Then she picks up her own glass of wine and strides off toward the bathrooms. She examines the stains, a crease forming between her eyebrows. I watch the girl’s face to see if she’ll cry or rage or fall over herself apologizing to Brisk in return. “So sorry,” Brisk says carelessly, barely glancing at the girl, who is clearly a nobody, before turning back to his conversation. 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. The fault is his-he was gesturing aggressively with his chubby hands-but it’s the girl who pays the price. 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. A botanical tattoo runs down one bird-like collarbone. Her boots tell another story-the battered Docs look older than she is. 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. Another starving artist scavenging on the outskirts. The girl is demolishing the smoked gouda like she hasn’t eaten in a week, which she probably hasn’t. Betsy never skimps-she’s provided a generous selection of fresh fruit, sandwiches, and macarons. 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 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. Everyone knows everyone else, in both the common and biblical senses. The San Francisco art scene is incestuous. It’s all the same people, the same ass-kissing conversation. 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. He reminds me of a pitcher plant, exuding sticky sweetness to lure in flies. She smiles up at Shaw, resting her hand lightly on his forearm as she laughs at some joke he’s made.Īlastor grins back at her, his face boyishly animated. Several women flock toward him, including Betsy Voss, who organized this event. He looks tanned, despite the viscous fog covering the city all week. 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. His genius for self-promotion far exceeds his genius for art. Still, I’m sure he’ll sell a thousand prints, whether he wins tonight’s prize or not. All the color, all the bold strokes, all the symbolism hitting you over the head. Mine is better.Įverything is excess with him. I already saw the piece he’s showing tonight. His subjects can rarely be identified by teeth or even fingerprints. He delights in losing himself in the frenzy of beating and mutilation. I didn’t need to see his smug smirk at the showcase to confirm it. I knew it was Shaw, as surely as if he’d signed his name to his work. 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. Mara knows he's dangerous, but Cole is the only person who's ever recognized her talent, and it leads her heart astray, straight into the dark.Ĭole can teach her to get what she wants.There Are No Saints Introduction Excerpt. He's losing control, breaking the rules that have kept his true nature hidden from the world. He doesn't know if he should protect her at all costs or destroy her before she ruins him. She makes him feel things he never thought he could feel. He begins stalking her, discovering there's more to the struggling misfit than he would have guessed. When a chance encounter throws Mara into Cole's path, her escape from certain death fascinates Cole. Broke and damaged, she works three jobs while creating paintings no one will ever see. In truth, he's not just an artist: he's a predator, and the city is his hunting ground. His only weakness is the dark impulse he carefully conceals. He's the hottest sculptor in San Francisco-wealthy, successful, and respected. She knows he's no saint, but she has no idea she's dancing with the devil.Ĭole Blackwell values control.
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