Page 23

THIRTEEN
Cari
Miranda takes me tosome swanky restaurant downtown and orders a bottle of wine that I have no doubt cost more than my monthly rent. While she drinks, she makes plans. I think she mentions using the charity show Chase is putting together as a teaser for my solo opening. She talks about which of my paintings she likes. Which ones she loves. Which ones she wants to buy for her private collection.
“That one’s not for sale,” I tell her, my brain finally snagging on and retaining one of the pieces of information she’s throwing at me.
“Excuse me?” she says, an elegant, dark brow arched over one of her dark brown eyes.
“The one of—” I stop because I can’t even bring myself to say his name. “him sleeping in the sun isn’t for sale. It’s mine,” I tell her, my voice stronger and steadier than it has a right to be. “I’m keeping it.”
“Okay.” She studies me for a few moments before lifting a shoulder in an indifferent shrug. “What about the one hanging in the living room?” she says. “Is that one for sale?”
I didn’t show it to her, but Miranda would have to be blind not to see what is essentially a lewd self-portrait, on display in the common area of my apartment. Of course, she saw it.
“No.” It’s a one-word answer, and I don’t try to qualify it.
Now she smirks at me, but it’s not nasty or mean. It’s like she’s proud of me for sticking up for myself. “Anything else off limits?”
Yes. I want to tell her they’re all off-limits. That she can’t have any of them. That they’re mine. All of them. That Patrick is gone and those paintings are all I have left. Instead, I use the side of my fork to cut into the piece of poached salmon on my plate and shake my head. “Nope. That’s it,” I say, spearing the fish with the tines of my fork and fitting it into my mouth.
“Alright,” she says, taking a sip of wine. “Now that that’s out of the way—”
“Miss—you can’t just—”
I look over my shoulder to see Tess hustling across the restaurant. She’s wearing her usual tank top, her coveralls peeled down to the waist, their sleeves tied around her middle, tattoos and piercings on full display, dark hair caught up in a messy bun that tells me she came here straight from working in the garage.
“Miss—” The Maître’ d scurries after her, soft hand fluttering in the air between them. “I must insist—”
“Fuck off, Jeeves.”
“It’s alright, Randal.”
Tess and Miranda speak at the same time while I’m left to look around the restaurant at all the people who are staring at our table with avid interest. I’m not embarrassed by Tess. I’m wondering how many of them have a smartphone and now that they’ve gotten a good look at me, recognize me from the video James posted online.
“It’s alright.” Miranda says it again, flicking her fingers at the Maître’ d. As soon as he scuttled back to his post, she looks at me before focusing on Tess. “Are you going to introduce me to your friend?”
“Miranda, this is my friend, Tess,” I say, waving a hand between the two of them. “Tess, this is my boss, Mir—”
“Miranda. Got it.” Tess offers her a grease-stained hand across the table, and Miranda takes it without missing a beat. “Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” Miranda draws her hand back and settles it in her lap. “Would you like a glass of wine?”
“No.” Tess looks at Miranda like she just suggested she drink her own urine. “Thanks,” she adds, almost as an afterthought.
“How did you find me?” I don’t have my phone, so it’s not like anyone can track it.
“I didn’t. Con did—I don’t know how he does it. Nerd magic.” She turns to look at me, rolling her eyes. “Anyway, you have to come home.”
As soon as she says it, my gut clenches. “I know about the video being released, Tess. There’s nothing anyone can do—”
“Forget about the video,” she says, shaking her head. “Jackson Howard is at Gilroy’s with Con. He wants to meet with you and Patrick. Right now.”