Page 168 of Brooklyn Cupid

“What are you supposed to do?” he asks, his eyes on Becky.

“I should call Mrs. Kubinsky from La Jolla.”

He turns his confused gaze to me.

“She’s a gallerist,” I explain. “Maybe, she can do something.”

“Go for it. Gotta save your girl here.”

“I’ll be outside,” I tell him, already having found Mrs. Kubinsky’s number in my phone.

“I’m coming with you. Need a smoke.”

We walk out through the back office room and the door into the dark back alley, lined with dumpsters and piles of trash bags.

Mrs. Kubinsky picks up but doesn’t recognize me. She’s patient when I explain who I am.

“That’s right, Mr. Reed, how could I forget?” She laughs.

I tell her about the exhibit. She says there’s a flash mob in Central Park that’s gone viral online and gathered a lot of people. We know that already. But she has a friend who reports for theArt Weekly, so she says she’ll try to send her to Broad Street to check out Lu’s exhibit.

Mrs. Kubinsky is brief but polite, and when she hangs up, I exhale in relief. It’s something.

Roey leans on the wall of the building, puffing out smoke. “You’re a good guy, Jace. Just not quick with women.”

“Fuck off.”

“The girl you fall head over heels with”—he cackles, and I can’t help grinning—“turns out to be the daughter of your employer. Just a reminder, you shot her, too.”

Stress gets the best of me, and I rub my face with both hands but can’t hold back laughter.

“The prodigy sniper, the youngest member of an elite sniper club,” Roey taunts me, “missed for the first time in years and shot the future love of his life. That should be a movie.”

It’s ridiculous, I know.

“It’s just a slight complication,” I say. “Her father, I mean.” And a promise to be buried.

“Jace.” Roey’s voice is low and etched with warning, and I turn to follow his gaze.

Five guys are walking from the dark end of the alley toward us. Their attire is a giveaway—black boots, black clothes, and baseball hats.

They are staring at us as they approach fast.

“Jace?” Roey warns again, pushing off the wall and flicking away the cigarette.

One of them nods at me, his eyes drilling into me like he knows who I am. “You had clear instructions to stay away.”

And he whips out a knife.

59

LU

“Something is happeningin the back alley behind the gallery,” one of the caterers says as he rushes back from the office.

Becky and I exchange confused glances.

“With those two guys who were here. I think there’s a fight going on.”

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