Page 12 of Deliverance

Taking a gulping breath, I shake off the fear and cross the street. Past and present continue to battle for control of my mind when I reach the gallery, but as soon as I step inside, my doubts are gone.

Here, within the walls adorned by still lives, I’m a motherfucking queen and no one’s going to take my success away from me. Not even Rhys Jacoby.

“There she is!” Tina calls from across the room the moment I enter the main floor. She’s suited up in all black, hair and make-up impeccable as always. Next to her is a tall man. My guess is he’s a reporter. They all look as if they came off the same assembly line. Wandering red-rimmed eyes, messy clothes, awkward smile, facial hair.

I walk past the reception stand and cut a path through the row of carts and portfolio stacks. The mess on the floor tells me the crew is probably still on lunch break, and the walls seem empty and cold without the artwork.

“Just the girl we need,” Tina says, rushing over to me, her heels clicking enthusiastically as the man follows. “Bruno was hoping he’d catch you here today.”

“Hi, Drew Kadence. Very nice to meet you.” I offer my hand for a shake and study his face. He looks to be in his mid-thirties, on the verge of burning out from chasing his big break. The lack of tan indicates that he’s spending most of his daylight hours either sleeping or working inside. The ketchup stain on his shirt means he’s probably eating on the run or in front of his computer. Taste isn’t something he cares about. I know the feeling well. It’s that encompassing cloud of creative fog that possesses your entire being. The sign of total surrender.

Bruno squeezes my hand. “Nice to meet you too, Ms. Kadence.”

“Oh, just Drew is fine.” Pretentiousness isn’t something I want to give in to. This was the promise I made to myself right after my first five-figure sale. I’d be honest not only in my art but also in the way I treat people.

“Bruno writes forAesthetic,” Tina cuts in. “He’d love to chat with you about your upcoming collection.” She rests her palm on my shoulder and gives me a covert sideways glance that doesn’t match her boisterous smile.

“I didn’t know we had something scheduled for today,” I mutter, trying to keep my cool, but surprises always knock me for a loop.

“Doesn’t have to be today if you already made other plans,” Bruno says politely. His gaze bounces between me and Tina. “The magazine wants to run a fall editorial onScars,and if you can release a few pieces from the collection, I believe I can get started with that. I’d love a recent headshot too. Your press kit didn’t have any.”

Acid rises up the back of my throat.

As if sensing my unease, Tina comes to the rescue. “I’ll get you all the materials by the end of the day. As for the headshot, my client prefers you don’t run any photos of herself.”

Bruno looks a little surprised but tips his chin in understanding, his gaze landing on me for a long moment. “Sure. Copy that.” It’s not an uncommon practice. Many artists like to keep their identities secret for various reasons.

“Drew’s art speaks for itself.” Tina flashes him a wide smile. She’s a bit of a sociopath and I question her humanity from time to time because I wouldn’t be able to lie to people in their faces the way she does—without flinching. And probably without remorse.

No wonder the woman made a fortune before she turned thirty.

“Does next Monday work for you?” Bruno asks.

“Yes. It does.” I nod.

Once we say our goodbyes, Tina walks him out. Their voices—hers sharp and his tense—travel through the main floor toward the front entrance and soon disappear behind the glass doors. Then I’m left one-on-one with the bare walls and jarring silence.

Today has been challenging and I’m struggling to regain my composure.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” Tina says when she returns. “He didn’t give me enough notice. I received his email an hour before he showed up here.”

“You could have texted me,” I fume. “You know I don’t like to get ambushed.”

“I will next time. I promise.”

We’re interrupted by the rumble of the working crew that pours inside from the service entrance. They’re finished with lunch and are back to the task at hand—getting the gallery ready for tonight’s exposé. The entire floor is now buzzing with energy. Rap music blasts from the small boom box one of the guys brought.

“Let’s talk in my office,” Tina offers, frowning at the lyrics. For a person who prides herself in being open-minded, she’s still a bit of a snob when it comes to the music and cursing combo, but I don’t argue. We’re all entitled to our own opinions. Just because hers doesn’t agree with mine doesn’t mean we can’t peacefully co-exist. Besides, she never belittles things she doesn’t approve of in public.

Once Tina rattles off the instructions, we move to the quieter end of the building where the redecoration noises don’t reach us.

“How long do you plan on keeping this up, Drew?” She attacks me with the question she’s been attacking me with ever since we started working together. “I know you’re scared, but I don’t think you give yourself enough credit.”

Closing the door behind me, I cross over to the window and stare at the rear of a truck sticking out from the side alley that separates the gallery lot from the shopping center. The office is located at the back corner and the view leaves much to be desired.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say, watching the workers milling around the loading dock.

“And I don’t want to wear high heels, but that’s the job, dear!” She pops her hip, both hands on her waist.

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