Page 14 of Deliverance

Online photos don't do Zander’s eyes justice. This man is more than just a combination of stunning looks, charisma, and drum skills. He’s carrying a burden. His black armband tattoo says a lot. Then there are secrets. I know he has them, because I have secrets too. I stare at people the same way he’s staring at me now—fearlessly.

Because attack is the best defense.

Part of me almost regrets that I was so faded last night when we met. I would have loved to experience the effect of those eyes during our first meeting—beneath the sky and among the posh crowd. But another part of me is glad I’m only noticing all this right now—when I’m sober. I need clarity to be able to talk to potential buyers without scaring them away.

“Great.” Tina claps her hands to release the sudden bubble of tension. “I’ve got a couple of things to take care of. Why don’t I check on you two in a bit?” She’s a great salesperson, but her secret is that she’s not obnoxiously pushy. She knows when to take a step back and it’s one of the reasons why we work so well together.

“DidMusicget moved to the Silver Room?” I verify to make sure we don’t wander around aimlessly, although I wouldn’t mind spending the entire afternoon walking and talking with Zander Shaw. Musicians are interesting. They’re a special breed. They don’t live by the rules. They make their own. Obviously, only to break them later.

Tina nods and flashes Zander a grin. “Let me know when you’re ready to own a piece made by the most sought-after artist in L.A.”

Warmth floods my cheeks. Even after all this time, I get flustered from direct praise. Especially when I’m not six cocktails in and in the presence of a man who has a crush on my work. Last night, under the influence of champagne, collecting compliments was easy. Right now, not so much.

“My credit card is all yours.” Zander gives Tina a wink and jokingly pats his pockets.

“I certainly won’t say no to that.” Laughing, she quickly retreats to the other room. More instructions to the working crew trail after her until the words turn into a jumble and disappear to the opposite side of the gallery.

“Shall we?” I motion in the direction of the tall arched doorway that leads to a much smaller space with no windows.

We enter it in silence and I take a moment to drink in the contrast of silver molding and dark colors decorating black matte windowless walls. Above, the ceiling is littered with small ambient lights. Long, skinny LED tubes are mounted above every framed piece, illuminating each little smear and bump on the canvas.

Here, the noise of the outside is dull and unimportant.

“How come I didn’t see this last night?” Zander asks a moment later, spinning on his heels to take in the entire room.

The glint in his eyes tells me he likes what he sees. Pride hits me hard.

“This part of the gallery was closed yesterday,” I explain, watching him carefully, gauging his reaction.

“Pity.” He turns to look at me and nods. Just once.

“Hazel’s work isn’t as dark as mine,” I simply say. “This space”—I gesture at the room, my arm floating through the cool air—“doesn’t fit with who she is.”

“That’s true. She’s…” He pauses for a moment as if he’s looking for the right word.

“Colorful,” I tell him before he expresses his thought.

“Yes. That’s exactly what I was going to say. You read my mind.”

“I’m afraid that’s a skill I don’t possess.”

Smiling, he shifts his attention to the artwork in front of us and studies it for a long while. “So I take it you’re not going to tell me about the process?”

“It’s not what you think.”

The canvas we move to next is the same size. All pieces in this room are. Tina and I came up with the presentation concept together. Every creation—from the moment of conception to the moment it meets the curious gazes of those who enter this gallery—has to tell its story in a way that’s true to its subject.

“Can I touch them?” Zander suddenly asks, glancing at me.

The question is startling and it takes me a few heartbeats to find an appropriate answer. “We don’t like when people do that, but go ahead.”

He reaches for a piece, his long fingers carefully grazing the bumpy surface of the canvas as if searching for something. The gesture is innocent yet so intimate.

I peek at a familiar skin discoloration on the inside of his wrist that runs up his forearm and disappears beneath the ink designs peppering the rest of his muscular arm. “Does your scar have a story?”

Zander withdraws his hand from the piece and flexes his fingers. “Nerve damage,” he explains curtly.

“That sounds painful.”

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