Page 2 of Monsters

Chapter 1

NOW

“Can I have everyone’s attention, please?”

The gallery was buzzing with tipsy art lovers chatting about their latest acquisitions when someone clinked on their champagne glass. Voices hushed, their attention drawn to that of Maximus Kline, the current artist exhibiting his collection at the Pierson Gallery. He was a photographer who’d spent every day and night with his beautiful muse over the four seasons capturing the array of human emotions. From his tens of thousands of images, he had selected only fifteen of his finest—ones that ranged from euphoria to intense grief, humbleness to spite. Humans were a complex creature, and his raven-haired muse with the large pale blue eyes was a patient woman.

Maximus stood in front of his most popular piece, dominating the entire wall it was fixed on. He twirled the end of his hipster mustache with one hand and raised his glass with the other.

“Thank you all so much for braving the sweltering New York City heat. I’m so pleased…”

“I can feel the sweat dripping down my ass crack with every breath.”

“Jesus, Charlie,” I groaned, cautious to not draw attention to us. “Too much!” I playfully reprimanded my assistant who despite his denials had consumed a perilous amount of Moët in a misguided effort to cool down under his heavy suit jacket.

“What was a drip, now feels like a steady stream,” he continued, oblivious to the annoyed frowns turning his way. “How are you not sweating?”

I delivered a sharp jab to the ribs in an effort to silence him, and scanned the crowd for my boss. David, who had been standing only a few bodies to the left, was now no longer in sight. He wasn’t hard to miss. Over six feet tall, chiseled jaw and startling blue eyes, he was appreciated by most women, and men for that matter.

Beside me, Charlie removed his jacket to reveal a sweat-stained collared shirt.

“Are you feeling all right?” I asked, concerned he could suddenly pass out. Charlie was on the plump side, and I stood no chance in securing him a soft landing if he fell.

“Maybe I ate too much curry at lunch,” he admitted, swiping his sweaty brow before claiming somewhat of a defeat. “Or maybe the champagne is off.”

Shaking my head in amusement, I turned back to the proceedings. This was opening night, and Maximus Kline had been a huge acquisition for me in my role at the Pierson Gallery. It was the result of almost a year of negotiations, perseverance and late nights. So proud of it, in fact, I had assisted in hanging his smaller works myself, joyous in the sight of his work finally displayed on our walls.

“But mostly,” Maximus continued, his gaze resting on mine. “Mostly, I would like to thank gallery curator, Gemma Sinclair.” A soft applause sounded, and I returned his warm smile while raising my glass with his. “Miss Sinclair has accommodated my every wish, and I couldn’t have placed my trust in anyone else but her. If only all galleries ran as smoothly as this one does.”

I mouthed a thank you at his glowing praise as a voice whispered into my ear, his lips grazing the skin, the sensation causing a shiver to travel the length of my body.

“Good job, Sinclair,” David murmured. “If you can secure Renaldo Ruiz you might be looking at a promotion.”

When I could feel his body move away from mine, I exhaled. I had to tread carefully with David. As my boss, he couldn’t quite grasp the concept of personal space and always seemed eager to invade mine. I wanted to believe there was nothing more than sincerity behind his attention and compliments, but I wasn’t naïve.

He employed me, and I loved my job, so I wasn’t about to welcome his advances or reject too harshly. It was a delicate balance.

I couldn’t let him faze me. I’d been waiting to hear that one word for years. Promotion. This was what I had been tirelessly working toward. And now it was only one more artist away.

The crowd began to disperse, platters of hors-d'oeuvres and trays of champagne were offered. Patrons gravitated back toward their favorite works of art, critically analyzing every inch of the photograph and using obnoxious vocabulary that only existed within gallery walls. Overall, I couldn’t be happier with how the evening was panning out.

To my right, Charlie expertly swiped two champagnes and handed me one.

“To you, my darling Gem.” He raised his glass, and we clinked in celebration. “Onward and upward from here, and may nothing and no one bring you down.”

~

“Have you seen Charlie?” I asked the doorman at the gallery entrance, my heels echoing through the now empty halls. It was almost eleven, and my bed was definitely calling my name from across town.

“No, ma’am.”

“It’s fine,” David’s casual voice sounded behind me, his suit jacket now hooked over his shoulder. “I’ll walk Ms. Sinclair to her car.”

Damn.

“That’s not necessary. I—”

“Nonsense.” He stopped next to me, a smile twitching his lips. Sometimes I wondered if he could sense my discomfort and got off on it. “It’s far too late for you to be walking the streets by yourself.”

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