Page 20 of Surfer's Paradise

She had more important things to think about.

Greg Taylor.

His offer.

He’d been so certain about her work. So serious about buying. Commissioning.

A real collector. A man with connections, money, influence. Someone who could change things for her.

It felt… surreal.

Exciting.

Terrifying.

Rosie shook the thoughts off as she reached the transit stop—a dimly lit bench on a mostly empty street.

She wasn’t the only one waiting.

A man sat at the far end of the bench, hunched forward, arms resting on his knees. Thin. Twitchy.

She took the opposite side, keeping space between them.

She knew how to be careful.

She’d spent her entire fucking life being careful.

But she was still wearing the night on her skin.

Still in her art-show dress, her makeup soft and smudged, heels too nice, duffel bag slung over her shoulder like a target.

And he noticed.

His head tilted toward her, slow and deliberate.

“Hey, mama,” he said, voice low, slick. “You lookin’ real fine tonight.”

Rosie’s stomach tightened.

She stared straight ahead.

Didn’t engage.

Didn’t react.

Didn’t breathe.

But he wasn’t done.

He shifted toward her, just slightly. “What’s in the bag?”

Her pulse picked up.

Still, she didn’t answer.

Didn’t move.

The street was quiet.

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