#lorenzo likes to be pegged fight me | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

magicxc · 1 year ago

Text

Hills and Valleys

Synopsis: Legend has it that Halloween is strictly for the scares. With ghouls and goblins, vampires and werewolves, witches and broomsticks, who could disagree?

However, all this friend group wanted was a little trick or treat. Sprinkle in a few party favors, loud music and a cabin in the woods, the myth was bound to come true.

Lurking around the corner is danger like never before, eager to bring this night to a bloody finish.

So join these friends as they fight to make it through a Hallween they’ll never forget.

Word Count: 3506

Warnings: murdaaaa, tha big reveal

Chapter 6 - Jasons POV

A/N: this is legit like my 5th attempt at uploading this damn fic. From the warnings to the word count to the moodboard to the story all the way down to the fucking tagsssss 😩 I am TIRED. Almost turned my phone into jello over Dumblr. So please, enjoy; cause tears def went into this.

Series Masterlist

“What’s with the scrutiny all of a sudden?” Emery challenged. “You know I could say the same for you Jason, the same for all of us really; cause where was anyone when our friends were fighting for their lives?” she sniffled. “All we have to do is sit here til sunrise and we can’t even do that.”

As annoying as I find Emery, she made a decent point. Where was I? Where was anyone and how did this manage to happen unheard? Do I actually believe Lorenzo did it? Not really. He’s lost arguably the two closest people in his friend group, cradling Stephanie in his arms for God knows how long. For a second I almost believed he’d break through the window if it meant he could reach out and hold Julianna much the same; his behaviour eerily composed, reminding me of the calm before the storm - and what a shit storm it’s turned out to be.

Serving in the military, I was taught to survive in extreme atmospheric conditions; training to fight in places as scorching as the desert and as icy as the snow. Our exercises also saw us in unsturdy places such as the choppy currents of the water, arms linked together as we floated on the surface for hours. The sky was no exception either, learning to parachute from altitudes so high the air was all but limited. It wasn’t my dream to fight for this country but, life happens. And while it did come with its perks, I wouldn’t recommend any sane person to join. I’ve scraped so many bodies off the battlefield and sent so many others to meet their maker, I’ve become somewhat desensitized to death - learning to keep calm during the most chaotic and life threatening moments because it’s only then that I was able to live to tell the tale. And that’s what I’ve been attempting since we all found ourselves locked in this place - surviving, lending out my experience to the team who quite frankly doesn't deserve it at this point. All I can do is stay calm long enough to see this night through.

“I think we should waterboard the fucker.”

And here the fuck we go. I’ve never pegged Lynn for such a firecracker but I get it. After all, this night is drawing all sorts of emotions from people: showing our true colors when the universe dangles something so priceless before us.

It's been said that about 1800 people have jumped from the golden gate bridge, yet only 35 have survived the fall. And each person that’s survived has explicitly stated that they regretted jumping halfway through the fall, realising, in the face of imminent danger, just how solvable all their problems seemed. Much like tonight, in what happened to be a party gone horribly wrong, recovering bodies littered around the house like candies during an easter egg hunt, only then do you realise how desperately you want to live. Many people are familiar with the term fight or flight, but what goes most overlooked is a secret third thing - fear. Fear so intense it freezes you to one spot like a deer in headlights, too afraid to move from the oncoming beams of tragedy. But another emotion fear pulls from us is survival, an emotion so fierce that you’d find yourself doing just about anything to have it; even going as far as to commit interrogation tactics of torture.

“Exactly which fucker are you referring to?” Emery questioned.

“Whoever the fucker is responsible for this mess.”

“Go ahead and point them out for us since you know every damn thing.”

They’re on their own with this one. I can't deal with the bickering. I'm used to organized and thought provoking responses in such situations; my irritation rising the more it sinks in just how wet they are behind the ears.

“Lorenzo, you’re one more insult away from me socking you in the face.”

“Whatever Lynn, what you should hit is the books you dumbass,” he retorts.

Throwing her shoe at him, it just barely misses his face; Emery stepping in to call them both childish.

“So help me God if you don’t get your shit together, I’m gonna whoop you like your parents should have.”

“Fuck you Lenny, at least my parents were active enough in my life not to let me get raised by the help.”

“Parent,” Lorenzo enunciated. “Had your dad been able to afford the help, maybe your mom would’ve stuck around you motherless bitch.”

Well shit.

“Jason, do something!”

“Right, uhhh all shoes in the middle of the floor,” I instructed.

“Asshole.”

I don’t know why Emery insists on calling me out. Everyone, despite tonight’s circumstances, in this room is responsible for their own actions. Yet she expects me to jump in the middle of their bullshit every time. I don't know what kind of savior complex they have going on, but I won’t be a part of it. I barely want to be with sugar at this point.

“Lenny you motherfucker, two parents plus the help and yet no one taught you what it means to have common decency; no wonder women can’t wait to get rid of you.”

“Well if it isn’t the whore of Babylon here to teach us a lesson about keeping partners. Tell you what, you teach me how to keep a woman and I’ll teach you how to get rid of the clap.”

“Sex shaming is not cool,” Emery criticized.

“And neither is half the things that's been flapping past Lynn's lying ass lips,” Lorenzo retorted. “If you’re gonna be biased, do so from the corner of the room, cause you’re at about arms length right now and that’s not good for you.

“Would you seriously hit me?” she ridiculed.

I would.

“Are you surprised Em, this is the same piece of shit who yanked Julez arm so hard, it left bruises.”

“You dramatic whore, no the fuck I did not.”

“And that was in front of an entire crowd, who knows what you’re capable of behind closed doors huh? Drowning? Slicing?”

“Sounds like you’re in the mood to find out.”

“Tell me their last words to you as you watched them fight for their lives you piece of shit.”

“YOU GUYS PLEASE.”

Oh my God.

“Shut your mouth Lynn.”

“Tell me every horrifying detail about what fucked you up so bad that you’d turn on your own friends in such a way.”

“I won't ask you again.”

“Steph probably begged you to finish her off didn’t she? Eager to get the hell away from you and your perverted advances.”

For a big guy, Lorenzo’s pretty damn swift. Maybe it’s because all those drinks are still sloshing around in my bloodstream but my cat like senses wasn’t quick enough to catch him.

Angrily lunging toward Lynn his hands are tightly wrapped around her throat, arms trembling from the forceful hold. Beads of sweat drip down his forehead, while spittled foam gathers at the corners of his mouth. Blinking away tears, thick veins line the surface of his neck, incoherent mumbling tumbling past his lips.

Sugar desperately beats at his arms, struggling for air he refuses to give her and my anger shoots through the roof, their foolishness pissing me off for the final time. It takes both me and Emery to tear Lorenzo away from sugar, his grip firm and unrelenting. For a second I feared that he actually intended to kill her. Once we finally manage to drag him away, it takes me putting my full weight on this man, using one of my hand to hand combat moves to lock him into place.

Pinned beneath me, I scream to Emery to grab anything strong enough to tie his arms together. She brings me back one of the kitchen towels and I roll us sideways so that she can wrap it around his hands.

“I - I can't do it, he won’t stop thrashing his arms.”

“For fucksake Emery TRY, there’s only so much I can do right now.

With lots of wiggling and flailing, Emery manages a decent enough knot for me to turn him over and reinforce it. Sugar finally catches her breath before storming into the kitchen.

We sit Lorenzo in a chair while Emery tries to coax him into comfort. Standing up, he head butts me in the face, my nose immediately leaking blood from the impact. My fist returns the favor, knocking him back into the chair. Emery harshly tugs on my elbow, begging me to stop, and it takes everything in me to do just that because this fight was about to turn real unfair, real quick.

Dragging my arm across my face, I look about the room for anything to tie down his legs to the chair, coming up with some loose cloth, which undoubtedly was a part of someone’s costume.

“Fuck all of you,” Lorenzo screams.

“No Lenny, fuck you,” sugar screeched, thumping back to the room; a pitcher full of water cradled between her hands.

“Woah, woah, woah LYNNLEY. Are you fucking serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

“This is Lenny, the same Lenny we’ve known since middle school.”

“People change Em and I'm about to show you just how much.”

“Sugar, maybe we should-“

“Shut up, all of you.”

“I know there’s been a lot said tonight, some things in particular we can never take back,” Lorenzo sighed. “And I know tensions are high right now, but are they so high that you’d all sit there and watch me die.”

“Lorenzo, no one’s gonna kill anyone man.”

“It’s WATERBOARDING, you of all people should know that it can very well get fatal.”

“Enough of this.”

Grabbing a fistful of his hair, she pulls his head back, pouring enough water on him to drench his clothes, before being snatched away by Emery.

It's not nearly enough to kill him, but it does make for some discomfort, much like accidentally snorting a noseful of water once you dive inside a swimming pool. It burns but that's about it.

Coughing through his discomfort, I listen as sugar and Emery go back and forth over the severity of it all; and I briefly contemplate killing myself if it means that I won't have to deal with their nonsense. I honestly don't know if I can make it to sunrise like this and by the looks of it, neither will they.

Their bickering finally subsides, them agreeing only to question the man and nothing more. Of course Lorenzo detests it, that for no other reason than a hunch he’s guilty and lowkey he’s right. But then again, I'm not inserting myself into their madness. They’ve made it this far in this fucked up friend circle, they can make it the rest of the night.

“So lemme get this straight, you went upstairs to find cell signal and somehow found yourself next to a knife stricken Steph?”

“Lynn, ask your damn question.”

“How did you end up there and why?”

“My phone fell out of the window and I was looking for someone elses to use. It just so happened that Steph was the first person I found.”

“I think we should stop asking who may have done it, but why?” Emery proposed. “I feel like if we can figure out who had motive, we can narrow it down.”

“Well this is a pretty fucked up way to narrow things down. I'm literally tied to a chair.”

“That's because you choked me.”

“And I’ll do it again, you’ve been out of pocket since this whole thing started. How do we know you’re not the killer huh?

“Because I’m holding back from killing you now,” she shrieks.

Spitting, the thick glob lands directly on her chest, sugar all but emptying the contents of the pitcher onto his face; angrily clomping back into the kitchen to no doubt fill it again, but not before slapping him across the cheek.

Wet and stinging, that's quite the combination. I fear this has gone on long enough and it's only escalating. As much as I wanted to stay out of it, I think I better intervene.

Following sugar into the kitchen, I try to talk her out of this crazed state, her dazed pupils letting me know that she’s too far gone for reason. Pushing past me, she heads back into the living room where we see Emery struggling to untie the knots off Lorenzo, his violent coughing trying to dislodge the water that seeped into his lungs.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

“The hell does it look like I'm doing Lynn, this is mad and it needs to stop now.”

“Not until I get some answers.”

“People who talk, talk after their first contact with water,” I bargained. “And he’s not talking.”

“All that means is we have to get him talking then.”

“OR, it means he didn’t do it. You pour a bucket of water over someone’s nose and they’ll tell you whatever you want to hear if it means you’ll stop.”

“And yet you did it anyway,” she glared.

“There was a time where I would’ve died for all of you. I found a family in you guys and it filled a void I didn’t even know I had. And in one night, one measly fucking night I lose it all,” Lorenzo whimpered. “My best friend gets murdered without us ever properly mending things between us. I had to watch the love of my life die in my arms. And now, my other friend is actively trying to kill me, disregarding our decade long friendship all in the name of anger.

“Lorenzo, you did this to yourself!”

“LYNN, how fucking cruel can you be?”

“It’s alright Em, I’ve been known to be a bit of an asshole, though I’d like to think I meant well,” he bitterly chuckled, snot trickling down his nose. “Do me a favor and survive this fucked up night, cause God only knows who Lynn will turn on next. Not to mention that fucker over there,” he says, head nodding toward me. “Ain't it a little odd how all of this starts happening the moment he shows up? Yet I'm the one you helped him strap down to a chair. They ask what would you do for a klondike bar, but you better start asking what would Lynn do for a piece of dick, cause apparently it’s kill for it.”

“Lorenzo, I'm actually on your side. The only reason you’re even tied to that chair is because you attacked two people in this room,” I defended.

“And what's the reason I'm being waterboarded huh? Who weaseled that thought in her mind? You say you fight for your country? Motherfucker you can't even fight for the people in this room, but you like what’s happening huh?

“Not at all man.”

“We get it, I'm a dumb hoe, but you’re about to be a dead one if you don’t fess up.”

“And then what? You’ll let me go free?”

“Jason, please help me untie him,” Emery pleaded.

“Em don’t you fucking dare.”

Lunging toward her, hands get tangled into hair and nails get scratched into skin before I can get between them. It takes more strength than I care to give to hold Emery back, both she and sugar throwing around insults.

“Lynn I swear, you’re more trouble than you’re worth,” Lorenzo taunted. “YOU ARE THE CUM SHOT YOUR MOTHER SHOULDVE SWALLOWED. It would’ve saved your dad a lifetime of headaches and your mother the embarassm-“

Lorenzo’s words get cut off by the splashing of water, his gurgling noises buried under the guzzling of the pitcher. Emery goes wild, hitting my chest repeatedly and I toss her to the ground, jetting over to the scene behind me. Slapping the pitcher from Lynn’s hands, it's on the verge of empty, nothing but a trickle left inside as it splatters to the floor.

Lorenzo’s body furiously thrashes around, his chest caved in and head hung over with water spluttering from his mouth in an attempt to rid it from his body.

“Shit, Lynnley what the fuck did you do,” I screamed.

Emery is struggling to undo the knots, but all she’s doing is pulling them tighter together. I race over and lean the chair forward, hoping for gravity to expel some of the water from his airway, his body jerking about minorly.

“Why are you just standing there, find something to cut him loose.”

Scrambling into the kitchen, I hear dishes clinking and slamming together before Lynn comes running out with a knife, slicing through the cloth as best she can. The kitchen towel, since it was the thickest, took the longest and by the time we got him out the chair and on the floor, his fits has ceased.

Getting into position, I lock my hands together and press down on his chest, 30 times just like we did in training.

“Emery, once I count to 30 I need you to tip his head back and blow two big breaths into his mouth okay.”

“And what do I do?”

“Stay the fuck over there, I doubt he’d want your help at this point,” Emery yelled.

We do five sets of 30 compressions. The CPR forces out some of the water but Lorenzo is still unconscious.

“Why isn’t it working?” Emery wails.

“Em-“

“Why are you stopping, keep going.”

“Stop.”

Pushing against my chest, Emery restarts CPR.

“The lungs are about 9 inches in height, that's a little under a foot.”

“Nobody cares, just fucking help me.”

“The pitcher that Lynn poured over his face looked to be about 64 ounces and she did it twice. That was enough water to fill his lungs three times over.”

“We can do it, I know we can,” she croaked.

“There's no amount of CPR that can expel that much water. And his lungs are so heavy they’re actively swelling as we speak.”

“We won’t know unless we try Jason, you get the mouth and I’ll get the chest.”

“Blowing air into his already expanding lungs won't help Emery.”

“Am I supposed to just watch him die then?” she chided. “Isn’t there a way to drain it?”

“I'm no doctor and neither do we have the tools or the sterile space to do that.”

“Fuck a sterile space!”

“Not only would you infect him but stabbing anything in his chest to ‘drain it’ will only make him bleed out. We would need a very specific and precise needle.”

“No, we can do it,” she answered, starting the compressions again.

The splattering of liquids on the floor lets me know that Lynn has just emptied the contents of her stomach, but I'm in no mood to comfort.

“The body works in 3’s. Three days without water, three weeks without food, and three minutes without air. It’s been about seven now.”

“Shut up.”

“Lorenzo’s lungs are so heavy they’ve probably detached from his windpipe. That, coupled with no oxygen to his brain…at least he was unconscious before it happened.

“Jason either you help me or you leave,” Emery threatened, fat teardrops rolling down her face in droves.

There’s five stages of grief and they’re at the first one. Back against the furniture, I hold my head in my hands, listening to sugars light whimpers and Emery's ragged breathing.

She tires herself out with compressions, fists flying to his chest, pleading for him to wake up. Hands clutched over her ears, sugar rocks back and forth, mumbling out apologies, expletives, and frustrations; guilt no doubt eating her alive.

Hands dropping to my pocket, I rummage around for anything I can chew on, ready to get out of here and never see these people again. Fingers slipping free with the peppermint goodness, I unwrap it and pop it in my mouth.

Some minutes pass by, how many I don't know and the night grows quiet. As tragic as it’s been for everyone, this minute's peace brings about a small sense of tranquility. There’s the occasional sniffle and I watch as the sky transitions from pitch black to a pale pink, the telltale sign of the sun about to rise.

“At least his parents will be home soon right?” sugar questions.

“Yep, right in time enough to see their only son sprawled out on the floor and his friends scattered across the property. So much for the new owners, their home just turned into a crime scene.”

“Do you have any more gum?” Emery asked, voice sore from crying.

Tossing it in her direction, she catches it, face upturned once she removes the wrapper.

“Eww, Jason what the fuck, who the hell buys brown gum? What kind of flavor even is this?”

“It's peppermint,” I answered, popping a bubble.

“Still weird, I haven’t seen this shit since-“

The words die on her tongue. She looks up to me, revelation fresh on her features, which slowly etches into panic, as a sinister grin makes its way onto mine.

#Emmy Writes #Emmy Tries #Halloween Kills #Halloween Series #Halloween #Hills and Valleys #Original Story and Characters #Horror #the big fucking reveal #did you guess it right?#have you known all along?#tell me your thoughts

13 notes · View notes

overheardatthecontinental · 4 years ago

Text

Talk Chapter 15

AO3 Link

Thank you @meetmeinthematinee for reading it over for me once again before I posted this chapter. You are very much appreciated <3 :)

Lorenzo had agreed. Miraculously, the head of the family determined they would all participate. In exchange for John’s testimony and the promise that the Syndicate would be up for grabs once Mateo and DeLuca were removed from the picture.

John goes over the overarching plan, allowing Lorenzo to interject.

He finds himself more than willing to let Lorenzo take control, so long as they both get what they want.

Santino would be the first to disappear. John was already there and had been seen by Santino’s entourage. When word of his death reached the Underworld, there would be half a dozen witnesses to say the last man who saw him alive was John Wick.

Word would reach DeLuca before John even sent him the photo evidence.

But that meant Santino couldn’t stay in New York. Too many people had access to Santino’s penthouse. And Lorenzo didn’t trust his son to not blow their cover by getting bored and posting on social media. John had to agree, although he didn’t like it.

He liked Ares suggestion even less.

Santino goes with you, she signs, I’ll stay here to tell his death. Then, I can take Gianna from the city and find you.

He’s loathe to agree but that could work .

Gianna’s ‘death’ would be next, after all. Lorenzo agreed to inform his daughter of the plan that evening when they were set to attend a banquet. There, they would be given the news of Santino’s untimely demise and immediately adjourn.

Ares would stay behind to get Gianna and drive her from the city, where her death could also be staged.

DeLuca would see the D’Antonio’s dropping and think himself nearly victorious. Friday morning, he would stage Lorenzo’s death and bring DeLuca the results.

He’s so fucking close. He longs to finish it all, but he can’t rush this. It might set DeLuca off.

He has to follow the plan.

Starting with Santino.

Faking Santino’s death turns into a fucking mess . Santino spends more than an hour going from room to room to choose the best background in which to fake his death. The kitchen, he explains, was undignified. As was the bathroom. The hallway was plebian . The game room juvenile .

After an hour, he returns to the kitchen where John waits while Ares pours red food coloring into a mixing bowl, along with corn syrup and a powdery substance. Somehow, he get’s the idea that it’s not the first time she’s pulled something like this.

“I want to be killed in the library.” Santino announces.

Ares nearly chokes as she starts to laugh, a hand on the counter to support herself. Even John is taken aback at the request.

“ You ,” John confirms, “want to be killed in the library?”

“What do you mean you?” Santino repeats, “I read.”

Ares, who had begun to recover, loses it again.

“I do!”

John looks away from Ares, fighting a smile, “What’s wrong with the living room?”

“You wish me to die on a couch ?” Santino sounds disgusted at the very thought.

Unbelievable.

“Library it is.” John sighs. They’re probably all overthinking it.

“Good. I’ll go throw some books about.”

“Why?”

“So it looks like I put up a fight.”

John spares a glance to Ares. The younger assassin is really struggling to hold it together and John can’t blame her.

“I wouldn’t give you the opportunity for a fight.”

Santino huffs, “So I am supposed to do nothing?”

“If I was actually out to kill you,” John reasons, “I would just walk up to you and shoot you in the head.”

“So boring!” And the mafiaso storms out of the room.

I’ll give him defensive marks. It’ll appease him . Ares signs, clearly having thought it through.

“Why do you work for him?” John asks aloud as he signs along.

The pay is good. And I go to galas.

“Huh. Wouldn’t have pegged you for liking that kind of thing.”

Ares gives him a sick grin as she signs, I get to meet a lot of rich, married women unhappy with their husbands.

John shakes his head, “You’re worse than a man.”

Trust me. I’m much better than a man.

Finding nothing to say to that, John turns on his heel and walks out of the kitchen.

It takes Santino another hour to determine where in the library he would best look displayed. He decides against the bookshelves and maps out a fight that will never happen. Santino recants the details of the fight with vivid imagery, seeming not to care that John isn’t listening.

Ares carefully paints a layer of blood onto Santino’s head while he grumbles about all the more dignified ways that John could have chosen to kill him.

When he’s finally ready to be posed, the mafia prince starts babbling on about the lighting in the room.

John is aware that Santino is entirely a political player, but it blows his mind that someone that self-absorbed could really be tied for number two in wielding the power of the Camorra.

It was unreal.

His headache is real by the time Santino actually manages to stay still and in place long enough for John to snap a couple of photos, all highlighting the wound and Santino’s dead eyes.

John is ready to leave then, but Santino insists on showering before they leave. Washing his face, he says, is not enough and he doesn’t trust that the shower John has in his safe house will be sufficient.

When he is done, John is still ready to go. To get back home to Helen, just as he had promised her. But Santino needs to pack. When the mafiaso finally reports being ready, he has more suitcases than will fit in John’s car.

Finally, Ares takes pity on them both and promises to bring the suitcases the following day, convincing Santino an overnight bag would be enough. They finally settle upon two overnight bags. As Santino goes through his things to pick out the necessities, Ares turns to John.

You should hit me, she signs.

“I’m sorry, what?”

You should hit me, Ares repeats. When I go to alert L.D., I should look like I was in a fight. Hit me.

It’s a fair point, John thinks. If DeLuca had done his homework on his cousin, he would know that Santino didn’t go anywhere without his head of security.

“You sure?” John asks as he signs.

She bows her head in the start of a nod and John strikes hard and fast. The younger assassin stumbles back crashing into the coffee table. It breaks under her weight and she makes a harsh face in pain.

John offers a hand to help her back up but she waves it off, wincing as she pushes herself up to her feet. Dusting herself off, she signs Be seeing you, John Wick.

He responds in kind before taking Santino out to the garage before the mafiaso could come up with another reason to slow them down. John takes great joy in locking Santino in his trunk before leaving the building, avoiding any chance of witnesses or cameras seeing him.

The plan had been to let Santino out once they crossed city lines and were certain they would not be seen. It had been Lorenzo’s idea to put him in the trunk and John was all to happy too oblige that request.

But the plan quickly changes when he spots the tail.

So much, he thinks, for getting home early.

He changes courses, pretending not to notice the black sedan four cars back, and heads upstate. It might add more to his trip but, assuming the tail was reporting back to anyone, it would keep them from knowing that he was actually headed for Vermont.

John’s gut tells him its Verdugo, but he can’t know that for sure.

Regardless, he waits until it is just them on an empty stretch of highway before he rolls down the window and sticks his middle finger out and up, letting the tail know that he sees him. He’s watching him, even as he’s being watched.

The car slows immensely at the sight and John watches in his rearview as the car turns around in the middle of the road.

He shakes his head.

Whoever was following him had probably been under the assumption that Helen was being held within the city, or at least close enough by that they could tail John to find her.

But tailing anybody for four hours without being caught was damn near impossible.

Yet another reason John had moved her out of state.

He pulls over not long after at State Park just off the road to let Santino out of the trunk.

The mobster whines and John does his best to ignore him as he drives. He makes his path convoluted, impossible to follow just in case whoever had been following him switched cars. Unlikely, he thinks, but paranoia reigns supreme.

Spending six hours in a car with Santino, John discovers, might be the closest he has ever come to experiencing Hell on Earth and by the time they reach the safehouse, John considers that it really might just be easier to murder this particular D’Antonio and be done with it.

“This is it?” Santino sounds unimpressed as John parks the car next to Marcus’. John couldn’t give a shit what Santino thought as turns the car off.

He hurries inside, anxious to set eyes upon her again. To reassure himself of her safety.

It’s silent as he walks in, so different than the night before when he’d walked in on Helen breaking Marcus down. He walks down the hall and into the living room as Santino follows, looking around in disdain at the cottage.

Marcus rounds the corner, eyes narrowing as he spots Santino. His eyes shoot to John, sending a glare. Bringing Santino had not been part of the initial plan.

John gives a shrug considering he didn’t have a choice and thinks not exactly thrilled about this either.

“What the hell—” Santino starts but is shushed by Marcus.

The assassin holds a finger up over his lips and gestures with his head towards the couch. John walks around.

Helen is asleep, her legs tucked in close to her. She has changed back into his shirt and boxers. Her dark curls have fallen over her cheek. He can’t resist but to reach down and push the locks back from her face.

“She tried to wait up for you, but she fell asleep a little before midnight.” Marcus says softly so as not to disturb her.

He can’t help but smile at that. His perfect girl.

John slips his jacket off and drapes it over the couch. “I’ll put her to bed and be back in a few.”

He bends, slipping a hand underneath her legs and another behind her back, scooping her up and into his arms. She makes a soft moan of surprise at the contact but quickly leans into him, resting her head upon his shoulder and burying her face in the crook of his neck.

He makes a conscious effort to ignore Santino’s curious gaze.

John takes her down the hall and to the room they share. He’s not sure how he feels or what he thinks anymore.

After months of thinking he would never hold her like this, followed by nights where she sleeps in his arms, he no longer feels a grasp on reality. His worst fear—that Helen might be harmed or used against him has already come true. And he has never benefited more from a singular fact.

He adjusts his grip on her as he pulls back the covers on the side of the bed he now deems as hers.

He’s spent a lifetime sleeping alone. Now he wonders if he will spend the rest of his life sleeping on the left of the bed, just to imagine the nights where she slept to his right.

Carefully, he lays her down. There is another soft moan, this time of protest, as he lets go. She turns her head onto the pillow, snuggling in.

I love you , he thinks as he drags the blankets up and around Helen, tucking her in.

He bends down and kisses her head. His fingers glide along her hair and he finds himself at peace knowing he’ll join her soon. After he stops Marcus from murdering Santino.

John sighs and forces himself to go back out into the living room where the assassin and mafiaso stand, glaring at one another.

“This wasn’t part of the plan, John.” Marcus says without looking away.

“It was a judgment call. Santino is too well-known in the city. We decided it was best if we got him out for the time being.”

“Rest assured, Marcus, I have no interest in being in this prehistoric hut with either of you.”

“It’s only for twelve hours.” John says before Marcus can respond. “Ares will be by tomorrow to pick up him. Then he’s off to spend the remainder of the week at a spa an hour north of here.”

Marcus, thankfully, has the self-control to not say anything else and nods.

“Now that is settled, you can show me to my room.” Santino announces.

Well, that was something John hadn’t considered. For any normal person, it was only going to be one night and that wouldn’t be much of an issue. He could grin and bare it on the pull-out couch with Marcus or the floor. But Santino…

Marcus snorts and walks away, into the kitchen.

“You’ll be sharing the pull-out with Marcus.” John says.

Santino loudly proclaims, “I’ll do no such—”

John doesn’t even realize he’s moving until his hand is around Santino’s neck and the knife in his pocket has been flipped open and pressed to Santino’s stomach. “Wake her,” he says darkly, “And you and I are going to have a problem.”

“More importantly, Helen ’s going to have a problem.” Marcus adds. “John will just kill you. Helen’ll make you wish you’d never been born.”

“Okay, okay, okay…” Santino holds up his hands. John releases him and the mafiaso straightens his jacket with a glare, “I don’t see the need to be so, so dramatic!”

After spending several hours staging Santino’s death, followed by six hours in a car with the mafiaso, John has nothing to say to the accusation that he was the dramatic one.

“Couch or the floor.” John says, “It’s one night. You can handle it.”

He huffs, “Is there at least a bathroom in this shack? Or must I relieve myself in the woods, like an animal?”

John is tempted to lie but points down the hall to the bathroom. Santino stalks off, taking his bag with him. When the door has closed, Marcus turns to him.

“Now I might require a marker.”

John snorts, “I just spent six hours in the car with him.”

Marcus inclines his head, the start of a smile on his face, “You might just need a therapist.”

He can’t help but smile at that, at the thought of Helen already asleep and tucked into his bed. “I might.” John agrees, before asking, “How was she today?”

“Good. She was getting restless, so we went for a run. Then I gave her a crash course in handguns.”

John’s head shoots up, “You did what?”

“She asked.” Marcus says, “And I don’t blame her, considering everything going on.”

“You taught Helen to shoot a gun?”

“A handgun. She already knew a bit about rifles. Went hunting with her grandfather as a kid, but we both agreed that rifles would likely be impractical for her.”

John flounders for a moment, torn between the diametrically opposed thoughts of what the fuck and good . It was probably a good idea for her to have some basic self-defense training. It would probably make her feel better in the long run, knowing that she could take care of herself.

But another part of him, a darker more possessive part, hated that it had to be done. He should be enough to protect her. And if anyone was going to teach her to protect herself, it should be him .

But it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. He was out doing what he could to keep her safe, but Marcus was the one actually watching over her.

Jealousy, he realizes. He was jealous.

Which was entirely unfair. Marcus was doing him the favor of a lifetime, ensuring her safety when John couldn’t but he was also spending more time with her. When John came home, they were able to talk but they mostly just slept. And while he wouldn’t trade the hours spent with her curled up in his arms for anything, he was coming to hate the daylight because it meant he would have to go.

But that wasn’t Marcus’ fault.

He tampers down on the feeling and thinks, instead, of the image it presents.

“How was she?” He asks, unable to help the quirk of his lips at the thought of Helen with a gun.

“A fucking natural.” Marcus says, matching John’s grin, “She overthinks things a bit, gets in her own head, but she’s good. Given a bit of practice, she’ll be a force.”

She’s already a force , John thinks, but he gets what Marcus means. Without a gun, Helen had been able to talk herself out of captivity. She’d systematically been able to manipulate and break her captors down until they were willing to pursue her interests.

Add a gun to the mix…

“Who knows,” Marcus adds, “Maybe I’ll have her use Santino for target practice tomorrow.”

John smirks, “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about Santino.”

“Santino’s mother is sorry about Santino.”

His father, too, but John doesn’t say that.

“But it will be fine,” Marcus continues, “Whatever it takes.”

John nods, “You good if I go to bed?”

“Go for it. I’ll deal with the dipshit.”

John inclines his head in thanks and heads down the hall, undoing his vest. He folds it, draping it over an arm as he opens the door to the bedroom.

He changes into his pajamas in the dark as quietly as he can manage before he makes his way to his side of the bed. John pulls back the covers and slips in beside her. He can’t quite make out her features in the dark but stirs as the bed shifts under his weight.

“John?” She murmurs softly.

“I’m here.” He tells her, opening an arm.

Helen hums softly and curls into him. “Missed you.” She says as she nuzzles into him.

“I missed you too.”

John closes his eyes and allows the warmth of her body to lull him to sleep.

….

It would be so easy, John thinks upon waking, to kiss her.

Helen is still asleep, her head resting on his bicep, her arm stretched up and over his chest. Her palm rests over his heart.

She’s facing him, lips parted ever so slightly.

Soft and pink and perfect and all he would have to do is bend down. Brush his lips against hers.

He knows he shouldn’t kiss her while she’s sleeping. That borders on creepy and disrespectful. Then again, considering the fact that he stalked her for months , breaking into her house to watch her sleep, this really didn’t seem like that much of an invasion.

It also occurs to John that he’s never kissed anyone before.

He’s been kissed, a handful of times. Grabby partners or experimenting in his youth, he’d allowed others to kiss him to try it. To know what it felt like. He hadn’t been impressed nor had he understood the fascination with tasting another in such an intimate manner.

Yet now he can barely withhold from leaning forward. Tasting her .

She shifts in her sleep, her leg reaching out over his own.

He settles with kissing her head, holding her in his arms for just a little longer.

If all has gone well, he’ll meet Sofia in Jersey in just a matter of hours. Hopefully, she’s already landed with Isabella DeLuca. If not, he still has the D’Antonio’s on his side.

Ares should be able to follow his instructions to pick Helen up.

A part of him is concerned that now three more people will know the whereabouts of his safehouse. But Santino won’t care enough to remember, Gianna has no use for four million dollars, and Ares wouldn’t act against the wishes of her boss.

Honestly, he thinks, it will all be fine. And they’re so fucking close to all this being over.

Which leads him to a whole new set of worries that he can’t begin to touch now.

John looks back down at the woman asleep in his arms. He loves her so much that it makes his heart swell. He wonders if it's actually possible for the heart to just burst.

He’s interrupted with his thoughts when a door slams. Helen jolts in her sleep, eyes opening as she startles await.

“It’s okay,” John quickly soothes, ready to fucking murder Santino. He strokes a hand up and down her back, “It’s okay.”

“The fuck…” She mumbles, eyes closing as she turns her head into his arm.

“Just a door.” He says, shaking his head as he gently takes his arm back, lowering her head to the pillow. “Go back to sleep.”

“You getting’ up?”

“Yeah.”

She makes a noise of disapproval and John can’t help but smile. “Go back to sleep.”

Helen grumbles a bit as John slips from the bed.

John walks to the door, careful to be gentle as he closes it behind him. The bathroom door is closed and the water is running. He can only guess that it’s Santino. He heads down the hall and into the living room where Marcus is closing the pull-out back into the couch.

“What the hell?” John asks, gesturing with his head towards the bathroom.

“He wanted espresso. I told him there was coffee. He told me to make him a cup. I told him to go fuck himself.”

John rolls his eyes, “Just a few more hours.”

“You owe me so bad for putting me in a bed with Santino.” John tosses one of the couch cushions to Marcus, who places it back where it goes, “Did he wake her?”

John nods, “I told her to go back to sleep but I give it fifty-fifty.”

As he says it, John walks over to the kitchen. He dumps the coffee grounds from the previous day and refills it with fresh ones, adding more than yesterday to account for their added guest.

“Ah, thank you, John. It seems one of you is a gracious host.” Santino says, fully dressed in a dark purple suit that is very out of place for the cottage. He pulls out a chair and sits at the small table. “I like my coffee with Splenda and crème.”

“We got sugar and milk.”

The mafiaso’s shoulders slump as he leans back into his seat, muttering in Italian.

“You do realize you’re a grown adult, don’t you?” Marcus asks incredulously.

Despite the fact that Marcus was older and had spent longer in the Underworld than John had, Marcus had mostly been involved with the mid-level mob stuff. He was assigned tasks and he completed them. Like John, he wasn’t ambitious enough to actual get political himself.

Unlike John, he worked for a single organization. Being freelance, albeit with ties to certain organizations, John was more exposed to high ranking officials and their families. He’d seen first-hand the way that heirs were treated and honored without accomplishment.

John expects this kind of behavior from Santino.

Marcus doesn’t expect it from anybody .

Santino replies scathingly and John ignores it, focusing instead on the morning ritual or preparing coffee. He refills the water tank, setting the carafe back under the filter when he feels arms reaching around him, a warm body pressing against his back as Helen rests her head against him.

He realizes, then, that he hadn’t actually warned her about Santino.

She’d been asleep when they got home, and he had hoped she would fall back asleep after the loud slam. It would seem that was not the case.

Apparently, she either hadn’t noticed the mafiaso in her sleepy state or was uncaring.

John flips on the coffee maker before reaching an arm back to hug her. She loosens her grip as he turns to put his back to the counter. When he is settled, she rests her head against his chest.

“Who’s the suit?” she asks as she yawns, telling John it was the second option.

He has to stop himself from smiling at just how precious she is when she’s half-asleep. “Santino.”

She hums, “And he’s here why?”

Marcus gives a bark of laughter as John’s lips twitch. Santino makes a face of offense and John can’t bring himself to care.

“We faked his death yesterday. He needs a place to lay low where he won’t be seen by anybody he knows. His bodyguard is coming later today to pick him up and take him to a spa up north. He’ll only be here for a few more hours.”

“Better be sure of that,” Marcus says, “Otherwise we’re switching bed partners tonight.”

“Not gonna happen.” Helen replies before John can think of a way to appropriately say not a chance in fucking hell, “John’s a cuddler and I don’t share.”

He feels his face flush as Marcus laughs aloud again. Even Santino visibly brightens at the statement, saying, “Is he, now?”

John swallows but manages to tease back, “Says the one wrapped around me.”

She shrugs, “You’re warm.”

“Good to know you have your uses, isn’t it, John?” Marcus says, walking over to the fridge, “What do you want for breakfast, sweetheart?”

“I’m not picky.” She picks her head up from John’s chest, looking over her shoulder, “Whatever’s easy.”

“Well, I would like a protein scramble.”

“I’d like to set you on fire.” Marcus mutters as he digs through the fridge, “Eggs and sausage it is.”

He reaches over the fridge, wordlessly handing John the milk. John grabs it and kisses Helen’s head. “Go sit down, I’ll bring you your coffee.” He promises.

She makes a face but nods, dragging her hand across his stomach as she walks away. The line between them continues to blur and all he wants is to pull her back into his arms, already regretting telling her to go.

There are a hundred reasons why he doesn’t, but he tells himself it's so he can make her coffee. He pours the milk in first, as she likes it, before filling both their coffee mugs. She’s chosen the seat across from Santino and John wonders if it's to put herself farther away from the mafiaso or so she can see him, better analyze his movements.

He sets the mug in front of her, trailing his own fingers across her shoulders as he makes his way to sit on her other side. John doesn’t realize he’s even doing it until he removes his hand and sits down.

“How long have the two of you been together?” Santino asks curiously.

John tries to think of an answer, but he’s saved from having to say anything when Helen mirrors his body language, inclining her head, “Why do you want to know?”

“I’m curious.”

She is watching the mafiaso closely and John wonders what she’s thinking, what she’s looking for. After a few moments, Helen sits back, coffee in hand, “We’ve been seeing each other for seven months.”

John can see Marcus smirk at her answer.

It sounds… normal. And it’s not technically a lie. He had been seeing her weekly for seven months so if John has to confirm it, he won’t stumble. Again, he wishes he knew what was going on inside her head. He can see in her eyes that she has a theory but she’s testing it, carefully laying traps all around.

“That’s a long time to keep a secret.” Santino replies.

“We were aware of the consequences should it get out.” She sips her coffee.

“Indeed. Now your life is on the line…”

John opens his mouth to warn Santino off, but Helen gives him a gentle kick under the table, stopping him before he can utter a sound. He closes his mouth, turning his attention back to his love. Her face betrays nothing, but he can see the sparkle in her eyes.

She’s in her element.

“As is yours,” she’s using her counseling voice now. The gentle one that John knows is designed solely to lead him into a false sense of security. “Do you fear death, Santino?”

“Of course not,” the answer slips easily from him, “But regardless, it is not a present concern. Half of New York is not out looking for me .”

She looks thoughtful, “And yet, your life is on the line in the same way mine is. Hanging on the same thread in balance.”

John can’t look away.

“Not the same thread, my dear. After all, you’re being targeted for your relationship. I’m being targeted for my power.”

“Does it bother you, then, that my life is worth that of yourself and your family in the eyes of DeLuca?”

“DeLuca is a fool.” Santino snaps and, again, John is prepared to interfere when Helen, again, kicks him under the table.

John stops himself, catching the eye of Marcus. Even as he cooks, Marcus is grinning like a fool as he listens in.

Helen leans forward, setting her mug back on the table.

“Why do you say that?”

“He thinks he can defeat the Camorra, defeat me, in such a simplistic manner? No. No, I think not.”

“You’re very confident.”

“I have good reason to be. I am aware of how to take care of myself. To squash bugs like Mateo. Of course, it is not your fault that you cannot say the same. It takes a great deal of training and intelligence to understand how to survive in a world such as ours.”

Helen gives a subtle nod that both Santino and Marcus miss but the quirk of her lips tells John she’s figured out what she wanted to. She sits back in her seat, sipping at her coffee.

“John, come get your plates.” Marcus calls over and John stands, this time letting his hand skim Helen’s shoulders consciously. She leans into the touch and it thrills him more than words can ever say. “Santino, if you want a drink, come get it.”

The mafioso grumbles but follows John into the kitchen.

John sets the first plate in front of Helen, leaning down as he does to whisper in her ear, “Having fun?”

She smirks, leaning back to whisper, “Are all Italian mafiosos narcissistic or have I just been lucky?”

“You’ve just been lucky. I swear, they’re not all like Santino or DeLuca.”

“Oh, those two are entirely different kinds of narcissists. DeLuca’s a covert narcissist. I can’t decide whether Santino’s bordering on sadistic or sociopathic or a little of both.

“What makes you say that?’ And there’s a start of a smile on his face that comes from just listening to her at work.

“The lack of empathy is startling, which makes me think sociopathic but did you hear how he kept bringing it back to me? Not focusing on my experience, but on his perception of my fear. He wants me to be afraid. It amuses him, which makes me think sadism.”

John hums and quotes, “In order to know virtue, we must first acquaint ourselves with vice?”

“Marquis de Sade.” Helen annotes, “A nihilist if ever there was one.” She glances over to John, “Whichever way Santino lands, I’m dying to pick his brain apart.”

John pats her shoulder, “You should have him for a few more hours. That should keep you busy for a while.”

He stands back up, walking around to her other side before settling back in her seat.

“How long are you here?” Helen asks softly, her expression falling from one of amusement to resignation.

“I need to get going as soon as possible.” He admits.

Marcus pulls out a chair, setting down his own plate as John takes a bite, “What’s the plan for today?” The other assassin asks.

“If all goes well, Ares should have already staged Gianna’s death and she’ll drop off the pictures when she gets here.”

“And Lorenzo?”

“Tomorrow. I’ll go straight from him to DeLuca.” John glances at Helen as Santino sits back down, “The contract should be lifted then.”

“And if he tries for the double-cross, we’ll have Isabella.”

John nods, “I’m meeting Sofia at noon to go over the plan, make sure Isabella’s secured.”

“That shouldn’t take long.” Marcus says with a nod.

“No,” John agrees, “I’ll spend the rest of the day in the city.” He leaves out that it will be spent reminding people that it would be in their best interests not to pursue the contract.

John feels Helen’s eyes on him as he eats, idly listening to Marcus and Santino argue over bullshit.

One day closer to the nightmare being over.

A part of John is disgusted with himself for even thinking he might miss these nights and early mornings spent by her side. But he can't lie to himself anymore.

He's grown addicted to her presence, just as he had on his late night visits.

And he's not entirely sure what to do with that. Not sure how to admit the fact he doesn't know how he'll ever grow used to a life without her sunshine.

But like she can feel him slipping, Helen reaches out, resting her hand on top of his. He turns his own, letting her entwine her fingers with his.

She deserves so much better than him.

But everyday it's getting harder to remember that.

11 notes · View notes

sbknews · 3 years ago

Text

Garcia fires back with stylish win in Spielberg

A week on from crashing and remounting into second, the Spaniard needed no redemption but pushed for some anyway - taking a third win of the season ahead of Öncü and Foggia. Sergio Garcia (Santander Consumer Bank GASGAS Aspar Team) is back on top! A week on from the stunning duel for victory in the Styrian GP, the Spaniard came out swinging to fight his way to a third win of the year, just holding off Deniz Öncü (Red Bull KTM Tech3) as the Turk got back in the front fight. Dennis Foggia (Leopard Racing) completed the podium in more good news for Garcia, as the Italian pipped Styria winner and Championship leader Pedro Acosta (Red Bull KTM Ajo) on the final lap. Romano Fenati (Sterilgarda Racing Team) took the holeshot from pole, the Italian absolutely nailing it to escape with a little breathing space. But Öncü was soon on the chase to cut the gap, and initially the two were joined by Acosta in a breakaway at the front. Little by little the chasing group, led by Garcia, hunted them down, however... and by third race distance a lead group of six had formed: Fenati, Jaume Masia (Red Bull KTM Ajo), his teammate and points leader Acosta, Öncü, Garcia and Foggia, with Petronas Sprinta Racing's Darryn Binder and John McPhee in a chasing duo. Binder also had an incident with Ayumu Sasaki (Red Bull KTM Tech3), with no action taken but the Japanese rider going down as some bad luck bit again. By 12 to go, the Petronas Sprinta racing riders were on the scene, and the freight train was eight. Acosta also got a track limits warning with plenty of laps remaining to add a few more nerves, but Öncü, Masia, Acosta, and Fenati remained the key front four as the laps ticked down. And as the laps ticked down further, Binder and McPhee started to fade slightly too, with a gap reopening in front of the two Petronas bikes. Izan Guevara (Santander Consumer Bank GASGAS Aspar), meanwhile, was going the opposite way: forwards. The rookie was the fastest man on track with 4 to go, and had homed in on Binder and McPhee. And he then pulled the two back towards the front group again as well, re-forming a freight train. With 3 to go though, Garcia suddenly made a bigger move. The number 11 went from calmly sitting just behind the front few to striking for the lead, and Acosta reacted. He hit back, and then the pin was pulled. Öncü also felt the hurry up and got his elbows out, and the Turk was able to take the lead back from both, not content to watch the duel from afar one week on. Heading onto the last lap, Öncü led Acosta with Garcia third, and the number 37 attacked for the lead at Turn 3. But Öncü held firm and the Championship leader had a foot off the peg, the move also dropping him into the clutches of Garcia. The Aspar rider didn't need more of an invite to the elbows-out party, pushing through into second not long after as Acosta had another moment, a little off line, leaving him on the defensive. With the corners running out, Garcia was homing in on Öncü. And at Turn 9 the number 11 struck, muscling his way through, cleanly, to leave only Turn 10 and the drag to the line. And Öncü tucked in to try and take him back, but it wasn't to be as Garcia's stunning ride up from P13 on the grid was completed with a win and an important one in the standings, as well as his third of the year. Öncü was just 0.027 off over the line, the Turk defeated for victory but taking his second Grand Prix podium. Foggia attacked Acosta in unison with Garcia's move on Öncü on the final lap, and the Leopard Racing rider kept that to the line too, defeating the Championship leader by 0.048. Fenati took fifth, with Masia the last of the first front group over the line in P6. McPhee got past Guevara for seventh, but the rookie nevertheless impressed with his eighth place, holding off Darryn Binder. Kaito Toba (CIP Green Power) and Tatsuki Suzuki (SIC58 Squadra Corse) duelled for tenth, with the former just coming out on top. Filip Salač (CarXpert PrüstelGP) and Stefano Nepa (BOE Owlride) had their own fight just behind for 12th, finishing in that order. Front row starter Jeremy Alcoba (Indonesian Racing Gresini Moto3) won the fight for 14th, ahead of Andi Izdihar (Honda Team Asia), Carlos Tatay (Avintia Esponsorama Moto3), Lorenzo Fellon (SIC58 Squadra Corse), Yuki Kunii (Honda Team Asia), and Riccardo Rossi (BOE Owlride) in a close group. That's it from Austria, and now it's time for the very different challenge of Silverstone circuit. Can Acosta strike back? Does Garcia have the momentum? Or will the more veteran riders in the field have something in their pocket as the sport returns to British shores? We'll find out in two weeks... Moto3™ podium 1 Sergio Garcia - Santander Consumer GASGAS Aspar - GASGAS - 37:10.345 2 Deniz Öncü - Red Bull KTM Tech3 - KTM - +0.027 3 Dennis Foggia - Leopard Racing - Honda - +0.319 Sergio Garcia: "What a beautiful race for me! At the beginning was very difficult because the pace was very strong, but I pushed very hard to the limit, until the last moment and last corner, and got the victory, here in Austria. It's amazing!" For more Moto3 info checkout our dedicated Moto3 News page Or visit the official MotoGP website motogp.com Follow us on social media: Instagram: @superbikenews Twitter: @sbknews Facebook: @superbikenews SBN Directory - add your motorcycle related business here

Moto3™ podium L-R: Öncü, Garcia and Foggia

If you would like to receive our headlines daily to your email inbox then sign up to our newsletter: Here Subscribe to our news channels: Here

Read the full article

#AustrianGP #DenizOncu #DennisFoggia #Moto3 #RedBullRing #SergioGarcia

0 notes

caveartfair · 7 years ago

Text

How Oscar Weekend Launched a Buying Spree for L.A.’s Art Collectors

Photo by Caleb George.

There’s usually a picture-perfect view of the Hollywood sign from the balcony of what was once Cary Grant’s Spanish Colonial Revival house in Los Feliz, the hilly neighborhood in Los Angeles by Griffith Park. But last Friday was one of the approximately three-dozen days a year when it rains in L.A., and the sign was obscured by rolling clouds, nothing visible beyond the hanging gardens that engulf the house.

“It’s actually great that it’s raining,” said Jeffrey Deitch, bounding down the stairs of the classic La La Land manse, which he purchased in 2010, passing Warhols and a Jordan Wolfson wall work and plenty of technicolor Gaetano Pesce sofas. “We’ve been desperate for it.”

Deitch has been spending more time in Los Angeles as he readies a new 15,000-square-foot gallery out here for its September opening—his grand return to the West Coast after leaving the directorship of L.A.’s Museum of Contemporary Art (MOCA) in 2013—and this particular weekend was a critical one. The run-up to the Academy Awards ceremony sees Los Angeles at its most frenzied, but it’s also a key window for the city’s galleries to show off for the art-collecting entertainment big shots—and, increasingly, tech world titans—who fly into town for the festivities. And he’s not the only one placing a big bet on L.A. in early spring. Next year, Los Angeles will officially become a stop on the global art world circuit when Frieze opens a fair in Paramount Studios, which will run the week prior to the Oscars festivities, creating a two-week boondoggle for collectors to snap up canvases and hit all the movie parties.

Why hasn’t this happened before? Several international art fairs have, in fact, tried and failed to set up shop in Los Angeles. FIAC, the Paris fair which will have its 45th edition this October, was set to open an edition here in 2015, but it was first postponed, and then canceled. Paris Photo had an L.A. iteration from 2013 to 2015, but cancelled the fair after just three years because, as a representative for the parent company put it, “the level of sales during Paris Photo Los Angeles is not sufficient to support such a Fair and to offer our exhibitors the best conditions of return on their investment.”

But Deitch insists that this time is different.

“I was there when Norman Braman was trying to bring Art Basel to Miami Beach, and that’s what this feels like,” Deitch said, walking past the stained glass windows that were built into the house.

“Everyone is going to come, it will be just a new spot on the schedule—Asian collectors, Latin American collectors,” Deitch said. “People want to be a part of the scene here—they can relax here.”

Los Angeles does share a number of elements that made Miami such an attractive city for a European-based art fair company to put down roots. There’s a ravenous and unabashedly rich base of collectors both young and old, clusters of white-hot galleries, big mansions with wallspace to be filled, and museums that constantly need to replenish their holdings with fresh material. There’s a rich institutional landscape full of deep-pocketed boards—the Hammer Museum recently announced that it has raised $50 million of a $180 million fundraising goal, LACMA inched closer to its long-awaited new building with a $150 million donation from David Geffen, and the Getty is still attracting new donors despite being the richest art institution on earth, with an endowment of nearby $7 billion. There are also newer private museums, such as the Broad (founded by Eli Broad, dubbed the “Lorenzo de’ Medici of Los Angeles” by The New Yorker) and the Marciano Art Foundation, and George Lucas is building his $1 billion museum in the city’s Exposition Park, set to open in 2021.

Frieze may have more of a fighting chance to succeed where others failed, thanks to a built-in entree into Tinseltown’s inner sanctum: mega-agent Ari Emanuel, whose company Endeavor—a talent and events business that reps Ben Affleck, Tina Fey, and others—purchased an initially undisclosed slice of Frieze in 2016; ArtReview later pegged the stake at 70 percent. Deitch himself is one degree away from Frieze—he is Emanuel’s informal advisor and often curates shows from work in Emanuel’s collections. For Emanuel’s famed pre-Oscars party on Saturday night, attended by the likes of Leonardo DiCaprio and Emma Stone, Deitch chose work by young artists of color to install at the bash, which was held at a Beverly Hills home that formerly belonged to Paul McCartney.

In the days leading up to the Oscars, the city’s rapidly intensifying art-social circuit was on full display, with a number of openings, dinner parties, and plenty of art being sold. The spree began as early as Wednesday, when Guess co-founders Maurice and Paul Marciano hosted a dinner for the opening of Olafur Eliasson’s Reality projector (2018) at the private museum they opened last year, located in a former Masonic Temple on the outskirts of Koreatown. That was a mere run-up for Thursday’s festivities, the opening of the annual Oscar week show at Gagosian’s Los Angeles outpost.

Installation view of Damien Hirst “The Veil Paintings” at Gagosian, Los Angeles. Photo by Emily Berl for Artsy.

This marathon of a night began at the Beverly Hills Hotel’s venerable watering hole, the Polo Lounge, and then onto the gallery, where hundreds of people saw Damien Hirst’s new exhibition, “The Veil Paintings.” It kicked off a week of art selling out at galleries—all 24 works in the show sold by dinner, for prices between $400,000 and $1.6 million, Gagosian confirmed. For the select few, there were cocktails on the gallery’s roof, which has a little garden displaying work by Sterling Ruby. There, the model Karlie Kloss talked to the artist Alex Israel, and Snapchat founder Evan Spiegel, the youngest billionaire on the planet, hovered nearby. He was described to me by one dealer as “the one all the dealers are after.” Even though he’s barely filled the walls of the $12 million Brentwood house he bought last year, he’s seen as part of the next generation of Los Angeles collectors.

The tech macher conga line snaked the night—when I was getting ready to fire up the Uber app and get a car home, I turned to see Travis Kalanick, the co-founder of Uber, sitting next to me at the bar at Mr. Chow during the dinner for Hirst. Sources said the artist left the dinner in his honor and didn’t make it to his own after party—but Amazon founder Jeff Bezos did, and on Tuesday, he was named the richest person on the planet, with a net worth of $112 billion, according to Forbes.

On Friday, I made my way to Deitch’s, with the steam billowing from above the heated pool. Hung by the front door was an invitation to the first show Deitch ever put together, which included work by Joseph Beuys. The artist received the card in the mail, signed it, and sent it back to Deitch—“My prized possession,” he said. In the dining room, there was a table designed for him by Urs Fischer, featuring Deitch posing for Robert Longo’s famed “Men in the Cities” series, where he photographed ’80s figures as if they were in a mid-dance state of ecstacy, and an image of Cary Grant running from the airplane in North By Northwest. (The home’s former owner is also featured in the room’s den, where on the wall is a gigantic Kurt Kauper painting of the actor fully nude, walking through the house.) Deitch commissioned Israel to paint a mural in the bedroom, and there’s a very early Warhol in the guest bedroom, which is going to be loaned to the Whitney for the giant retrospective planned for this November.

We had originally planned to meet at the new gallery space, but the construction workers can’t work in the rain (Los Angeles more or less shuts down when it rains). It’s a breezy 15-minute drive from the house to the gallery, and when the programming starts in early September, he’ll use the house for dinners and events. The gallery is in a neighborhood that’s south of Hollywood and close to Paramount Studios, just an eight-minute drive. Galleries such as Regen Projects, Various Small Fires, and Hannah Hoffman are so close to Deitch’s space, you could walk there without Angelenos giving you weird looks—when the fair opens in February, all those spots will have shows up, creating a center of gravity in the sprawling town.

Even if it’s opening five months into Deitch’s programming, the planning for Frieze L.A. is already very much underway; when I ran into director Victoria Siddall at the Hirst opening, she said they’ve already started whittling away applicants for the founding exhibitor list, which will set the tenor of the fair. Unlike Frieze New York, which has 190 galleries per year on Randall’s Island, Frieze Los Angeles will have just around 60 galleries.

“That’s the problem right now, figuring out which galleries will make it in,” Siddall said, with an easy smile that made her appear not the least bit concerned.

Infinity Mirrored Room - The Souls of Millions of Light Years Away, 2013. Yayoi Kusama "The Inaugural Installation" at The Broad, Los Angeles

Saturday morning saw more evidence of the growing appetite for art in Los Angeles: A ten-deep mob of people clutching iPhones swelled around a building downtown, mucking up traffic as cars slowed to catch a glimpse of the action. But it wasn’t some star-studded Oscars Eve happening—it was the line to get into the Broad, the private museum opened by the collectors Eli and Edythe Broad in 2015 to instant acclaim and crowds. The queue was primarily to get into Infinity Mirrored Room—The Souls of Millions of Light Years Away, the 2013 Yayoi Kusama work that inspired hours-long waits when it debuted at David Zwirner’s Chelsea gallery in New York. The Broads acquired it in 2014, and the rest is selfie history. (The wait to get that precious selfie last Saturday: 250 minutes.)

From the Broad, past a throng of taco stands and Thai food hawkers at Grand Central Market, the pastel-colored huts of the Toy District, and the web of yakitori spots in Little Tokyo, one arrives at the industrial feel of the Arts District, which is now anchored by Hauser & Wirth’s complex in a former Pillsbury flour mill. The Swiss-based mega-gallery’s L.A. outpost has three separate gallery spaces, an education lab, a bookstore, a gift shop, and a charming restaurant, Manuela, whose walls are hung with profane anti-Trump drawings, which Hauser artist Paul McCarthy likes to scribble onto stationery when he comes by. The first gallery had ten new paintings by Mark Bradford, all of which sold in the show’s opening days for figures between $2.5 million and $5 million, setting the tone for more sales to come. The guestbook for the Bradford show had been signed by Tracey Emin and Sam Taylor-Johnson, the Turner Prize nominee who also directed the first Fifty Shades of Grey movie.

Casey Fremont Crowe, director of the Art Production Fund, was strolling the Arts District that Saturday. She had, earlier in the week, unveiled a new project with New York artist Zoë Buckman at The Standard Hollywood, a neon work called Champ. It soars nearly 50 feet over the Sunset Strip, and it is something—“a glowing white neon outline of an abstracted uterus with fiberglass boxing gloves in place of ovaries,” according to the fund’s website.

Crowe is based in New York, but said that L.A. during Oscar weekend was now firmly on the calendar for her.

“It makes sense to take advantage of the crowds who come to town for the awards,” she said. “I’m sure it will become the next must-attend destination.”

Sunday saw the opening of a gallery consortium space-sharing experiment, something similar to (though not associated with) Condo, the gallery share that Carlos/Ishikawa co-owner Vanessa Carlos started in 2016, allowing London spots to host gallery programs in other countries. Three Los Angeles galleries—Hannah Hoffman, Kristina Kite, and Park View—would be hosting a dozen spaces from overseas, including Düsseldorf’s Max Meyer, Cologne’s Jan Kaps, and Tokyo’s Misako & Rosen.

And Sunday was also, of course, the Oscars. Deitch said he used to enjoy attending the ceremony when he was director of MOCA, taking in the full majesty of Hollywood. It was a reminder that, however big the art scene gets in Los Angeles, it will always be second banana to the movie business. After The Shape of Water won Best Picture, stars went on to a variety of parties—the Governor’s Ball, the Vanity Fair party, the under-wraps bash at the Chateau Marmont garage thrown by Jay-Z and Beyonce for Time’s Up. But Deitch said he was already looking ahead—The Armory Show was set to open in New York, and the next stop on the global art tour beckoned.

from Artsy News

#Artsy News

0 notes