“Masterful, no?” A man with a perfectly trimmed gray beard asks, utterly impressed.
I stare at the black, red, and pink blob that looks like a distorted boob with an oversized nipple.
“Exquisite,” I agree. “The artist is a genius.”
Not.
When I’ve shown enough face, I stride right out the front door with no one the wiser.
I walk in the opposite direction the NYPD are headed, no doubt responding to the hotel’s 911 call.
“Was the art really exquisite?” March asks. I almost forgot he was still on the phone.
“Not a fucking bit,” I grunt.
I grew up around fine art, and that shit definitely wasn’t it.
“So, no investment piece then?”
“No, not this time.” I hop into a cab and direct the driver where to go.
“We should really take more advantage of cultural establishments at our fingertips.”
“You can. I’ll pass. I’ve been to enough museums to last me three lifetimes.” I cringe thinking about all the Saturday afternoons I spent being dragged around by my parents. Them feeding me some bullshit about how knowing art would make me more well rounded. I only tolerated it because I knew we would end up getting ice cream afterward. I am well rounded, by the way, by so many more important things than fucking art.
“You’re a party pooper,” he complains.
“I know,” I pacify him.
The cabbie pulls up to my building, and I hand him some cash with a big tip. I hop out of the car and back into the humid August afternoon with the smell of fresh coffee from the storefront down the street strong in the air.
“Are we still hitting the gym in the morning?” March asks as I breeze into the modern lobby of my Chelsea apartment building.
“If you’re not too hungover. I’m definitely in the mood to kick your ass.” I wave sweetly to Billy, the doorman. He smiles, like always, completely ignorant to what I do or who I really am. He just thinks I'm a Connecticut princess living off of Daddy’s money. Which is exactly what I want him to think. Plus, the first part isn’t so farfetched. The secret to a solid cover, adding in a layer of truth. Makes it easier to sell. Which I’ve been doing seamlessly for years.
“I’m not going to make it so easy this time.” March laughs boisterously.
“You always give it your best try,” I banter with him as I wait for the elevator. As much as March is a pain in my ass, he’s more my sanity, my organizer, and my best friend.
When the doors ding open, there is a man standing inside, and my smile immediately slides off my face.
“Hello, Fallon.” His deep, accented timbre vibrates across the white marble floor and right up my spine.
I swallow thickly before saying a word. “I have to call you back.” I rip the customized earpiece out of my ear and shove it into my back pocket.It was a one-of-a-kind creation compliments of March.
“How did you find me?” I’m on the defensive.
“It wasn’t easy.” Ronan rocks back on his heels with his hands in his pockets. The door begins to slide closed, and he reaches out to keep it open. “Are you coming?”
Every instinct I have says to resist. Says to make any excuse not to step into that elevator with him. But a scene in the lobby of the building I live in, the place that I love, is a monumental mistake. With air lodged in my lungs, I step over the threshold, and Ronan is clearly pleased.
I. Am. So. Fucked.
“What are you doing here, Ronan?” I ask cautiously as I calculate how long it will take me to reassemble my rifle and shoot if I need to.
“I wanted to see you,” he says as if it’s so simple. And trust me when I tell you, there is nothing simple about Ronan Kennedy.
“Why?”
