Tear You Apart. Megan Hart
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the best.
“That?” Will looks at it, then at me again. “It’s pretty good. It’s not what I thought you’d pick, though.”
“What did you think I’d pick?”
Will points with his chin. “Want me to show you?”
I hesitate; I don’t know why. Of course I want him to show me. I’m curious about what he thinks I’d like. How he could think he knows enough about me to guess at anything I’d like.
Will takes me by the elbow and leads me through the crowd, still thick considering the hour, but then I guess most of these people live here in the city, or at least are staying close by. There’s another alcove toward the back, this one hung with gauze and twinkling fairy lights. The inside of it’s curved, which makes it hard to hang square portraits there, and why I didn’t look at it tonight. I couldn’t face another of those stinky vases.
“There.” Will stops but doesn’t let go of my elbow. If anything, he moves closer to me. “That’s what you like.”
The piece is simple. Carved, polished wood. There’s no real form or figure, though the piece is evocative of a woman’s body. The smooth curve of hip and thigh and belly and breasts, the curl and twist of hair. It’s not a woman, but it feels like one. Without thinking, I touch it. She feels like a woman. My fingers curl against my palm as I take my hand away. I shouldn’t have touched it. Oils from my fingers could harm the finish. It’s not a museum piece, but even so, it’s not right to ruin it.
And Will is correct. I like this one. I have no place for something like that in my home, but suddenly, I want it.
“Do you know who did it?” I’m already looking for the artist’s card.
Will says nothing. I look at him, thinking he’ll be smiling, but he’s not. He’s studying me.
“I knew you’d like that one.”
My body tenses. I’m not sure if I don’t like the way he says it, or if I like it too much. Either way, I frown. “You sound so proud.”
He glances at the piece of carved wood that shouldn’t look like anything but looks like a woman. “I like to figure out what people like. I mean, it’s important, you know? For an artist who wants to sell his shit.”
“Is that what it’s about, for you? Selling things? I thought real artists wanted to...you know. Make art.”
He laughs, low. “Sure. But I’m also into paying my rent and eating. Not many people can live on art.”
Not many of the people displaying here in Naveen’s gallery tonight, anyway. New York City has galleries like this all over the place. Competition’s fierce. I told him to keep his Philly gallery, but he insisted on branching out. I’m still not sure this one’s going to make it.
“So...you like to know what people like, so you can sell them things.”
“Sure.” Will’s grin is a little sly. “And I was right about you. Wasn’t I?”
“Yes.” For some reason, I’m reluctant to admit it.
He nods as if I just revealed a secret. Maybe I have. “You like things smooth.”
I take a step away from him. How could he know that? Hell. Until a few minutes ago, I’m not sure I knew it.
Will nods again. “Yeah. Smooth. And curved. You don’t like sharp things. Angles and shit. You don’t like it when there are points.”
“Who does?” My voice is anything but smooth.
“Some people do.” Will looks again at the carved wood. “You should buy it. It would make you happy.”
My laugh snags, like a burr. “Who says I need to be happy?”
“Everyone needs to be happy, Elisabeth,” Will says.
Oh, my name.
When he says my name, I see it in shimmering shades of blue and green and gray. Those are not my colors. I’m red and orange and yellow. Brown. My name is autumn moving on toward winter darkness, but not the way Will says it. When he says my name, I see summer. I see the ocean.
Blinking hard, I have to look away from him. My breath catches in my throat. I’m sure I can’t speak, not even one word.
“You should buy it,” he says again.
“I don’t want it.” It would make me happy, but my house is corners and angles and sharp points. There’s no place in my house for something like that.
“You want it,” Will says, leaning in close for just a second. Just a breath.
Naveen saves me. He comes up behind Will and claps him on the shoulder hard enough to rock him forward a bit. Will frowns, fists clenching for a second or two before relaxing as his mouth slides into a smile, so fast it’s as if he never looked angry at all.
“What does she want?” Naveen asks with a smile like a shark’s.
Before either of us can answer, one of the musicians, a girl with a pixie haircut to match her petite stature, eases her way between us with an overly casual smile for Naveen. She holds up what looks like a scribbled receipt. Her eyeliner has smudged and, yes, I judge her for looking sloppy.
“Can I talk to you about this?”
Naveen gives her a smile considerably less casual than hers and winks at me. He puts his arm around the girl’s shoulders, his fingertips denting the soft, tanned flesh of her upper arm, bared by her strapless dress. “Sure, Calysta. Let’s talk in my office, okay? Betts, you’re good? I’ll call you tomorrow?”
“I’ll call you,” I tell him. “And yes. I’m fine.”
Will waits until they walk halfway across the room before he turns to me. “What’s up with that?”
I shrug. “Not my business.”
He squints, mouth pursed. “He’s married, huh?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not his wife.”
“No,” I say. “It’s not.”
Will gives them another look and slowly shakes his head, then lets his gaze slide back to mine. Sly, sideways, full of charm. He reminds me of a fox, I think suddenly. The slight spike at the tips of his ears, the way his hair feathers forward in front of them, the sleek and perfect arch of his brows. He leans close to me again. Sharing secrets.
“How about,” he says, “you and me, we get out of here?”
Chapter Two
I thought he meant to take me to a coffee shop. That’s what anyone would think when a stranger asks you at close to midnight if you want a cup of coffee. I’m still not familiar with the neighborhood. Naveen’s new gallery opened only a month ago, and while I can get to and from it, I don’t know about anything else nearby.
Will does. He lives close by, in Chinatown. I love Chinatown. I love shopping for chopsticks and soup spoons I could find anywhere, but which feel so much more authentic here. If I could, I’d have an entire collection of those cats with the waving paws. Money cats. I love them, too. They’re usually red and gold, and to me the ticky-tocky motion of their hands always smells like fresh lemons.
I should be surprised when instead of a coffee shop with slices of cake in a revolving case, he takes me to a building made of stone, with ornate metal bars on the windows and a front door he needs to unlock with a keypad. I should hold back, hesitant, when he turns just inside the doorway to smile back at me with that same sly and sideways grin he gave me in the gallery. I shouldn’t go upstairs with him, into his apartment, where he again holds the door open, this time so I can step through in front of him, though the space is small enough that I have to touch my shoulder to his chest as I pass.