Page 75 of King of Pain (Damaged Hearts #1)

You Make My Dreams Come True

Anthony

It’s quite something—seeing your face scattered across the walls at a high-class function.

All eyes are on me. Both the painted and living versions.

It’s… unnerving, honestly.

I don’t know how celebrities or professional athletes do this. Being looked at this much, this closely. It makes me want to hide in a dark corner.

But I don’t.

Because tonight isn’t about my comfort.

It’s about him.

My man. The man of the hour. The ridiculously gifted, devastatingly handsome artist currently being pulled away by an elegant woman wearing enough diamonds to put Cartier out of stock. She’s at least seventy, regal as hell, and I’d bet her monthly donation to the gallery rivals my annual salary.

I smile to myself and sip my champagne. I’m happy to be behind the scenes. That’s where I belong—supporting the careers of the stars, not standing under a spotlight. Even if, tonight, I’m themuse on display.

From the corner of my eye, I clock movement.

A familiar stride.

Jason Ciccone. Headed straight for me.

And oh, would you look at that?

Chance, who was across the room a second ago, has magically appeared at my side, one arm snaking behind my back, pulling me in with a possessive grip.

Jason steps up, extends a hand, and gives me that charming, toothy grin of his. “Hey Anthony. Looking sharp.”

Chance makes a sound that falls somewhere between a grunt and a growl.

I roll my eyes, but I love it.

Jason shifts his attention to Chance and reaches out for a shake. “Good to see you again, Chance. I love what you guys did with the space.”

Chance hesitates for half a second. Shifts his weight.

Then he shakes Jason’s hand and says, “Thanks.” His voice is friendly, but there’s a strange… tightness to it. “I was inspired, to say the least.”

He turns his head to look at me, eyes soft, lips curled in a smile that’s all love and heat and pride.

But something's off. That exchange. The way Jason said “again.”

They’ve never officially met. Not really. That fleeting parking lot encounter in the rain is the only time they’ve met, but there wasn’t even an introduction.

Yet something seems… familiar between them.

Jason glances between us, all swagger, and then leans a little closer and says, “You landed one hell of a man, Pacini. I can’t even be mad about losing.” Then, dropping his voice, he adds, “And I hate to lose.”

I stammer, caught somewhere between a laugh and a cough. “Uh. Yeah. I did. I really did.” I rub the back of my neck and add, “Thank you, Jason.”

Thankfully, Deacon rolls up and interrupts the awkward moment. He leans in towards Chance, and I hear him whisper, “Entrances and exits have been checked again, Boss. We posted our own people up at every door as well.”

Chance nods, and I try not to find the whole thing hot as fuck. I fail. Miserably.

Deek turns around, now standing between me and Chance, and Jason’s eyes bulge comically.

I snicker to myself. Yeah, Deek’s hot. “Deacon, this is Jason Ciccone. He’s the star pitcher for Atlanta.”

“Oh, I know who you are,” Deek says with a grin.

Wait. Did he just actually smile? The fuck?

“I—uh, um, it’s nice to meet you,” Jason barely gets out. His eyes drop to the floor, and he rubs his neck.

Wow. Mr. Confidence was never this bashful when he was chasing me. It’s kind of cute, honestly.

Liz swoops back in like a stylish hurricane, zeroing in on Chance with laser precision.

“Sorry, boys,” she says, voice brisk and commanding. She grabs Chance’s elbow. “I need to steal this one. People to meet and all that.”

Chance tosses me one last glance over his shoulder before Liz leads him away into the crowd.

Deacon excuses himself to run another security check, and I’m left there, sipping champagne, trying to shake the feeling that something in that conversation was more than it seemed.

Jason’s still standing with me, sipping his champagne like he’s in no rush to disappear.

I’m about to ask what the hell that was— Have you met before? B ut before I can get a word out, I see a ridiculous blur of color and energy.

A motley crew, headed right for us.

Jen is leading the pack in a sharply tailored tux—black with a neon magenta cummerbund and matching bolo tie. She pulls it off and makes it look like runway couture.

Lexi and Beau trail behind her, fingers laced.

Lexi’s in a sleeveless, floor-length red dress that shows off every inch of ink on her arms. Her hair’s swept up into a braided crown and she’s carrying a gold clutch that’s giving lethal and elegant.

She’s a walking Bond girl. Her Viking, Beau, is beside her in a classic black tux.

And of course…

Butters is wearing a powder blue tuxedo .

Trailing behind him, rolling his eyes, is Spence—his eggplant-colored tuxedo hugging his frame like it was stitched on. Not a jet-black hair out of place.

He’s definitely been lifting since I last saw him.

Jen reaches me first, eyes lit up, and grins. “Well, if it isn’t the man of the hour.”

I laugh and let her pull me into a tight hug. “Yeah, yeah. Have your fun. I’m just proud of my man. He’s the real star.”

Jen pulls back and lets out an overly dramatic swoon. “ Your man. ” She cups my face in both hands like a proud aunt. “I will never, ever get tired of hearing you say that.” Then, gentler, “Or seeing the look on your face when you do.”

Jason coughs softly beside me. Jen glances at him, slightly sheepish. “Oh, sorry, Jason. That was a little insensitive of me.” She softens, eyes warm. “But let’s be real—Anthony’s heart was spoken for years ago.”

The tips of my ears heat.

Jason just smiles and says, “I wouldn’t be here tonight unless I was happy for them.”

Lexi swoops in next and wraps me up in a hug.

Then Beau shakes my hand with enthusiasm. “Congrats, man. I look forward to—”

Lexi immediately slaps his chest and cuts him a glare.

I blink. “Okay, seriously. Why are you all acting so weird?”

Butters bursts out laughing. “It’s nothing. Beau’s taken one too many hits to the dome. He probably thinksthisis your exhibit.” He claps a hand on my shoulder and pulls me in for a hug.

“Bring it in, PacMan.”

I groan. “Still with that nickname?”

He pulls back and grins. “You look good, man. You do the paintings justice.”

Then Spence slides past. “Does he flirt with anything that walks?” he snarks as he leans in for a hug.

I hug him back, but he doesn’t move far afterward. He lingers.

Plants himself right next to Butters, in fact.

Butters side-eyes him, smiling devilishly, and says, “No. Only you, Muffin Man.”

Spence startles and jumpslike he’s been goosed. “ Ryan Michael Buterbaugh! ” he hisses, turning to shove Butters in the chest with one hand.

Butters is grinning so hard I’m surprised his face doesn’t crack in half.

Spence glares, rolls his eyes for the fifth time in as many minutes, and mutters, “I’m getting a drink,” before stalking off toward the bar. I think I hear him say “gorgeous idiot” under his breath, but I can’t be sure.

I look at Butters, raising a brow. “Why is hemiddle naming you?”

Butters just shrugs, all boyish innocence, then flashes me a smile and saunters off to follow Spence.

I stare after them and shake my head with a laugh.

I have so many questions about this night.

The unmistakable squeal of a microphone kicks on, and the energy in the room shifts.

I turn and see Liz up on the low-rise stage. Her silhouette practically glows under the soft lighting, all elegance and precision. She clears her throat and lifts the mic.

“Gentle humans of all genders and identities,” she says, voice cutting clearly through the space, “if I could have your attention for a moment.”

Conversations taper off as the crowd turns toward her.

“First, I want to thank you all for being with us this evening,” she continues, her gaze sweeping the room. “It’s an important night for several reasons, not the least of which includes the introduction of a brilliant new talent behind the exhibit before you.”

A pause. Then her tone softens.

“A generous talent, it seems.”

My brow furrows.

Liz gestures behind her to the exhibit with a graceful wave of her hand. “One hundred percent of sales from the entire collection are going to an important non-profit.”

I blink.

What?

I scan the room instinctively for Chance, but he’s still across the room, now watching Liz.

Liz adds, “I’ll let the artist himself tell you more about it, but I see a lot of familiar faces in this room… and I happen to know you can afford it.”

Light laughter bubbles around the gallery.

“Let’s not leave one painting unclaimed, shall we?”

The laughter grows. My face heats.

Jesus, my face might end up on a dozen walls across Phoenix. I hadn’t considered that part until just now. Why would anyone want that?

The paintings are more abstract than portrait—but still.

Super rich people are weird, and Liz knows what will sell. She wouldn’t have offered Chance an exhibit if she didn’t think they’d buy.

“And now,” Liz says, straightening her posture, “it is my distinct pleasure to introduce you to the man behind tonight’s collection. A man who had a few non-negotiables for this show. A man whose talent is only eclipsed by his oversized heart.”

She lets the moment linger, then finishes with:

“I stand before you, proud to introduce to the art world, the man behind HIM —Chance Sullivan.”

The room erupts with applause.

Whistles and catcalls pierce the claps, and I know without turning that it’s our crew.

My eyes are locked on Chance, and his are locked right back on me as he takes the stage.

He hugs Liz quickly before she steps aside, and then…

He’s up there. Alone. In front of everyone. And honestly, he looks like he belongs there.

He raises the mic. “Wow,” he starts. “Thank you. Thank you all for coming out tonight.”

He glances to the side. “And thank you, Liz, for believing in me and making this night a reality.”

He begins pacing the stage slowly, every movement confident but humble.