Page 3 of There Are No Saints

I turn away from the girl, irritation swelling inside of me.

“You think I’d be attracted to some filthy little scrabbler with bitten fingernails and raggedy shoelaces?” I sneer.

Everything about that girl repulses me, from her unwashed hair to the dark circles under her eyes. She radiates neglect.

But Shaw is certain he’s made a discovery. He thinks he caught me in some unguarded moment.

“Maybe I’ll go talk to her,” he says, testing me.

“I wish you would,” I reply. “Anything to end this conversation.”

With that, I stride off toward the open bar.

The hours pass slowly from eight o’clock to ten.

I slip in and out of conversations, soaking in the ready praise for my piece.

“You never cease to amaze me,” Betsy says, her pale blue eyes peering up at me through the rims of her expensive designer glasses. “How on earth did you think of using spider silk? And how did you acquire it?”

She’s giving me the same look of dazzled admiration she gave to Shaw, but she doesn’t dare rest her hand on my forearm like she did to him.

Everyone says the prize is as good as mine—or at least, everyone with taste.

I can see Alastor sulking over by the canapés. He’s received a hefty helping of accolades, but he’s noted the difference in tenor as well as I have. Compliments for him, raves for me.

I want the prize because I deserve it.

I couldn’t give a shit about the money—ten thousand dollars means nothing to me. I’ll make ten times that amount when I sell the sculpture.

Still, a cold foreboding steals over me when Betsy calls the crowd to order, saying, “Thank you all for coming tonight! I’m sure you’re anxious to hear what our judges have decided.”

I already know what she’s about to say even before she casts me a guilty look.

“After much debate, we’ve decided to award tonight’s prize to Alastor Shaw!”

The applause that breaks out has a nervy tension. Alastor is popular, but half the crowd is casting glances in my direction to see how I’ll react.

I keep my face as smooth as still water and my hands tucked in my pockets. I don’t applaud along with them because I don’t care about looking gracious.

“So the rivalry continues!” Brisk says to me, his face florid with drink.

“The Lakers and the Clippers aren’t rivals just because they both play basketball,” I say, loud enough for Shaw to hear.

The sports metaphor is for Alastor’s benefit, digging under his skin like a barb.

While Brisk chortles, a flush rises up Shaw’s neck. His thick fingers clench around the delicate stem of his champagne flute until I can almost hear the glass cracking.

“Congratulations,” I say to Shaw, not bothering to hide my disdain. “It doesn’t surprise me that Danvers was impressed by your work—he struggles when the message is open to interpretation.”

“Not every piece of art has to be a riddle,” Alastor snarls.

“Cole!” Betsy says, pushing her way toward me. “I hope you’re not too disappointed—I liked your piece better.”

“So does Shaw,” I reply. “He just won’t admit it.”

Betsy wheels around, noticing Shaw directly behind her. She gulps, her face turning pink.

“Your painting was wonderful, too, of course, Alastor!”

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