says, his voice awakening demons in me that have been lying dormant my whole life.

Now that he’s closer, I can smell him. His cologne is dark and rich, like leather soaked in smoke and whiskey. There are notes of licorice and peppermint floating on top, but only enough to tease me, like I need to lean in closer… and closer…

Lev lets go of my hand, and the connection is broken. It feels like I’ve been doused in ice water, brutally awakened from the dream of being so close to a man who probably doesn’t care about me in the slightest.

I’m just another woman, and he’s, well, something like a God. Or maybe the Devil. I’m not sure which.

To make it all the worse, he must be at least fifteen years older than me. It would be laughable to think he’d want anything to do with me.

Rich guys and younger women, though, right?

I’m probably getting my hopes up. I need to chill out, like, yesterday.

Lev gives me a small nod and drifts away, his long legs taking him from me faster than my lonely heart can follow him. I’m sure I’ll see him again, but his absence leaves a void in the middle of the sidewalk that repels me.

The moment he’s out of sight, I pack up my easel and canvas, taking them with me to the bank so that I can deposit this outrageous sum of money.

Then, I’ll have to finish the painting.

I put my hand into my pocket, my thumb running over the edge of his card. Once the painting is finished, I’ll have to see Lev again. I’m not sure why, but it feels horribly important that I wear nice underwear.