Page 140 of Sparking Sara

“You want revenge,” Denver says. “Revenge for something she didn’t even do. You did this all to yourself. This is your fault.”

We hear a noise coming from the back. “What the fuck is that?” Oliver asks.

“It’s a showing, Oliver,” Davis says. “They are getting champagne and hors d'oeuvres ready.” He looks at his watch. “People will start arriving any minute. I suggest you leave before you get thrown out.”

Oliver laughs. “Who’s going to throw me out? The faggot or the firefighter?”

Everyone else in the room knows Denver could easily take Oliver down without much of a fight. But Oliver is clearly under the influence. People like that make bad decisions. And I’m pretty sure nobody here wants to end up in a worse situation than we’re already in.

Oliver is still holding the can of paint with his finger on the nozzle.

“Put down the paint, Compton,” Denver says. “Aren’t you in enough trouble already? You’ve been asked to leave. Do you really want to add trespassing and vandalism to your list of charges?”

“What does it matter?” he asks. “I’ll never work in this country again. And once they arrest me, I won’t be able to go back to London.”

Oliver shakes the can of paint and before we can even react, he defaces one of my paintings with a bright-red X.

Denver is still standing in front of me, protecting me as if Oliver were wielding a gun instead of a can of spray paint.

“No!” Davis cries as Oliver shakes the can and points it at another painting.

What happens next, happens so fast I barely have time to comprehend it. One of the caterers comes out from the back, pulling Oliver’s attention away from us and the paintings. Oliver spins around and then Denver takes off, sprinting across the room until he tackles Oliver to the floor. As quickly as he takes him down, he shoves the paint can away with his foot and puts a knee into Oliver’s back, pressing him against the floor.

Denver looks over at me. “Call the police, sweetheart.”

Red and blue lights flash outside the door. “It’s okay,” Davis says. “I took care of it.”

Two police officers put Oliver in handcuffs, reading him his rights before they remove him from the gallery. “We’ll need all of you to come to the station and give a statement,” one of the officers says after Denver explains what happened.

“We will,” he says. “But it will have to wait a few hours.”

My surprised eyes find his. “You don’t really think we’re going through with the showing now, do you?”

“Hell yes,” he says. “That scumbag already stole months of your life. We’re not letting him take anything else from you.” He looks over at Davis. “Are we?”

“Listen to your man,” Davis says, walking over to remove the defaced painting from the wall. “We are having this showing, honey.” He looks at me with guilt-filled eyes. “I was the one who called the police earlier today, resulting in the warrant for his arrest. I was devastated over hearing what he did to you. And yesterday, when a client came in with a Benny Klutner painting—one I know for a fact was sold overseas last summer—I knew something was fishy. So I called Benny and he told me everything. He might have been higher than a kite when he did, but I still convinced him to press charges.”

He looks at the ruined painting of mine in his hands. “I’m so sorry. I never meant for this to happen. I’m just glad Oliver was so focused on the two of you that he didn’t see me texting a friend to send the police to the gallery.”

I wrap my arms around him. “Thank you, Davis. Nowyou’rea hero. Maybe now I can put it behind me and forget that part of my past.” Then I look at Denver and laugh. “Wow. I never thought I’d hear myself say that.”

Denver takes the ruined painting from Davis. He looks at it sadly. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

I shrug. “It’s okay. It wasn’t my favorite, anyway.”

He pulls me close. “All of your paintings are my favorites.”

People start to pour in the front doors, asking questions about what just happened, why the cops were here and why they had to wait outside. I look at all the faces as they walk past us. Lydia is here with her husband and new baby. Joelle brought her husband as well. Ivy and Bass stroll in, followed by a few familiar firefighters. Then Baylor walks through the door with who I presume are her sisters whom she told me about.

Many others walk in as well, filling up all the empty space in the gallery. Strangers who aren’t just here to support me. And finally, a smile breaks out on my face.

Denver squeezes my hand. “I told you you’d be a hit.”

Before I go mix and mingle with the crowd, there is something I have to do. “Denver, I want to show you something.” I pull him over to the far corner of the gallery where the showpiece is highlighted. It’s the painting I did in private.

As we approach it, Denver’s jaw drops. He studies the painting of a little boy covered with soot, the glow of a fire all around him, reaching his arms out to a firefighter.

I was so inspired that first day we met Joey in the hospital that I immediately began this painting, hiding it from Denver until tonight.

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