Page 52 of Selling Innocence

Well, other than shattered glass on the floor, and Vance on his hands and knees in front of it, a small wastebasket beside him. He picked up the shards of glass and dropped them into the trash.

“Fuck,” he muttered when one of the pieces slid across his fingers, a drop of red welling up at the tip. The word came out strange, without the defined way of speaking I’d grown used to from him. He normally spoke carefully, each word perfectly enunciated. Basically? He spoke like a man who came from a superb private education.

This time, he said the word drawn-out, slow and unclear.

A strong acidic scent hit my nose, and I identified it as alcohol.

That explained the way Vance spoke, at least.

He reached for another shard, even with the blood dripping from his gloved finger to the ground.

Before I could think about it, I rushed forward and dropped to my knees in front of him. “It’ll hurt if you get alcohol in that cut,” I told him.

I set his food on the ground beside him, then went about picking up the glass, dropping it into the basket beside him. It was easy, at least. The bottle had been an expensive brand—no surprise there—so the pieces had all been large.

“Why’re you here?” Those words slurred more than just the one word had, but even if he complained, he sat back and watched me work.

“You didn’t eat dinner, so I brought it to you.”

He glanced at the plate, then laughed. “Not hungry.”

“But the food will soak up some of that alcohol.”

“Exactly the problem.” He leaned his back against the dresser beside him, then lifted one knee and rested his forearm on it. “I don’t need to be clear-headed. That bullshit’s not for me, not today.”

I continued to clean the glass up, his words heavy. Normally, everything he said came out like some joke, like he didn’t give a damn about anything. He flirted and he laughed and he seemed untouched by the world around him.

Was that just a façade? Because it wasn’t this man in the least. This man watched me as if he were thinking, and I had to wonder, what did he think?

He probably wished I’d leave. Vance wasn’t the kind of man who would want to show his weakness to anyone, so me intruding and forcing my help on him wouldn’t sit well.

Too bad. If people screwed up too much, they got help whether or not they wanted it.

“Why did you destroy that canvas?” I kept my voice soft and quiet, as though the question would be less invasive if I whispered it.

Vance looked toward the shreds of canvas. Sadness rested in his blue eyes, dimming them, glossy from the alcohol.

Just how much did he drink?

“I didn’t like it,” he said.

“Why not?”

“That interviewer said, didn’t she? Five years is a long time. People lose skills.” His words sounded like bullshit to me, like an easy lie in place of the hard truth.

“Eat, please.” I finished with the last shard. A touch to the floor showed that very little alcohol spilled, which meant Vance must have drunk nearly the whole bottle before he dropped it, right?

He was actually doing pretty well, then. If I’d drank even a fraction of that, I’d have been on my ass.

“No. Nights like this aren’t meant for food.”

“What are they meant for?”

“Liquor and beautiful, easy women.”

“Well, you’ve drank more than enough, and I’m the closest you have to a beautiful, easy woman. So why not add food to the list, then sleep?”

He huffed a sound that could have almost passed as a laugh. Hell, it was almost charming, making him look younger and more carefree than even his normal mask did.

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