Page 13 of Break Me Beautifully
Chapter 5.
His penthouse is luxurious. The glass wall offers a view of the expansive city lights twinkling below. I’m familiar with the high-end artwork on massive canvases that cover the walls from floor to ceiling .
The recessed lighting makes the neutral gray floor and white furniture welcoming enough, but I feel like an intruder. I leave his keys on the giant coffee table carved from a tree trunk, the rings still visible, and head for the kitchen. It's not hard to find. The place has an open floor plan, unlike my family's closed off arrangement of rooms on our estate.
I chug a full glass of ice-cold water, but my body remains hot. What Marshall coaxed out of me, it can't be quenched with just water. I'm crazy to think it could be. I'm also crazy for letting things go as far as they did.
He had a gun.
Shivering, I flex my fingers from the memory of the weapon's stiff shape in my grip. He had it the whole time we were together. Katy wasn't telling me some rumor. A normal art curator wouldn't carry a gun like that. Someone who expected danger would. What did that mean for me?
Nothing. He didn't bring you here to hurt you.Could I be so sure? Maybe he was lying about wanting to help my art career. Maybe he had other things planned. If I was going to be a pawn for something nefarious, I'd know soon.
Pacing the large room, I stare at the city extending before me.Is he in the building, or did he go somewhere else?I wonder if I angered him by trying to make him tell me who he was. A tremor rolls up my spine.What if he's furious someone warned me?Fuck. Was Katy in danger?
I yank out my phone then I notice I have a text message.
Katy: U land yet?
My thumb taps across the screen.
Me: Are you okay?
Katy: Me? I'm fine, why? What's wrong?
Me: I don't know. Just a feeling.
The phone buzzes, Katy's name flashing. I answer it quickly. “Hey,” I say.
“Leona, what happened?”
I look around the room before answering, my voice dropping an octave. “Marshall has a gun.”
“What?” she yells in my ear.
Wincing, I say, “He has a gun, Katy.”
“Did you see it? Oh god, did he pull it out on you?”
“No! No, I didn't see it. I felt it.”
“Excuse me?”
“It was in his jacket.”
Katy goes quiet. Then, in a flat voice, she asks, “Was the jacket still on him when you felt it?”
I'm already blushing. Sitting on the white leather couch, I grab one of the cushions and hug it to my chest. “It's not how it sounds.”
“Uh huh.”
“Katy!”
“Did you touch anything else besides his gun?”
Sputtering, I say, “Nothing happened. I swear.”
