Page 7 of Deliverance

A pair of chestnut brown eyes fringed with dense lashes stare up at me. “Are you now?” She smiles, and it’s so disarming that I know this instant my wallet doesn’t stand a chance. I’m a sucker when it comes to a brains, beauty, and talent combo, and although we’ve barely spoken yet, my gut tells me Drew’s got all three going on.

Her artwork speaks for itself.

“I’m ready to buy. Just tell me where the credit card goes.”

She laughs out loud.

“Why don’t I leave you two alone for a minute to talk shop,” Hazel says, patting my shoulder. “I need to check on my monkey.”

She leaves and it’s just me and Drew, enveloped in the backdrop of voices and music.

“Zander. Nice to meet you.” I hold out my hand for a shake, letting my eyes wander a little. She’s not tall but not short either, her forehead almost reaching my nose. She’s wearing a ripped tie-dye print tank top and the hemline of her skirt grazes the parquet floor. This woman isn’t afraid to get her hands—or in this case, clothes—dirty. She’s dead set on making a statement while the rest of the guests are sporting business casual attire. There are a few cocktail dresses and suits, but no one, except perhaps Wendy, looks this wild. Especially the hair. But it’s not the color. It’s what Drew has done with it. Long brown strands teased and mounted into a messy do, held together by pink flamingo bobby pins. I'm smitten by this bold act of self-expression. Hell, I wore makeup for a living for almost two decades. I’m attracted to individualism by default.

“Likewise.” Drew wraps her long, delicate fingers around my wrist and squeezes it. Hard. My eyes are instantly drawn to her nail polish. It’s black with messy swirls of silver. Every detail—from the platinum tips of her hair to the worn out welts of her combat boots—is a work of art.

Her grip causes the blood in my hand to pump faster. I don’t want to let go, but eventually, and almost against my will, I do.

“Let me see.” Drew scrunches up her nose and takes a second to think. “You’re the drummer?”

“That’s right.” I nod. “Only for the past thirty years.”

“That’s some dedication.” Her lips touch the rim of the flute and she takes a small sip.

“So I take it you’re not a fan of men in makeup?”

“I wouldn’t say that.” She shakes her head lightly, a smirk cutting through her cheek. “I do like some of your earlier stuff more, but I kinda lost track afterTied Up. Too many bands to keep up with.”

Well, at least she’s honest. I can appreciate that. Women who lie just to get the attention of my dick or my wallet got boring ages ago. It’s the side of fame they don’t tell you about when you’re pushing your way to the top. Everyone is a friend until you hit a bump in the road or are unable to return a favor. Good thing my instincts are sharp. I can spot a fake right away, and Drew isn’t one of them.

“Fair enough,” I tell her and change the subject. “How did you and Hazel meet?”

“Through Tina. She’s my art dealer.”

We share a smile. My eyes are closing and I know my exhaustion is probably evident, but I’m determined to own a work of art this woman created.

“Which piece are you interested in?” she asks.

“Rhythm.”

“Ah.” Drew tilts her head slightly. “I’m not surprised that it spoke to you.”

“How come?”

“You’re the drummer. You tell me.”

Now I’m really curious. “I should probably revisit the artwork.”

Drew stares blatantly into my eyes for a long moment. “Sure,” she says finally.

We’re the only two guests in the hallway, standing in front of the framed canvas. Muffled noise from the party floats through the cool air between us.

“So what am I looking at?” I ask as I examine the splashes of thin metallic lines on the black background. My hands are buried in my pockets. My head is spinning.Fucking jet lag.

She doesn’t respond. Not for a while. It’s just me and her and a gap of volatile silence.

“This was part of my very first collection Tina showcased at the gallery,” Drew finally says, her voice low, vulnerable even. “It’s calledMusic.”

I’m stunned a little by her confession. My breath is caught in my throat and I can’t put a finger on it just yet, but something has shifted. The change is everywhere—in the oxygen we inhale, in the glances we steal from each other, in the awkwardness of our movements. We’re tied by an invisible rope and I need a minute to process the unexpected development.

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