Page 75 of Sticky Fingers

“This?” Narrowing my eyes, I try to do a mental inventory of where I might have gone wrong. “What are you talking about?”

Maybe she doesn’t like the ring.

Maybe she doesn’t want Per Se to be the setting for my proposal.

Or, maybe, she wants me to propose while I’m deep inside of her, her disheveled hair bunched up in my fingers while I make her scream out my name. Well, fuck, if that’s the case I’ll clear the restaurant in five seconds and I’ll solve it.

“You can drop the act, Malcolm, you really can,” she whispers, lowering her gaze and staring at her hands.

For a few seconds, I don’t say a word, too surprised to even speak. What the fuck is she talking about? Shit, just exactly how much wine did she have?

“I know this is all about the painting.”

“The painting? What painting?” I ask her, right before my brain finally reboots, and I realize she’s talking about that fucking Picasso all over again.

For a guy who’s been dead for more than forty years, Picasso has proven to be the most adamant cockblocker there is.

Sighing, I reach for Sonia and place my hand on top of hers.

“I don’t care about that. I really don’t. Didn’t you see me throw the paintings into the fire? Do you think I’d do that if all I cared about was that damn painting?”

Finally, she raises her gaze, locking her eyes into mine.

Seems like we’re going somewhere now.

“I know you’ve met with Detective Strong.”

Ah, fuck.

Closing the ring box, I place it on the table, right between the two of us, and lean back on the chair.

“So that’s whatthisis all about,” I whisper, more to myself than to her.

Somehow, Sonia got wind of the fact that I was meeting with Detective Jeremiah Strong, and she probably thinks that I’m playing her just so I can deliver the painting.

“Why?” she asks me, that fucking sadness coating each the word.

“There’s no why,” I finally tell her after a few seconds of silence. “I know what you’re thinking, Sonia, but I can assure you…you’re wrong about this whole situation. You’re wrong about me. I’m not playing you, and this isn’t a game to me. When I asked you to marry me, I meant it.”

“Would you go that far just to get your hands on the painting?”

Jesus fucking Christ, is she even listening to me? Here I am, willing to go down on my knees and offer the rest of my life on a fucking silver platter, and Sonia thinks I’m just doing it because of a fucking painting.

“Look, I get it,” I continue, trying to keep calm. “But again, you’re wrong. The only reason I’ve been meeting with Jeremiah is because—”

“Jeremiah?” she interrupts, holding one hand up in the air. “Are you guys on a first name basis already?”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Detective Strong and I go way back. We’ve been meeting because he’s helping me tie the loose ends I have before I…before I change things. I’m going legit, Sonia, and I need Jeremiah for that.”

“Right,” she hisses through her teeth. “The only person in the world that can help you do that is the one that wants to nail me. What a small world we live in, huh?”

Shit, this is why you should never argue with a fucking chick—they’ll twist every single word of yours and use them as a baseball bat on your fucking balls.

“Listen,” I continue, trying to keep a lid on my frustration as I run one hand through my hair. “Strong is the one constant in my life. All the way from the Marcy Avenue Housing Projects. After my family died, he always kept an eye on me. He’s the one who found me after my brother and mom were killed. As fucked up as it may sound, if it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be the man I am today.”

“Is that so?”

“I’m telling you the truth. He was just a young beat cop on the night my mother and brother died, and he kept checking up on me a couple of times a year when I was in the foster care system. Believe it or not, Jeremiah Strong is the closest thing I have to a father.”