Page 43 of Iron Blade

I had loved every moment of it. I loved hearing his voice, his words. He made me feel adored. I had never felt that way before. Not once in my life had anyone been so open with their regard. Most men tried to play it cool, and distant. But not him. He went in full-speed ahead all the time.

I stood up straight, looking at myself in the mirror I kept behind my door at the office.

My hair was in a tight bun, my dress was conservative, sleek, and professional. My cheeks were devoid of blush, because I wanted to look as blank as an unmarked canvas. Professional, authoritative, but non-threatening.

I fortified myself for another day of dealing with the public. Another day of leading them by the nose to the paintings I needed to sell. Another day of pretending to be something I wasn’t.

I looked down at the paperwork on my desk.

I took the pen in my right hand, and wrote down the name of Jerry Vasali, forging documents of authenticity for a fictional man.

Sure, if someone googled him, they’d find his college graduation roster, and find his name on deployment paperwork. They’d find a high school photo, and, if someone was very insistent, they could even find a driver’s license and social security card. But he was a made up man. My alter-ego.

I blew on the paper to make the ink dry faster, before dropping it on my desk and crinkling the bottom right corner, as if it had been passed from hand to hand over again.

“Show time,” I said, with a sigh, as I walked out.

Another day, another dollar.

I did what I normally did. I stood in front of a painting with my finger on my chin, as if contemplating it’s merits. As if I hadn’t seen these paintings all week, and already made my assessment in a blink.

“What do you think of this one?” some brave gallery-ogler asked, and I looked around, as if surprised to see a crowd forming around me, waiting with bated breath for me to speak.

“Oh, it’s… good enough, I suppose.” I couldn’t go negative on the first painting.

I had to be wishy-washy. Some pros, some cons. That way, they knew I had a brain, and an opinion. So when I was “wowed” by a painting, it would make an impact on the onlookers.

“I like the lines. The technique is solid. I think it’ll grace someone’s home nicely,” I said with a non-committed smile.

Then I walked to the next painting, and gave some words about how they used light, and details, the choice of brush strokes, and even the brand of paint they used.

I was bored.

My mind wandered, even as my mouth moved, and I responded to the same trite questions from the predictable crowd. I could do this job in my sleep.

I wondered, for a moment, if my boredom was part of the charm. The fact that I was so calm and disinterested must surely make me an expert, right? The fact that I wasn’t fawning over any one artist or painting for too long.

After I lead the crowd to the highlighted paintings, I stepped away with the excuse that I had to go find a drink – never mind the waiters walking around with flutes of champagne. I just needed some time to myself. Some air.

I wove my way through the guests, a hand shot out, tapping me on the arm.

I didn’t jump. I didn’t even register surprise, even as my mind screamed, “What the fuck is he doing here?”

It was Andrius Lutkus. He was a tall, handsome Lithuanian with sandy-blond hair, and golden skin. His brown eyes were flat, much like his expression. Handsome, in the same way a snake was beautiful - in its mystery and psychopathic blankness that screamed danger from every pore.

“Miss Kekoa, I was looking at a piece and I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind telling me about it.”

His sophisticated British voice had sent a frightened shiver up my spine the first time I met him. Now, it was a source of comfort. I was even starting to hear slight signs of his Lithuanian native tongue in the words.

“Of course, Mr. Lutkus.” My smile was professional, and distant, just as I had always practiced.

“I’ll take you up on the offer for a squash game,” Lutkus said, before waving at the man he’d been talking to, and leading me down the hall.

We walked, side by side, our steps in sync, until I purposely changed my rhythm. We were strangers, and strangers were rarely ever in step.

“Your gallery is impressive.” Lutkus was relaxed, as if he was simultaneously perusing the art we passed. “I’m so glad you agreed to sell the art from the governor’s mansion.”

“It’s my pleasure,” I said, my smile never faltering. “Those were extraordinary pieces.”

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