SM owns.
Thanks to:
Mari and Sunflower Fanfiction for beta'ing and Gingerandgreen for pre-reading.
Sarah (LittleGreyAche | Yellowglue) for the inspiration and support.
Everyone reading.
Stripped Desired – Chapter 1: Gallery
"Routine is liberating, it makes you feel in control."
Carol Shields, The Republic of Love.~
The alarm goes off at 5:50 am. I get up and do five minutes of stretching before taking a shower. I set the temperature to medium, teetering on cold. Once showered and towel dried, I take the hanger labeled Monday, and start getting dressed.
Black lace underwear
Black stockings
Black silk camisole
Dark grey, long sleeved dress
Black, high-heeled boots
Black, long coat
I'm ready at 7:05 sharp.
As always.
I walk the block that separates my place from the subway station in quick but careful steps. New York City in January is a dangerous place to walk in heels, but it beats driving in the snow any time.
The subway is brimming with life when I get there. People are in the 'New Year, new everything' phase that makes them so cheerful it borders on annoying. I try my best to ignore them all, but I end up paying attention to the young boy who is using his fingers to choreograph music he is listening to. It looks graceful and effortless as if he was born doing it.
I shake my head at myself and my tendency to think of fancy words to catalog the street art that I see. By the time I get to my station, the kid has a crowd around him, and his whole body has joined his fingers in movement. For me, it has lost the allure.
A few steps take me to my building, and I breathe a sigh of relief, craving the comfort and security that these walls bring me. The security guy greets me and allows me past the entrance, motioning me toward the elevators.
"Please tell me your underwear is red," Alice says when she sees me waiting for the elevator doors to open.
"What?"
"You've got to have some color on you."
"My nails are painted pink," I reply with a frown on my face, just as the doors open.
She snorts.
Alice and I make our way into the headquarters, opening it for the first time after the holidays. Our secretary, Lauren, is waiting for us outside. She greets us in her usual, polite manner and immediately offers to get our coffees.
I chat with Alice for a few minutes before walking toward my office.
I sit at my desk and turn on my computer, checking the calendar glued to my table. I smile when I see all the information written on it. Business is looking good. I'll be busy for several weeks.
Just how I like it.
Lauren brings me my coffee, and I lose myself in numbers for the day.
The rest of the week is a normal remake of Monday.
My routine exists for a reason.
It works.
It's safe.
"I'm coming over," Alice says on the phone, on Friday night. I'm sitting on my bed, arranging my errand schedule for next week.
"What?" I ask, confused. I'm not expecting her.
"Jasper's going to be working all night, and I need entertainment."
"Alice," I say, feeling hopeless. I'm not in the mood to entertain guests.
"Don't worry. I'll bring dinner. See you in ten."
She hangs up.
I stay looking at the phone with a frown.
It's past eight.
I already ate dinner.
It's not the first time Alice has been to my apartment. I do consider her a friend, and we have been partners for two years. I have shared meals with her before, but it's always been planned and on my terms.
There's no place for spontaneity in my world.
"I brought Chinese-Mexican," she announces when I open the door. She shows me the two, brown paper bags she's carrying, before walking past me.
"Okay."
"It's from that new place on our street. It's supposed to be great," she says, making herself at home in my kitchen while I watch from the doorway.
"Of course," I say, rolling my eyes. I don't know how many times I've heard that before.
She sits on the breakfast table and digs into her food. I stay silent for a while, watching her devouring the contents of the plastic box. For such a tiny person, Alice sure does eat a lot of unhealthy food. She notices me staring and waves me over.
I walk closer, but don't join her.
"I brought enough for the both of us," she says, sipping a green-colored liquid.
"I already ate."
"So?"
"So...I'm not hungry." Plus, I usually avoid having dinner past eight. Grandma Swan would disown me. I keep that last bit to myself, although I'm sure she knows it.
"Oh!" she says, jumping off the chair. "Jasper wanted me to give you this." She cleans her greasy fingers on her jeans before producing a red envelope out of her back pocket and hands it to me.
"It's for the gallery opening this next week," she says. I nod at her and read the information. It's a creative invitation design, edgy and modern.
"Is this where Jasper is tonight?" I ask and sit down on one of the breakfast stools.
"Yes. This close to the opening and with everything they want to do, things are hectic." She resumes her eating, and I mull over her words.
"I still think it's unfair that Jasper's doing all the work," I finally say. His long-lost business partner should've arrived weeks ago.
"You do all the work in our company," Alice says.
"That's not true." Sometimes I wonder how I would manage myself without her. I might be the one dealing with numbers and strategies, but if it weren't for her, we wouldn't have clients for me to work for. As much as I enjoy being independent, it's been a matter of teamwork.
"It's fine," she says. "I don't care. I'm happy earning easy money. Not everyone can have morals and crap."
She winks, and I laugh.
The alarm goes off at 6:30 am on Saturday morning. I have multiple errands to run that I have no time for on my workdays. After my stretches and my shower, I get dressed in the clothes I laid down yesterday: jeans, a tank top, a sweater and a coat.
After a quick breakfast, I grab a messenger bag and my to-do-list.
Once in the mall, I find a knee length, long sleeved, dark green dress. Its heart-shaped collar is modest, and it's an outfit I can see myself wearing again, which makes it practical and a great buy.
I also eat lunch in one of my favorite restaurants just crossing the street from the mall.
At the end of the day, I take a cab back to my place and declare this outing a success.
Everything went according to plan.
"Hey, Mom."
"Hello, Isabella." My mother's voice comes from the other end of the phone, civilized as always. There's no surprise or other type of inflexion in her tone. I don't know what else I expected. It's not like she wasn't waiting for my call.
Every Sunday, 1:00 sharp. I have never been late.
"How's everything?" I ask, ruffling through my agenda, underlining stuff here and there.
"Everything's wonderful," she says, in an obvious manner. As if I should already know the answer.
"We just got home from a delightful lunch with some of your father's business partners. You should've been here. You would've loved the food," she goes on.
"That's wonderful, Mom. Sorry I missed it," I say on pilot mode. The pause that follows is just as expected as my rushed goodbye.
"So, Mom, give my best to everyone, okay?"
"Did you know Michael Newton just got back to town?" she asks, deflecting. "He asked me about you the other day. Oh, I wish you would've seen his face when I told him you were still living in New York. He was devastated."
"I'm sure he was," I answer, annoyed at the turn of this conversation.
"It's such a shame that you picked that city to live in," she says, and lets just the right amount of despair into her tone to play the guilt card. "So far away, so hectic—New York is not everyone's cup of tea."
"Yeah, you're right about that," I say. "Listen, Mom, I have to go, so we'll talk later, okay?"
I hang up as soon as I hear her mutter her goodbye.
I waste the rest of the day rearranging my already perfect schedule.
"How do you get here before I do? I live closer!" Alice says, dumping her purse on my desk.
"Because I wake up earlier than you, and I take less time getting dressed," I answer, typing some information into an Excel sheet.
"And yet, you always look amazing," she says with a pout. I give her a tiny, yet smug smile.
"Bitch," she adds before shifting to business mode. We spend the entire morning going over stuff that needs to be done. I'm in a zone, and so is she, until we're out of pressing matters to talk about, and she turns the tables on me.
"So, how are you?" she asks.
"I'm fine," I answer and open up another Excel document.
"No, I mean, how are you, really?" she asks again.
I can feel her searching my eyes, but I refuse to look at her. There's no way I'm engaging in a heart to heart talk with Alice about my love life, or lack thereof. Especially not on a workday, and certainly, not on a Monday.
"I said I'm fine, Alice."
My reply is enough to get her to back off, closing the door harder than acceptable. I feel awful for about a second.
Then I remember my failed attempts at both long and short-term relationships and decide that my attitude was for the best.
Thursday finds me exhausted from all the work I've done this week. My beauty salon appointment couldn't have been better received.
Even though Jasper's gallery opening isn't elite styling material, I plan to look well presented. Any social gathering is an opportunity. Or so I've been taught.
There's no such thing as discrimination in this area. Business can come from any type of person, whether a street-art aficionado or suit-clad banker. It's the motto my family has lived by, and it's the one that has kept our company running.
I like Jasper and I'm happy for him and the realization of his dream, but I'm not going with expectations of enjoying the showcase. There's a big chance I will end up buying something out of obligation, though.
"Miss Swan?" The girl at the counter calls up to me, bringing me out of my thoughts. She smiles too much, but it's fake. I follow her to the washing station. The regular hairdressers welcome me and we chat for a while. I can sense the forced-politeness in them.
I tune them all out and enjoy the soothing massage on my scalp.
"Mani-Pedi today?" Charlotte—my usual stylist—asks me when she's finishing drying my hair. I nod and smile. That's my favorite part. She gives me a knowing look and calls out to the girl who will be doing my nails, Kim.
"Waxing?" Kim asks, chewing gum. I shake my head, knowing she doesn't mean my legs. She gives me a weird look as if I'm expected to wax everything every time I come here.
I don't call her out on her bitchy, silent attitude, because she wouldn't understand that I have no reason to wax.
Black lace underwear
Black stockings
Black silk camisole
Dark green, long sleeved dress
Black high heels
Black long coat
Gloves, scarf, a handbag and I'm ready to go.
I take a cab to the building because my shoes are not the best ones for walking. I arrive at 8:15 pm, early, but ideal for me. The gallery's still empty, only two or three people besides the working staff are here.
For a minute, I'm surprised by how elegant everything looks. I thought Jasper would be the low key kind of guy, but the place looks like something I would see back at home.
The gallery is spacious and modern. Its curves and structured walls make for both convenience, as well as a nice setting for the paintings. It all culminates in a small stage at the end, where bands will play.
I've walked past this building many times before, and I had never thought that behind that rusty, metallic door, I'd find this. The place has been decorated to look the part, but I always imagined this was an old, loft-garage type of thing.
Appearances can be deceiving.
By 8:30, more people start to show up, but everything is still mellow. So far, I haven't seen anything that has caught my eye. Not a person, not a painting. If anything, I'm more smitten by the gallery itself than by what it holds inside.
It's a bit disappointing, and I'm ready to devote myself to people watching.
Until I'm taken by surprise.
At the last curve of the hall, just before it reaches the stage area, there's a fascinating painting. It's not big, but it's attention-demanding. On the back of the canvas is a green landscape, blatantly influenced by romanticism.
In front, there are some dark and twisted designs overshadowing it. They're black, red, and purple, and look bloody and so out of place. It's doesn't even look like paint. It looks more like a Sharpie marker. I stare at the painting, confused by it. I don't understand the point in this.
Yes, it's without a doubt the eye-catcher of the night, but not for the right reasons from my point of view. I've seen the attempts of people trying to clash and mesh different styles, different genres into one painting. I've seen some that worked and some that didn't, but most of them had one thing in common. They looked like they were trying to coexist in the painting. The intent of the author always came off as if they were trying to get those two contrasting things closer.
This painting is all over the place. It doesn't look like the two styles want to belong. I don't understand what the approach is here, but I'm intrigued. I can't stop looking at it, and so I don't. I spend several minutes just staring at it, standing in front of that last painting, wanting to make sense of it, wanting to figure it out.
I notice the hum of people arriving, the air getting stiffer by the number of warm bodies entering the space, but I don't move from my spot.
Looking at the painting, I think of the books I've read and the discussions I've engaged in while mingling with elite society. Even more, I think back to my college years, where my whole world was opened to a lot more than what I thought I knew.
I frown.
"Is something wrong?" someone says behind me. I turn around, surprised.
"No," I answer, not giving him a second glance, and returning my eyes to the painting.
The stranger doesn't leave, and it starts to get annoying. He's too close, and it feels too warm in here.
"Bella!" Alice's voice takes my attention away from the painting again. She's walking towards me with Jasper in tow. I had even forgotten I was supposed to look for her. "Oh, I see you've met Edward," she says when she reaches me. The stranger—Edward—mutters something under his breath that I can't make out.
Now that I know he's Jasper's business partner, I pay attention to him.
"Edward Cullen," he says, extending his hand to meet mine.
"Isabella Swan," I say, shaking his hand. His eyes lock on mine, and I feel uncomfortable.
Uneasy.
They're too green.
I let go of his hand, and proceed to engage in polite conversation with Alice and Jasper. He doesn't join in.
After a few minutes, Alice and Jasper leave, and I return to my examination of the painting. Edward stays close behind until he steps forward next to me. I'm hit by the scent of his cologne—or something. He smells good, and I don't know why I notice.
"Now that we've been acquainted," he says, "I can ask you what's bothering you about my painting." He turns to look at me, his chaotic hair falling on his forehead. I'm surprised by his bluntness for a second, but I soon regain my composure.
I shake my head. "Nothing's bothering me." I take a peek at the initials at the corner of the painting. E.C. I don't know how I've spent twenty minutes going over it without imagining it could belong to the half-owner of the gallery.
"Judging by the amount of time you've been frowning at it, I'd disagree," he says, tilting his head to the side. I don't like the way he's accessing me. I'm used to being the one doing that.
"I'm just trying to figure it out, taking my time," I say, giving him a side-eye glance. I'm ready for this conversation to be over, but some irrational part of me won't let me be the one to walk away. I feel somewhat possessive over this spot.
"If you didn't get it at first glance, then you won't," he says, shrugging. I feel my temper rising. I'm already annoyed enough by having to engage in conversation with him, and now he wants to give me attitude.
"It seems our views on art appreciation differ," I say, looking him up and down. It's a gesture I've lived, experienced and practiced all my life. He has no idea.
My stare-down isn't as powerful as I would've liked, because he's taller than me. Much taller, I notice. I also notice how he's dressed. Dark jeans and a long sleeved blue shirt. How unoriginal. And unprofessional.
"Obviously," he says in a low voice, returning my look. Except, his leaves a strange, burning feeling on my body. The smirk on his lips is both predatory and condescending. I'm unnerved by it.
Someone yells his name from across the room, and he makes a gesture with his hand to show he'll be right there. Then he turns to me and smiles. As if we were just having the most pleasant conversation.
"It was nice meeting you, Bella," he says.
"Only my friends call me that," I quip, surprising myself by how snotty I sound.
"My bad," he concedes, walking backwards with his hand up. "It was nice meeting you Isabella Swan."
I leave the gallery without buying anything.
I spend my weekend according to plan. I pick up my laundry from the dry cleaners and do my grocery shopping. I also plan my following week, do an extra routine of exercise and make my weekly call to Mom.
Everything's as it should be, until I get a call from Garrett.
"Iz?" He says on the phone. I make a sound that lets him know I'm listening, too shocked to say much else. "I thought I'd give you a call. I'm in town for a few days."
"Oh."
"Yeah, I just got here. Do you…" he trails off. I wait in silence for him to finish, still too surprised by his call.
"Can we meet?" he finally asks.
"I'm busy," I say right away. It's an automatic response. He chuckles.
"Not right now. I mean, during the week."
"I have to check my schedule," I lie. I'm free every, single night. The art gallery opening was the first and only social outing I've had this year.
"Yeah, you do that," he says, chuckling once more. I take a second to remember his smile and how pleasant it is. We say goodbye and I spend the rest of the evening weighing the pros and cons of seeing him again.
I know he doesn't want a serious relationship, so that's a plus because I don't either.
He's devoted to this job. It's the reason he travels so much, which means he understands me and my crazy, work ethics. That's another pro.
I think back to the few and distant encounters we've had, and it doesn't even bring a smile to my face. My heart doesn't race at the memory of his touch. His eyes, brown and boring like mine, don't make me feel like jumping off a cliff with him.
But then again, I've never had that. I've never felt that way.
A flash of green startles me behind my eyelids and I drop my pen. I shake my head out of thoughts that don't even make sense, and decide I won't meet with him.
It's not worth the trouble.
On Monday, everything's back to normal. I feel confident about my decision and my excuse to avoid Garrett. I put on a new, heavy suit I recently bought and a long coat. I feel warm and ready to face the cold and the avalanche of New Yorkers on the street.
In a weird and uncharacteristic way, the subway is almost deserted when I enter. I spot Edward Cullen right away. He's wearing almost nothing: just jeans and a black t-shirt. No coat, no scarf, no jacket. Is he insane?
I snap my eyes from his bare forearms to his face. He's staring at me with a blank but concentrated stare. His face is serious and composed. He doesn't address me, so I don't speak either.
When I arrive to the office and take off my coat, I notice I'm sweating.
And so it goes for an entire week. I see him on the subway every morning, yet neither of us says a word to the other.
He stares.
He stares a lot, and each time I get to work, I'm sticky with perspiration.
I spend the weekend thinking about it—about him. I wonder why he looks at me the way he does, as if he's looking through me and at me, at the same time.
Why doesn't he wear warmer clothes?
Why hasn't he talked to me?
Why haven't I confronted him?
Why do I even care?
Saturday and Sunday are so open that I'm left with too much time to think about it all. I'm even tempted to talk to Alice about it, but crush the idea before it gets anywhere.
In the end, I spend time arranging my closet to create a system that allows me to find my clothes in a more efficient way.
Black lace underwear
Black stockings
Black silk camisole
Dark blue pencil skirt
White, long sleeved shirt
Black high-heeled boots
Black, long coat
And, at the last minute, a black scarf. I feel as though I could use one today, even though the weather's not so cold.
The subway is packed, and I feel better at the normalcy of it. I don't understand why it was so empty last week.
The heat from all the people being together in a closed space is one I recognize. Today, I welcome it.
Until I see him.
He's sitting.
How he managed that, I don't know. He's looking down, resting his arms on his knees. Today he has a black shirt, with the sleeves rolled up. In a sharp move, he turns his head and catches me looking.
All of a sudden, I'm suffocating.
These people are pressing too close to me, and I need air.
God, I need to breathe.
And when he stands and makes his way to me, across the sea of people between us, I feel downright paranoid.
What is wrong with me?
"You wear too much clothing," he says as a way of greeting. I narrow my eyes at him, wanting to call him out on his lack of manners, but I refrain.
"Fashion is a form of art," I reply, rolling my eyes, trying to appear cool and collected while I'm anything but.
"That's true, but," he trails off, shaking his head and turning to observe the people around us. I take those few seconds to study his profile: chiseled jaw, high cheekbones, and crooked nose. All that, with his bronze hair, green eyes and tall frame, make for a good-looking guy.
There's something so appealing about him. If I wasn't so annoyed by him, I might feel tempted to figure him out. But he screams danger, and I'm too intrigued by him as it is.
I snap myself out of those thoughts.
"But?" I inquire. He turns to look at me, almost knocking me over with the force of his stare. He's once again, too close. I try to step back, but the crammed train won't allow me much space. I feel like his prey.
After a beat of silence, he sighs and answers.
"Skin paints a much more beautiful picture." His eyes flicker to the knot of my scarf before he meets my eyes again. I say nothing and pretend to dismiss it.
Inside, I'm burning.
"Let's go out tomorrow," Alice says on Thursday morning. She sits like she has the world on her shoulders and needs help carrying it.
"Where?" I ask, before saying no.
"Jasper's gallery. He's playing tomorrow night." I look up, surprised. "It's the second one he's done. He did one last week, but you didn't seem in the mood, so I didn't tell you," she adds, and I frown.
"What do you mean I didn't seem in the mood?"
Now she looks surprised. "I'm talking about the thin line on your lips, the constant swearing… the entire week you were horrible to be around."
"Oh," I say. It's the only answer I have.
"Are you okay?" she asks, her own distress forgotten.
I nod.
"I'm sorry if I was more of a bitch than usual this week," I say with a grin on my face.
"So, tomorrow?"
"Yes, tomorrow."
On Friday night, I'm standing in front of my neat, organized closet, trying to find what to wear to Jasper's gig. I keep thinking about Edward's comment about wearing too much clothing. I mean, what did he mean by that?
It's cold. Society approves of layers this time of the year.
I settle for jeans, boots, a sweater and a scarf. At the last minute, I leave the scarf behind.
At the show, I stay long enough to watch Jasper, but when he's done, I can't get into the following band. Alice leaves me to fend for myself, playing backstage manager for most of the night. I can see the pain in her eyes when she's hauled away from me, but I wave her off every time.
The music is too much, and I'm too alone to stay, but I also don't want to bail. I choose the second best option. I go across the street to a not-so-popular bar.
I'm left alone enough to order a martini, when someone sits on the stool beside me.
"Isabella," he says. His voice is smooth and gentle. He waves the bartender over and orders a beer.
"Edward," I say, trying to pour as much sarcasm in my voice as I can.
"What are you doing here?" he asks, looking me up and down. "Sympathizing with the enemy?"
"I wasn't feeling the Indie's vibe anymore," I answer, taking a sip of my drink.
I don't know why I'm talking to him, but I can't bring myself to stop. The bartender places his beer in front of him. He takes a long gulp.
"Oh," he says, looking around the bar's décor. "Just in the mood for good, old-fashioned 80's rock?"
I glare at him.
"It's okay. I don't judge," he says, sliding his finger up and down the bottle. I stare at the movement. It's mesmerizing.
"Are you hiding from me?" His question snaps me out of the trance I seemed to be in at the moment. He's looking at my face, as if he's trying to see into my brain.
"Why would I?" I ask, feeling out of breath. His finger is still traveling the curves of the bottle and his eyes are holding me hostage.
"You tell me," he says, a small grin taking over his face. "Or better yet, prove me wrong," he adds.
I don't know what he means.
I don't know what he wants.
"I don't owe you anything," I say instead, trying to regain some of my composure. I have no idea why I'm feeling this way, as if he's toying with me.
"No, you don't," he agrees, lifting the beer to his lips. "But you like to be right," he says, before wrapping his lips around the bottle.
"Everybody likes to be right," I say, frowning. I do love being right. I just don't know how he would come to that conclusion after a handful of words exchanged with me.
"Then prove me wrong," he banters.
Why? I want to ask.
"How?" I ask instead, surprising myself.
"By letting me paint you."
A.N: This is probably the longest chapter of the entire story. The rest will be much shorter.
Next chapter will be up next week.
See you then, and thanks for reading.