Page 16 of Break Me Beautifully
"Of course you do. Use that phone of yours to bring up your work."
A flicker of paranoia takes my breath away. "Then ... you have seen my stuff online? How did you know it was me? I used a fake name."
He drops his hands to his lap, drawing my eye briefly to the front of his pants where my curious mind tries to picture his manhood hiding away. If I hadn't freaked out last night, I might have seen it ... touched it ...
Instead I touched a gun.
I have to remember that.
His voice is heavy with mystery. "I have my ways to find out anything I need, or want, to know."
My phone feels heavy in my grip. I turn it slowly, fidgeting in my seat. "When did you first see my art? How long have you ..." The car stops, ending our conversation.
There's a woman standing outside the car. She bends as the waist, beaming at us as Klintock opens the door. "Welcome to the Ramette House!" she crows, tilting her head, sending her curly brown hair bouncing. "We've been waiting for you, Mr. Klintock, Ms. Hark."
"Thanks," I say, shifting to get out of the car. The second I do, I gape at the beautiful building in front of me. The Ramette House sets itself apart from the surrounding buildings. Shaped like the bow of a yacht and made of glass, its eave curving like a metal wave. I love all things art, including architecture.
"Wait until you see the inside," Marshall chuckles in my ear. I stand straight, his breath creating turmoil in my lower belly. My cells remember what he can do to me. They want to feel it again.
Putting his hands deep in his long black jacket pockets, he follows the woman towards the building. I walk behind them both, not to keep my distance, but to take in the beautiful structure of the Ramette House.
We pass through the massive doors that open automatically for us. There's no lobby, no front desk, nothing to make it feel like a business. Instead the room is large and round, sunlight pours through the windows. The arched ceiling’s support beams stretch high and are adorned with chandeliers.
But the design doesn’t hold my attention. Instead, I look at the canvases spread across the walls. They vary in size—some bigger than me, others the size of my palm— and are filled with vivid colors. "Gloria Fildego," a coarse voice says beside me. I twist, spotting the large, barrel-chested man I recognize as Bradford Mink. His distinctive white beard was in every online photo of him.
He nods at the art, saying, "That's who did all these. She's amazing." He offers me his hand, gray eyes twinkling. "I'm Bradford. You must be Leona, yes?"
"Yes," Marshall says for me. He's moved to my other side, the men surrounding me, making me feel like I'm on display as much as the art is. "How are you, Bradford?"
"Good. Can't complain, as you know. Gloria's work was all pre-purchased by buyers before it hung on the walls. You know what people want."
Marshall shrugs, his attention shifting to the canvases. "Sometimes."
"Hopefully this time, too," Bradford says as he looks me over pointedly. "Marshall tells me you're someone to pay attention to, Leona."
My mouth falls open at that. "I don't know what he told you about me."
"He never tells me much. Just points me in the right direction." Chuckling warmly, Bradford starts to walk along the wall. "Min?" he says to the woman who led us inside. "Get us some tea, please. There's a chill in here."
She bows her head, scurrying out of view through a door I hadn’t noticed.
"I'll leave you two alone," Marshall says, strolling across the room to look at some of the art.
"Did you bring any of your work with you?" Bradford asks me. I shoot furtive glances at Marshall. I wish he'd guided me about what to say or do in this situation. Why offer to help me, then set me up to sink or swim? "I didn't," I say carefully. Bradford frowns mildly. I think about what Marshall said in the car. "But I can show you some things on my phone."
"Your work is online?"
"Some." Fishing out my phone, I scroll to Instagram, popping my profile open. I plan to just thumb through a few pieces, but he grabs my phone from me, taking control. My stomach drops like a rock. I'm not ready for him to see everything I have on there.
Bradford whistles softly. "These are wonderful. You have a very distinct style." He scrolls down the images, pausing on some, zooming occasionally, his voice rising with interest. "And look at all your followers! You've got a great fanbase. Do they come to your gallery shows?"
"No, uh, I haven't done a show yet."
His eyes pop wide. "That's an injustice. Lucky me that I get to host the first."
"I ... excuse me?" My head is swaying like it's full of helium. "You mean ..."
"I want to arrange a gallery for you, yes." He hands my phone back, and I take it, holding it like it's a bomb. "How long will it take you to create ten or twelve pieces?"
