Page 32 of Dance of Devils
Bet that’s a fun house to live in.
I stare out the window in awe as we pull up to a huge gothic mansion, surrounded by a high stone wall and half-shrouded in towering oak trees.
I don’t let it drag me down, because Ican’t, but sometimes, it’s truly shocking to me how different people in the same city can live suchvastlyopposite lives.
I live in a Honda Accord. Dove lives in a mansion in the quaintest neighborhood in New York. I mean, obviously ahaunted asfuckmansion. But still.
“This is me, back here.”
Dove purposely steers clear of the imposing front door of the Marchetti mansion. Instead, she directs the Uber around the side of the house and up the driveway that loops through the gothicporte-cochèreuntil we’re in front of a super-cute carriage house.
“The one perk of moving back home,” she says dryly. “I don’t actually have to beinsidethe actual home.”
When we step in through the side door, she flips on the lights, and my jaw drops.
Wait, what?
I blink, turning slowly, drinking in the dozens ofhugecanvases covered in vibrant paint leaning against walls, the stairs to the lofted section, stacked up at the back of the couch, even one resting against the side of the refrigerator.
Splatters, dark, vicious streaks of paint. Explosive patterns of rage or passion.
I turn to stare openly at Dove.
“Are these…yours? Like, did you paint them?”
She grins sheepishly and lifts a shoulder. “Yeah,” she shrugs. “This is me.”
“Get thefuckout,” I laugh, shaking my head. “That issuperunfair.”
She grins nervously, shaking her hair out of the ponytail and letting the silvery-pink strands frame her face. “What is?”
“You’re aninsanelygood danceranda freaking genius artist. I mean,come on!”
She giggles, rolling her eyes. “Well, thank you. But this is just like…I don’t know. A hobby. Therapeutic, I guess?”
I shake my head, turning to stare open-mouthed at her work again. “Dove, I’m serious. These arereallyfucking good. You should show these to people.”
She flashes an awkward smile. “Uh…That’s kinda what I need your help with.”
My brow furrows in confusion before she grins and nods her chin up the stairs to the loft area. “Up here.”
“Fuck.”
The word falls unbidden from my mouth when I get to the top of the stairs and stare at the enormous work of art hung on the wall above a quickly made bed.
It’s gorgeous: huge, bold streaks of red and black over exploding splatters of blue and white.
“Damn,” I breathe, turning to her, my eyes wide. “Sofucking good, Dove.”
She grins. “Thanks. I’m putting it in a show tomorrow.” She puffs air through her lips nervously. “My first show, actually.”
“Dove!” I whirl on her. “That’s amazing!”
A big, honest smile tugs at her lips. “Thanks, Brooklyn.” She makes a face as she glances up at the painting. “But I need to get it downstairs to pack up for the gallery movers tomorrow, and it’s…kinda heavy.”
“Say less,” I grin at her. “I’m in.” Then I frown. “Wait—why did you say we have to move thisdiscreetly?”
She gives me a small grin. “Because it needs to go into the back of my truck, but my dad can’t know I’m entering a show.” Her brow furrows deeply. “He…uh…” She looks away. “He’d just be a real prick about it if he knew.”
