Page 31 of Surrender

I’m fucking screwed.

CHAPTER NINE

FOX

“I think the cage is visible through the pants,” I say, stopping in front of the large reflective windows of the museum entrance. I adjust my nice dress trousers a little and pull them tight over my crotch, watching Cristiano’s reaction via the reflection.

It’s a shame he’d skipped the sounding rod this time, though even I have to admit it would have been impractical.

“I think…” Cristiano says in a soft purr, stepping up behind me and wrapping an arm around my waist, “that no one else should be looking at what’s mine. This way, they’ll know you’re taken.”

I huff in amusement. “Your big arm draped possessively over me definitely doesn’t give that away.”

I catch one woman staring at us via the reflective windows, and I widen my grin. She hurries onward, probably embarrassed to have been caught staring.

I’m just glad to be out of the condo. I’ve been going crazy, just lying around with nothing to do but watch tv. I’d tried to gain access to Cristiano’s computer while he was out, but there’s enough security on it that I hadn’t wanted to risk it just yet.

Cristiano watches the woman go, and there’s something briefly troubled in his expression. His arm tightens around me for a moment, and he kisses the side of my head before letting me go completely. “Well. Are we going inside, or are you more concerned with my big, strong arm wrapped around you?”

“We’re going in! The exhibit I want to see is only on for another few days.” I walk up the remaining stairs and through the entrance to the Van Geersdorf gallery, one of the largest art museums in New Bristol.

I’ve been here hundreds of times already, to the point where I could probably run a guided tour without anybody realizing I’m not employed. At one point I even had a member pass, before Corbin found out and destroyed it, saying even that was too much proof of my existence.

“Twenty-eight dollars per adult? Looks like they upped the prices since I was last here.” I wind an arm around one of Cristiano’s. “But you’ve got us covered, right, Daddy?”

Amusement glints in his eyes. “Yes, I think I can handle that. I’m more worried about you ordering the most expensive thing on the menu when we go out to dinner,” Cristiano says, squeezing my arm lightly before he pulls out his wallet.

We get our tickets via the automatic ticket dispenser, grab one of the floor plans that I don’t need, and start going through the closest gallery. Impressionist painters, with the star of the gallery being a Monet piece.

“It’s a bit basic by now, of course,” I explain to Cristiano. “Everybody loves impressionists. You aren’t avant-garde for appreciating splotches of colors arranged to look like a real object.”

“Isn’t that all art?” Cristiano counters. “Ceci n’est pas une pipe and all that.” He stops in front of one piece by a lesser-known artist. “It still takes skill to know which colors to pick, and how to arrange the ‘splotches’ so they do imply a specific form.”

I smile, surprised at the reference. “They do have a gallery dedicated to surrealism. Without any pipes, unfortunately, but there’s a few other Magritte pieces.” I bump my shoulder against his. “Does this mean you actually like art, and you’re not just humoring me?”

“I do,” Cristiano says. He pauses, then adds, “I went to school for it, years and years ago.”

That’s even more of a surprise. “Really? For art history or a fine arts degree? Do you paint?” I smile widely and make a dramatic hand gesture. “Draw me like one of your French girls, Daddy.”

The words earn me a laugh from Cristiano, a genuine sound that makes butterflies flutter in my stomach. “Art history. I, unfortunately, would have to write ‘this is a pipe’ to identify the mess I put on the canvas.”

“But it’s not a pipe! It’s just a set of scribbles that you hope sort of resembles a pipe!” I grin and motion toward a nearby archway. “The second floor has the Dada art. Maybe we’ll find one of your artworks there.”

“They’d better not have stolen one of my multi-million-dollar paintings from my vault,” Cristiano drawls. “But yes, you’ve caught me. The art of ‘not’ art, absurdity, et cetera. That’s my specialty.”

We keep walking, discussing the paintings in hushed whispers and ignoring any dirty stares from other museum goers. I stop in front of a few of my favorite pieces, admiring them quietly, and I appreciate that Cristiano doesn’t try to interrupt my thoughts.

It’s a nice date, really.

Until we get to the temporary gallery. I walk around the small barrier and stop abruptly.

There’s only one painting in the first room, and it’s a large canvas that takes up almost the entire wall space. It’s a mixture of various reds, splattered across it haphazardly. The paint drips stand out in one corner, while in another, it’s the texture of brushstrokes that draw my attention.

I stare at it, my mouth going dry.

Cristiano places his hand on the small of my back. “Fox? Is something wrong?”

I gasp and shake my head. “No. Um, let’s see…” I look around for the labeling. “Red. Now there’s a creative title. Yeah. It’s… red.”

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