Page 218 of King of Pain
I groan. “Still with that nickname?”
He pulls back and grins. “You look good, man. You do the paintings justice.”
Then Spence slides past. “Does he flirt with anything that walks?” he snarks as he leans in for a hug.
I hug him back, but he doesn’t move far afterward. He lingers.
Plants himself right next to Butters, in fact.
Butters side-eyes him, smiling devilishly, and says, “No. Only you, Muffin Man.”
Spence startles and jumpslike he’s been goosed. “Ryan Michael Buterbaugh!” he hisses, turning to shove Butters in the chest with one hand.
Butters is grinning so hard I’m surprised his face doesn’t crack in half.
Spence glares, rolls his eyes for the fifth time in as many minutes, and mutters, “I’m getting a drink,” before stalking off toward the bar. IthinkI hear him say “gorgeous idiot” under his breath, but I can’t be sure.
I look at Butters, raising a brow. “Why is hemiddle naming you?”
Butters just shrugs, all boyish innocence, then flashes me a smile and saunters off to follow Spence.
I stare after them and shake my head with a laugh.
I have so many questions about this night.
The unmistakable squeal of a microphone kicks on, and the energy in the room shifts.
I turn and see Liz up on the low-rise stage. Her silhouette practically glows under the soft lighting, all elegance and precision. She clears her throat and lifts the mic.
“Gentle humans of all genders and identities,” she says, voice cutting clearly through the space, “if I could have your attention for a moment.”
Conversations taper off as the crowd turns toward her.
“First, I want to thank you all for being with us this evening,” she continues, her gaze sweeping the room. “It’s an important night for several reasons, not the least of which includes the introduction of a brilliant new talent behind the exhibit before you.”
A pause. Then her tone softens.
“A generous talent, it seems.”
My brow furrows.
Liz gestures behind her to the exhibit with a graceful wave of her hand. “One hundred percent of sales from the entire collection are going to an important non-profit.”
I blink.
What?
I scan the room instinctively for Chance, but he’s still across the room, now watching Liz.
Liz adds, “I’ll let the artist himself tell you more about it, but I see a lot of familiar faces in this room… and I happen to know you can afford it.”
Light laughter bubbles around the gallery.
“Let’s not leave one painting unclaimed, shall we?”
The laughter grows. My face heats.
Jesus, my face might end up on a dozen walls across Phoenix. I hadn’t considered that part until just now. Why would anyone want that?
