Page 3 of One Wild Ride

“A. Hawthorne may be a recluse but at least he’s not a hoarder. I’m glad he allows the public to experience these treasures,” I said with barely contained excitement.

Hypno-eyes frowned and abruptly turned his back to move toward the door. I guess Mr. Hawthorne’s employees didn’t like people calling him a recluse. It’s a good thing I hadn’t brought up the rumors that he prefers to sleep with prostitutes.

I’m not one to judge women on what they have to do to survive in this male-dominated world, but I would think a billionaire wouldn’t need to add to the exploitation of women. But what did I know of the happenings behind closed doors of penthouses?

I walked through the door and it eerily closed behind me. I hoped it was the latest tech gadget closing that door and not a dead painter’s ghost here to collect his lost work.

I quickened my step from the eerie door and was struck once again as I entered what appeared to be the love-child of a living room and a museum.

My friends sat on a what I thought to be a replica of an orange Florence Knolls sofa. But as I glanced around the room, I realized there were no replicas in this room. No knockoffs or vintage-inspired. Everything was original, from the George Nakashima end table to the Matisse hanging on the wall behind Evaleen.

I pointed to my friends and said, “When I die, I want to be cremated and my ashes scattered in this room.”

“You got it.” Morgana gave me thumbs up.

“Ah, Dixon, you can’t just scatter your ashes anywhere you want. This is someone’s home. They don’t want a dead person’s ashes on their couch.”

Despite Evaleen’s cute habit of calling people by their last name and sound logic, I chose to ignore her comment.

“Ms. Dixon, A. Hawthorne will meet with you now. He is down the hall; the second door on the right.” Bradley pointed toward a hall that appeared to be in competition with the Louvre.

This was it—the point of the whole evening. To meet the man who didn’t just buy my paintings but propelled me into the elite artistic circle. If A. Hawthorne showed interest in an artist, their career was set. Every gallery wanted to show their work.

I can finally get a chance to show my paintings, not just in Chicago but New York, Los Angeles, and perhaps even the world. No more slinging drinks for tips. No more drunk losers groping me, expecting me to smile when they take what I never told them they could have.

I left my final resting place and moved quickly down the hall. Standing in front of the door to the room that held my savior I paused and removed my puffy black coat. Smoothing my shoulder length hair and rubbing at my good luck charm around my neck—my sister’s old heart pendant necklace—I reached over knocking on the door.

It opened, and I wondered if all the doors in this place were possessed. In the middle of a square room with a large wooden desk and a few black leather chairs stood Hypno-eyes.

He waved me inside. “Come in, Aria. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Alexander Hawthorne.”

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