Page 52 of Break Me Beautifully
Scurrying along the wall, I weave between people who are chatting about my paintings. I count eleven canvases as I go. The twelfth was used up by Marshall. The canvas I sacrificed for him. How much had I given up for that man?
Too much.
Far too much.
"There you are," Bradford says, appearing directly in front of me. "Come on, we have work to do." He has his fingers tucked into the crack of the side-door in the wall, the one I've seen him vanish into more than once.
"What do you mean?" I ask. "My part in this is done." I've been counting down the minutes, wishing for everyone to leave, so this event could be over with.
He shows his teeth when he grins. "I think you don't want to skip out on this. Trust me, what you're about to see will get you hooked."
I don'twantto be hooked. Something bumps into me from behind—Marshall. He's a wall that keeps me from escaping. A new level of betrayal is reached and reaches another tick of the measuring stick in my heart. He looks down at me with those black diamond eyes. There's no emotion I can read, his voice gritty as he says, "Go. Inside."
Everyone I've ever met in my life has always had plans for me.
Marshall Klintock was never different.
It's my first time seeing the other side of this door. There's a hallway covered in carpet, the walls a dull blue wallpaper. Through a small doorway I glimpse a kitchen. Min is inside standing over a teapot on the stove. She meets my eyes, startles, then ducks to avoid me.
"We don't want tea," Bradford says as he leans inside. "This is a celebration for a job well done, not a book club. Bring the black label whiskey and a bottle of champagne."
"Of course, sir," she calls after us.
I can see straight to the end of the hall. Three men are standing with their backs on either side of a gold-knob door. One is wearing a dark blue suit, but the others are in jeans and loose dress shirts. They share a unifying trait; the guns in their hands.
The man on the far left looks at me, and I recognize him from the gala. Nicolo, he'd said his name was. His tongue stud had wagged while he warned me about Marshall. Now his mouth squeezes into a knot as he looks me over, then eyes Marshall behind me. All he can do is shrug because he knows his advice was a wasted effort.
"They inside?" Bradford asks the guy in the blue suit.
"All four of them," he replies.
"Good, good. Seya better not be smoking in there." Bradford claps the guard on the shoulder before opening the door. Whatever he sees makes his eyes light up. "Seya! Burgh! How the hell are ya?"
I hesitate in the doorway, wondering if there's still a way to get out of this. Warmth spreads over my back as Marshall hovers closer. "It'll be okay," he mumbles in my ear.
A flicker of hope blooms in me. I stamp it quickly, refusing to be let down once again. I'm done being played. "No," I say, "it won't."
"Leona," he whispers. "I promise—"
"Don't," I cut him off, making fists that turn my knuckles white. "No more lying to me. Maybe I'm naive, but I'm not too stupid to learn from my mistakes." I march into the room without giving him a chance to say anything.
The acrid smell of tobacco assaults me. The room is small with rich yellow walls and maroon accents that remind me of my father's study back home. For a second I'mactuallyhomesick. I never thought that would happen.
More men recline on glossy, chocolate-colored sofas and chairs in the middle of the room with their heels propped up on the low, rectangular table in the center. One of them has a cigar pinched in his teeth, the ash collecting in an empty champagne glass he's holding.
"Seya, I told you not to fucking smoke in here," Bradford scolds him.
"I'll stop when I have something to drink," he counters. He's a slim man in a tight fitted gray suit and matching pants, his ankles crossed on the table, shoes matching the furniture. They match his eyes, too. The color you'd see in the gentle face of a deer in the woods. But his eyes aren't kind in any sense of the word. They rake me over, making me feel violated. "Who's the chick?" he asks.
"This is Leona Hark," Bradford explains. "She made all the art at the show tonight."
"No shit?" another man wearing a long trench coat chuckles. "Little sugar-tits here is who we have to thank?"
Behind me IfeelMarshall's anger. His breath comes out like dragon smoke on the back of my neck. "Watch your damn mouth, Burgh."
Burgh shifts forward on the couch, adjusting his black trench coat. The pistol strapped to his hip gleams in the Edison lights overhead. He's looking over my shoulder at Marshall, avoiding me entirely, and I think I'm in the middle of something only they know about. "Good to see your merry face, Klintock," he says smoothly.
"I'd be merrier if I could break your nose."
