"Shit! I'm going to be late again! Crap!" I yelled to absolutely no one. I ran to my tiny closet and threw open the doors. I pulled out a heather grey Theory pencil skirt and lilac silk blouse that I had purchased on my last scouting trip to Italy. I ran around searching for my keys and couldn't find them anywhere. For having the typical small Manhattan apartment I can never find anything. Granted, my apartment is much nicer than my friends' stereotypical Alphabet City three-bedroom, one-bath places with 6 people crammed in. With one bedroom and a Park Ave. South location, I was definitely doing better than the people with whom I had attended NYU. I was proud of what I had accomplished: I was fully supporting myself and the trust fund that my parents had set aside for me at birth was never touched. Regardless, my lifestyle was much different than the one to which I had become accustomed growing up in Bel Air.
I finally found my keys on top of the stove and ran out the door. It was way too late to take the subway so I hailed a cab and made my way to Chelsea. I was dropped off in front of the gallery where I work minutes before opening and threw the key into the lock and ran inside. I threw my Fendi bag down on the desk, turned on the lights and ran to the back and quickly made a pot of coffee.
"Celeste! Dahling, are you here? Where are you my pet?"
"I'm in the back Donata!"
Donata is the owner of the art gallery where I work. She's from Rome and is one of the most beautiful women that I have ever met. She hired me three years ago fresh out of college solely because her name in Italian means "from God" and mine is French for heavenly; she thought that this meant that we were soul mates. Now, three years later, she has put me in charge of her Chelsea gallery and stops by twice a month to make sure that I haven't burnt the place down or run off with a five-hundred thousand dollar painting.
"Dahling, there is a fabulous new artiste coming in today from Munich. I think we should sign him. You decide. OK, now, I make some espresso then I go."
And like a blur she was gone. I exhaled a sigh of relief that I had the place back to myself again and sat down at the receptionist's desk until Katrina came in at 11. I busied myself with some paperwork and greeted the occasional tourist that came by. Most mornings only tourists came into the gallery, evenings and weekends were when the serious shoppers came by.
At 11 on the dot Katrina came in and took over the greeting duties. I moved to my office in the back and flipped through some portfolios that artists had sent in. All of them went in the trash and I started to write some emails when my phone rang.
"Celeste Bouvier, how may I help you?"
"Hey, it's Kat. There's a Johannes Mayer here to see you."
"Thanks, send him in."
I ran my fingers through my hair prepared to meet another one of the horrid artists, which Donata routinely shoved my way. I stood up as the door opened and my jaw nearly hit the floor. Johannes was about 6'4" and well-built with tanned skin and sandy blonde hair, completely my type. At that moment I cursed my b-cup chest and 5'2" frame wishing that I were one of those Amazonian women seen in the Victoria's Secret catalogue.
"Hi, I'm Johannes, nice to meet you," he said with a slight accent.
"Celeste, my pleasure, please have a seat," I said. Thankfully I had regained my composure in time not to look like a blubbering idiot.
"So, Donata didn't really tell me anything about you or your work, would you mind filling me in a bit?"
He talked for about five minutes telling me how he had grown up in a small town outside of Berlin and had moved to Munich when he was 16 to pursue art. His family didn't understand and he had very little contact with them since. He worked odd jobs to support himself and his art until he had a successful show in Germany a few years ago. He's now trying to break into the New York art scene and was lucky enough to run into Donata at an art show in Zurich a few weeks ago.
As he was talking, all I could think about was him fucking me right then and there on my desk and I was getting wetter and wetter. I truly was trying to concentrate on what he was saying but the thought of him taking me from behind kept popping into my head. I cleared my throat and asked if I could see his portfolio.
He flashed his gorgeous smile and nervously handed it to me. I slowly flipped through his work and was greatly impressed. He reminded me of Basquiat with a touch of Schnabel thrown in for good measure. Unlike these other two artists, Johannes' work spoke to me on an even deeper level and I was speechless looking at his works.
I looked across the desk at Johannes who was nervously biting his bottom lip.
"How much do you normally sell your canvases for?"
