2: In Which She Gets Hung Up on the Big Details (1/2)

2: In Which She Gets Hung Up on the Big Details

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Several days later, I was standing in the main room of Sheehan’s Gallery at an acceptable proximity from the man of the hour himself. Reed’s showing was packed with the kind of people who could stare at a painting of a stripe and declare that the artist was a brooding, gifted character.

Reed clearly didn’t want to be here, despite the fact that, according to the elderly gallery owner, his showing would be only twenty minutes, at most. He looked painfully uncomfortable in his suit, hunched over a flute of champagne in one corner as if he wanted to make himself smaller or disappear altogether. I had never been to an art showing before but I was pretty sure the artist was supposed to mingle with everyone, not cower in a corner like a kicked puppy.

I had to remind myself that he wouldn’t appreciate my approaching him, even if only to remove that look of unease from his face. He was always polite – monosyllabic, but polite – to me but the whole blindfolding thing was a quirk of his I was still struggling to understand.

Alfred had driven us to the little gallery and, sitting beside me in the backseat, Reed had just about hugged the door throughout the whole car ride. There had been a continent of space between us and I had to resist the urge to inform him that contrary to popular belief, I didn’t bite.

“Champagne?”

I dragged my eyes from a particular haunting oil painting hanging on the wall behind me and found a server offering me a glass of bubbly. Longing slammed into me even as I refused the champagne. Drinking on the job was a no-no, even if watching Reed was about as exciting as watching soil erode. Ex-marines Jake and Shepherd had been restless doing the daily rounds on the Lancaster property, so I didn’t blame them for requesting a reassignment from my father. I did, however, hate the fact that my father had sent them to a Hollywood director who was receiving creepy death threats. I felt sorry for the rich guy but my so-called friends’ chances of seeing action were vastly improved.

Beggars cannot be choosers, Lena, I told myself for the millionth time, catching Reed’s eye from across the room unintentionally.

For a long moment, neither of us broke eye contact. Reed did have the most intense, soul-searching eyes when he wasn’t hiding them. It felt like he was committing every blemish and every hair to memory so that he could paint it all later. It stripped me bare, made me feel naked when I was more than covered up in a turtleneck and cargo pants. I told myself that this was the only reason my stomach flipped over. He looked away before I did, swigging the rest of the peach liquid in his glass. Sighing, I went over to him because...because we were way too old for the look-at-me-look-away thing.

“Everything cool, Mr. Lancaster?” was my opening remark.

I tried to make myself seem as unassuming as possible with a Glock in my waistband – plus, Reed couldn’t have failed to see me approach him head-on – but he still looked startled. “Lena,” he said in a tone I already knew was one of irritation, “what happened to you won’t know I’m around?”

I blinked repeatedly, but not at his tone. After our last few interactions, this was a huge step-up from his one-word answers and sporadic stammering. Progress.

“I got tired of watching you hide in the corner when your paintings are what everyone’s come to see.”

He looked down at me, eyes narrowed. “Yes. My paintings – not me.”

“But this isn’t your first time at one of these things, is it?”

He shook his head, his unkempt hair flapping with the movement. I waited for him to say something but nothing came out his mouth. Instead, he loosened his tie, fidgeting with his collar and steadfastly looking somewhere over my head. The moon-white scar on his cheek was only partially hidden by that hair of his. Up close, I saw how nasty it might have once been and, glancing down at me, Reed caught me looking and pushed a hank of hair into his face, flushing beet red.

This guy blushed like a virginal high school boy.

Virginal. I considered the word, biting my lower lip. Holy shít, what if he is a virgin?

Heat stole through my entire body but a shiver skated down my spine. I forced myself to evict my mind from the gutter but it liked the real estate there and wasn’t going to budge for anything. Reed was an...interesting male specimen and any woman with two working eyes would be able to determine that he was totally fuckable. The tux he was wearing emphasised a lean body with broad shoulders and endless legs. His hair was the kind a girl could really pull at in the middle of mind-blowing, animal –

“I like this painting,” I said quickly, nodding at a piece that depicted… Well, I had no idea what the fúck it depicted but the colours were pretty. Prettier than my dirty, dirty mind.

Reed followed my gaze to the mishmash of ambers and plums. “Enchantment. It’s an abstract, of course.”

“It’s gorgeous. Did you paint all these when you were… When you couldn’t see?” I winced at my tone.

“Blind is not a bad word,” he said quietly, relinquishing his empty glass to a passing server. “It’s just ironic that I used to be a blind visual artist.”

“Not ironic. Impressive. I’ve had my eyesight for twenty-five years and I could never be as creative as you were. Are,” I swiftly amended.

Reed lifted a shoulder. “No, you were right the first time. Past tense.”

“What do you mean? That you haven’t painted since –”

“Background, Lena. Stay in the fúcking background.”

Asshat.

“Sure.”

***

I answered my phone on the first ring.

“Hey, little sis.”

“Ivan,” I said coolly, “how’s it going?”

“That’s what I called to find out.”

I glanced around at the lavish bedroom I’d been given, remembered the sumptuous dinner Margo had prepared that night, and thought to myself that it was going pretty well. Aside from the fact that I was bored out of my mind and having sexual fantasies about a guy that might or might not be a virgin; a guy I worked for. A guy who found me a nuisance.

“Well, I can’t say that I’ll be using my gun anytime soon but hey, I’m working, aren’t I?” I didn’t make any attempt to lose the sarcasm.