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I let his words hang in the air until he realizes his mistake.
“We’re friends,” he tries again. “I only wanted her to model for me.”
Anger breaks free. Only wanted her to model for him—fuck that. “You wanted her to model for you?”
“Yes,” he chokes. “She’s beautiful. Of course I wanted to paint her.”
“You use a reference, don’t you?”
“Like most painters.” He has no fucking idea where I’m going with this. In the spirit of honesty, it’s getting away from me a little. I force down the need to cede control to my rage. I will not beat the shit out of him, leaving him bruised and bloody. Not today.
“So the women come to your studio, ready to be painted, and then you make them take off their clothes—”
“They agree,” he insists. “They’re in agreement.”
“And you take the reference photos.”
“Yeah.”
“How do you make them cry?”
His mouth drops open, his visible eye going even wider, and the depth of my hatred expands until it could swallow this pathetic gallery whole. I didn’t plan to say any of this to him. This fucker is still grasping for an answer. If he was smart, if he could lie to save himself, he’d have saidI don’t. Of course I don’t. I add that later. Artistic license.
But he is not smart, and he cannot lie, and I tighten my grip on the back of his neck.
I want to snap it. I let go of his arm and Peter flinches. He thinks I’m going to punch him. He’d deserve it. He deserves to have his skull cracked while all these weeping girls watch from their frames.
I put my fingertips on the canvas near his face instead. Trace the thick paint lines there, over her face. “How much do you get paid?”
He swallows. “It—it depends on the piece.”
“Every time you use that brush. How much would you say every stroke was worth?” Peter doesn’t know whether to answer this musing tone, so he keeps his mouth shut. “Oh, it’s quite a bit, isn’t it?American Art Collectorcalled you a modern-day Rembrandt, but I don’t think so.”
Peter Clay is frozen in fear, so much so that he doesn’t bother to hide his arms. I wrench the left one back behind him and bend his wrist. His fingers. Tighter and tighter and tighter. He clenches his jaw, his face going red, and tries to relieve some of the pressure by turning his body.
“How much would they like your paintings if I break your fingers?”
I’m on the edge. On the verge. If I squeeze much harder, his fingers will break. I’ve already done some damage to his wrist. He’s gone limp with the shock.
I give him a shake. “How much, Peter?”
“I can’t paint right-handed,” he bursts out. “Don’t do this. Don’t do this, man. I didn’t hurt her.”
“And now you never will.”
“I’ll leave her alone. I promise.” Oops. I did squeeze harder. Peter lets out a strangled groan. Probably a sprain. He’ll have to take a little time off. He’ll have to keep his mouth shut, if he doesn’t want me to ruin him completely. It’s so tempting. “I promise,” he says again.
I squeeze a little bit harder. Too close. Too close to the edge. I pull Peter’s head back from the painting and drive it into the wall again.
And then I let go.
He cowers against the painting. I pace back a few steps and pull my gloves out of my pocket. One goes on, then the next. I put all my emotions back where they belong. Silent. Still. Ordered. A whisper of concern crosses my mind. It’s more difficult to control myself when it comes to Daphne. Worse yet, she makes me want to feel things. Well—wantis a strong word. She makes me curious about what it would be like to stop shoving my feelings away.
Peter can’t hide any longer. He turns away from the wall, holding his wrist with the other hand. In addition to being a fucking coward, a fucking piece of shit, he’s pissed himself. The painting behind him is ruined.
“I think that’s enough for today,” I announce. “I won’t be making a purchase.”
I leave him standing there. I’m in the middle of the gallery when he calls after me.
