"W e're looking for something with a more realistic feel. Landscapes and portraits are very 'in' this year ."

Jay swallowed a groan and tried to look attentive. This was the eighth gallery that he'd interviewed with this month, and he was getting tired of business people running art shows. The woman in front of him, with her flawless hair and tailored business suit, was so much the opposite of an artist that he felt like someone was going to drag him out of her presence any second. She'd probably have preferred that. "I see ."

"Do you have any more pictures like this one?" she asked, pointing at a photo of the only painting he'd never been able to part with. It had taken him months to get the curl of the waves to match his memory .

"Not exactly, no," he said, baring his teeth in an attempt at a smile .

"Pity," she said, flipping to the next page .

Twenty minutes later, he smiled and nodded his way out of the gallery, waiting until he was out of sight of the big front window to slump. There weren't that many more galleries that he could interview with inside the city. He'd sold his car six months ago, and he couldn't afford the taxi fare to travel much further out .

Crossing to the bus stop, he pulled a messy, handwritten list out of his portfolio. The paper was crumpled and smudged, the ink bleeding through where he'd crossed his options off one by one. There were three names left on the list. Two of them he had skipped because there was no way he was getting into galleries that high-class, and the last one had a reputation for skimming off the artist's commissions. The sign claimed it was under new ownership, but he hadn't heard anything good about the place. Pride wouldn't pay his rent, though. He was getting desperate enough to risk it .

He was still arguing with himself when he saw two buses turn the corner ahead. It was like a sign from the heavens. Neither bus was his, but they each stopped near one of his dream galleries. If he took the bus to another gallery and struck out, he'd be walking home. If he waited, headed home and went to sleep, his situation would be the same tomorrow as it was now .

The doors of the bus were starting to close when he made up his mind. Slipping aboard with a sheepish smile, he paid his last dollar and change and took a seat. The bus was hot, all the windows down to try and flush the smells of sweat and exhaustion from the air. The summer was just beginning, and it was already the hottest on record .

They barely made it a block before Jay was sweating, his skin sticking to the vinyl seats and the cheap plastic of his portfolio. All around him, the other riders had that jaded California look, minding their own business and not making eye contact. It was one of the things that had made him feel at home when he'd run away from New York, not like the curious stares he'd gotten all through the midwest .

One of his favorite things about riding the bus was people watching. He had dozens of sketchbooks full of gnarled hands, tired eyes, and teenagers with wild hair and confident smirks that spoke of lives unburdened by responsibility. He would have liked to sketch the older man asleep in the last row, his hands gripping a tattered paperback book, but he'd used up his last sketchbook months ago, even if he hadn't been too tired .

The heat sapped what little strength that disappointment hadn't stolen, and he almost missed his stop. The driver gave him a disinterested look as he scrambled down to the sizzling pavement. The neighborhood was expensive, full of office buildings and condos that he couldn't have afforded in a million years. The kind of places he'd never given a second thought growing up .

The gallery was an imposing, historical building that sprawled along the corner. The brick facade loomed over its own parking lot. It was empty currently, but he'd seen it full of Porsches and limos for opening night galas. Staring up at the gilded sign, Jay tugged anxiously at his rumpled and sweat-soaked button-up. Just looking at the place made him feel completely inadequate. There was no way he could go in there .

He made it half a block away before practicality reared its ugly head. He had to give it a try. Easier said than done, he was still staring at the pristine front window ten minutes later when his phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID and sighed .

"Hi, Mom," he said, trying to keep the defeat out of his voice .

"Hello, sweetheart. How are you doing ?"

He had to cup the phone to his ear to hear her over the traffic. He knew better than to ask her to speak up. If she was whispering, his stepfather couldn't be far away. "I'm okay, Mom. I interviewed with a gallery today ."

"I'm sending you some money," she said as if he hadn't spoken. "I used the PO Box in downtown as your address, and Rosita said that she would drop it off at the post office today. It's not much, but I thought it might help. Rosita told me you were fired from the coffee shop ."

"Rosita needs to keep her mouth shut," he muttered. It was galling to admit that he needed the money, but the thought of buying groceries made him want to cry. "Thanks, Mom," he said, swallowing his pride .

"I wish you would come home." He could hear the crackle in her voice like she was going to cry, and his heart clenched. "You could still go to business school, get married to some nice girl from a good family, and have a real life ."

"It wouldn't be my life," he said, trying to keep his voice even .

"It would be so much better," she said. "Natalie Hanson's son just got divorced from his alpha, and he lost custody of his kids. He lost everything, and now he only gets to see the three of them on holidays ."

Jay only vaguely remembered Ben Hanson from birthday parties and neighborhood functions. He'd been a quiet boy who had stunned his family by eloping with an alpha he'd met while on vacation in Italy. Jay had admired his courage and been jealous when he'd seen how happy the other boy was .

Swallowing back the sour taste of bile, Jay ran his hand through his hair. "I don't know what you want me to say, Mom. I'm doing what I think is right, and I'm doing the best I can ."

She sniffed. "You sound so much like your father. I just don't want to lose you, too." There was a faint commotion, and she gasped. "Victor's home," she said urgently. "I have to go. Keep an eye out for the money, and I'll try to call you for your birthday ."

The line went dead, and Jay swallowed a curse. His birthday wasn't for three months .

"I love you, too, Mom." He rubbed his temples and tried to shove down the anger creeping through his tense muscles .

It wasn't that he was ungrateful. He appreciated every bit of help that his mother sent him, but Mary Collins-Danville was a shadow of the woman he remembered from his childhood. Sometimes he could still see her standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips, ready to tear into his father for letting him play in the mud. It had all been in good fun, and Jack Collins had scooped her up over his broad shoulder as she shrieked with laughter. It was one of his fondest memories, worn thin and soft like an old t-shirt .

The laughter had stopped the day his father enlisted, and when the uniformed soldiers delivered the flag, part of Mary just faded away .

None of which helped him with his current problems. Leaning against the sun hot brick of the gallery building, Jay flipped through the pictures in his portfolio. He shuffled them around listlessly, trying to guess which pictures would be most appealing for such an expensive location .

When he couldn't put it off any longer, he dragged himself around to the entrance. The inside of the gallery was positively frigid after the heat outside, and goosebumps sprang up on his arms as the sweat turned to ice. There was a professional-looking attendant behind a podium just inside the door, the spotlight highlighting her flawless appearance and spotless little black dress .

She smiled as he stepped inside, showing even white teeth. "Welcome to Three Nights Gallery," she said perkily. "Our current show is the landscapes of B. Miller. It will be running for the next two weeks. Please let me know if you see anything you like ."

Jay had to admire how her expression stayed welcoming even as her eyes slid over his rumpled clothing. It helped to alleviate some of the panic swirling in his gut as he stared at the immaculate canvases arranged in glowing pools around the dim interior. Each one was the very definition of realism, the gardens and forests so lifelike that he could almost smell them .

"If you have any questions," the attendant said cheerfully, "I'm happy to run upstairs and ask the artist ."

Ducking his head, Jay started to back out of the building, only to be blocked by another person coming in behind him. He apologized under his breath and shuffled further into the building. What had appeared to be one small room turned out to be a maze of winding white walls and dozens of spectacular, colorful paintings .

Deep in the bowels of the building, far enough from the entrance that he wasn't sure he could find his way back, Jay flipped through his portfolio again. Nothing he had even came close to this level of quality, and it showed in every cheap printout in the cheap black folder. He shuffled the pages around again, debating with himself about whether to even approach the gallery owner. It was such a waste of time, but then his time wasn't so valuable right now that he could afford to miss this opportunity .

He was so lost in thought that he didn't hear the click of heels approaching until someone said, "You must be Bonnie's appointment ."

He almost jumped out of his skin. This attendant was just as professional-looking as the other one, but with glowing blonde hair piled on top of her head where the other had been a brunette. "No, I'm ..."

"I'll let her know you're here," she said, holding out her hand. Jay stared at it until it dawned on him that she was waiting for his portfolio .

"I don't have an appointment." His hands were slick with sweat despite the comfortable temperature in the room. "I'm not actually here to see anyone ."

She gave him a skeptical look. "Are you sure? Do you carry your portfolio with you everywhere?" He would have been offended, but she sounded genuinely curious like she had seen enough artistic eccentricity to have rolled with it if that was the case .

"I had an interview," he said .

Pursing her lips, she considered that. "I'm pretty sure Bonnie's appointment isn't going to show. I can see if she'll take a look at your stuff instead, if you'd like. You have to be dependable, though. Are you dependable ?"

Was he dependable? It probably depended on who they were asking. His landlord certainly wouldn't find him dependable at all, given the state of his rent. He'd never been fired from a job for being flaky, though, not like some of the artists he knew. "I think so ."

"Great." She slid the portfolio out of his numb hands and tucked it under her arm. "Wait here. This will only take a moment." Before he could stop her, she disappeared through a nearby panel that swung soundlessly open to reveal a flight of stairs .

Shock rooted Jay to the spot, his hands grasping air. If she hadn't taken his portfolio, he would have been halfway down the block by now. Even though the cheap printouts and black folder had cost less than $15, he couldn't afford to replace them if he wanted to eat. Repeating that to himself, Jay tried to keep his panic from showing on his face .

The longer he waited, the more adrenaline made Jay's limbs twitch with the need to move. He paced a few steps away, staring unseeing at one of the paintings on the wall. He was half expecting the attendant to come back and tell him that the owner had taken one look at his portfolio and decided not to see him .

The click of heels on the stairs made him flinch. The woman who emerged was just as flawless and put together as the attendants. Jay bit back a groan. She towered over him in her perilously tall heels, her tailored suit making him feel even more like a slob .

"Christine tells me that you are dependable." She looked him up and down, the lines on her face set in a skeptical frown .

Jay squirmed under her sharp eyes, only the fact that his portfolio was nowhere to be seen kept him from taking off at a run. "I like to think of myself as dependable, yes," he said. The acoustic qualities of the gallery made his voice sound small and hollow .

She crossed her arms, tapping one foot on the floor. Jay stuck his hands into his pockets to keep from twisting his fingers together, time ticking by slow as molasses. His pulse thundered in his ears as he studied her out of the corner of his eye. She was younger than she looked at first glance, a thick coat of makeup only emphasizing the deep lines of her face. Her hair was dark and glossy in the glow of the spotlights, pulled back into a dramatic style without a hair out of place. The sparkle of a pair of diamond studs in her ears drew his eye to a thick smear of green paint hidden in the shadow of her neck, and he did a double take .

"You're an artist," he blurted .

She slowly raised one perfectly groomed eyebrow at him. "Do you have a problem with female artists?" she asked .

Jay could have laughed. "No," he said, some of his giddiness escaping in a wide grin. "It's a relief, to be honest." She didn't smile. "Not the female thing," he clarified, "but the artist thing ."

"Only an idiot," she said, rolling her eyes, "would try to run an art gallery without a background in art. This city is full of idiots." She stuck her hand out. "My name is Bonnie Miller. You can call me Bonnie ."

"These are your paintings." He gaped at her. "They're incredible ."

Bonnie snorted. "They're not bad. I've done worse, but I've done better, too." She motioned for him to follow her up the stairs. "I prefer to paint nudes, but they don't sell as well. I hope you're as dependable as you like to think you are." She paused in front of a calendar at the top of the stairs. "I've had two artists cancel on me in the last week. What's your availability like ?"

Caught off guard, Jay could only stutter. "Wide open. Wide, wide open ."

She smiled, the lines of her face softening and making her look ten years younger. "Next month, then? How many pieces can you get me by the 15th ?"

The sound that came out of his mouth would have been humiliating if he'd had the brainpower left to care. "You're giving me a show ?"

Shrugging, she scribbled something on the calendar. "Why not? Your work isn't the worst I've ever seen, and if you can stick to a schedule, you'll be a better investment than an empty gallery for a couple weeks. I haven't had an abstract show in here in months. Everything is realism right now, so you'll make a nice change of pace." She ducked through one of the three doors that he could see, reemerging with his portfolio and a sheet of paper. "Write down your studio address. The gallery has its own trucks, and my team will be by to pick up the paintings a week before the show. Send whatever you have, we'll make it fit ."

The sheet of paper turned out to be a fairly standard contract outlining the sales commission and dates he was being promised. He could barely read the details as the words ran together. Lightheaded, he took a steadying breath and forced himself to focus on the terms of the contract. They were surprisingly generous, with a minimal cut for the gallery on each sale .

His mind was racing, counting up his pieces in his head and trying to envision them displayed in the space. If he was very frugal, he could stretch the money his mother sent him for the next six weeks. With a two-week gallery show, he only had to sell a piece or two a week, and he'd be set. He signed the contract with a messy scrawl, his trembling hand smudging the ink across the page .

Bonnie disappeared into the office to make him a copy of the contract, and Jay tried not to get his hopes up. A gallery show wasn't a guarantee, and he couldn't bank on selling anything. His pulse was racing, thundering in his ears, and he couldn't help but imagine all his paintings hanging with little sold signs. The very thought of the money he could bring in made him shiver .

He strode out of the gallery with his head high, his copy of the contract tucked safely away in the back of his portfolio. The sun was lower in the sky than he had expected, and his stomach grumbled, reminding him that he had skipped lunch. Even the three-mile walk to his apartment couldn't put a damper on his spirits, and to celebrate, he stopped into his favorite Chinese restaurant for takeout .

The smell of hot grease made his mouth water all the way up to his seventh-floor apartment, but his good mood congealed as he exited the stairwell. Halfway down the hall, in front of his door, a pile of clothes and personal items had been tossed on top of the dirty mattress he'd been using as a bed .

Staring at the eviction notice taped to his door, the urge to scream or punch something was almost overwhelming. He'd been so close. The weight that had been lifted by the promise of a gallery show came crashing back, crushing him until his back was hunched like a ninety-year-old man. He wanted to rage against the unfairness, but he was so tired .

He picked through the pile, gathering up the most important items. Using his clothing as padding, he stuffed as much as he could into the backpack and duffel bag that had been with him since New York. Anything that didn't fit, he left for the scavengers .

By the time he made it back to ground level, he was barely holding it together. Unable to bear the thought of walking another three miles to his studio, he hailed a cab and used his precious credit card to pay the fare. Sitting in the back with all of his worldly possessions, Jay did his best not to think. He tried to focus on the positives, thankful that anything important was kept at the studio. He'd prepaid the rent when he'd first arrived, and made sure to add more whenever he had an opportunity. By his calculations, he was still several months ahead on the little space .

If this show didn't go well, he would have to go home and throw himself on the mercy of his stepfather. His stomach churned at the thought, aggravated by the scent of the greasy Chinese food sitting on the seat next to him. Staring at the brown paper bag, it was impossible to fathom the optimism that had filled him when he bought it not even an hour before .

His studio was in a converted warehouse with a dozen other artist spaces, but when the taxi pulled up, the building was dark. Jay dragged himself up the front steps and fumbled his way through the two security doors. The units were billed as well ventilated, which translated to drafty at the best of times and frigid in the winter .

He'd splurged on a corner room, with windows that caught the morning light. Even now that sunset was blushing the western sky, the room was warm with the heat of the day. Grateful despite the sweat that slicked his brow, he dropped his bags just inside the door. Sliding to the bare wood floor, he took a moment just to breathe .

Eventually, the demands of his stomach overruled his swirling thoughts, and he dug into his lukewarm food. He set aside the leftovers for the morning, and with nothing else to do, spread out his blanket on the floor and went to sleep .