51. Arden
51
ARDEN
An arm slid over my shoulders as I maneuvered through the crowd. “Ardy, teach me your ways. That was a battle to the death,” Isaiah said, a grin stretching across his face.
I shook my head, but a smile tugged at my lips. “I’m pretty sure there are more than a few women ready to catfight over you.”
He made a show of shining his nails against his suit. “You’re not wrong. Which just shows they have fabulous taste. But that fight would be unnecessary if you’d just marry me.”
“Keep dreaming, clay boy,” I said, slipping out from under his arm and making a beeline to the bar.
“You’re breaking my heart,” Isaiah called over the crowd.
I just waved without looking back, continuing on my path.
The bartender looked up from where she mixed a rum and Coke. “That was quite a show.”
“Men,” I huffed.
“You’re telling me,” she echoed.
“How’s everything going here? Are you running low on anything? ”
The bartender stepped back, doing a quick sweep. “I think we’ll need another bottle of vodka and white wine.”
“On it,” I said. I turned around but stopped short when I came face-to-face with the reporter. I did my best not to grimace as I greeted him. “Mr. Levine.”
“Sam, please.”
“Sam,” I amended. “I hope you enjoyed the event.” I moved to the side to step around him.
But he mirrored my movement to block my path. “I did. How do you think it went?”
My smile grew a little more strained. “We’ll see once the final tally comes in. If you’ll excuse?—”
“You know, I always find it curious when a subject is this reticent for an interview. Either they’re putting on an act—a persona—in hopes of making their art more alluring, or they’ve got something to hide. Which is it, Arden?”
Annoyance melted into a touch of anger. “I guess that’s your job to determine, isn’t it? Good luck.”
I moved quicker this time, not letting the jerkwad stop me. Slipping through the crowd, I made my way down the hall in search of the booze the bartender needed. I slipped into the first studio space and flipped on the light.
Hannah’s space was always neat and tidy, so unlike Farah’s, while Isaiah’s was somewhere in the middle. I crossed to the closet in the corner where Farah had said she’d stashed the bar supplies. Opening the door, I turned on the light.
Even this space was organized. Hannah had covered the walls in a burlap material that fit the earthiness of her paintings. Stacks of canvases were lined up against the far wall, while brushes, paints, and other supplies lined the others.
Farah had cleared a spot to stash the alcohol bottles, plastic cups, and other bar supplies, and I wasn’t surprised when I noticed we had far more liquor than we needed. Farah was always one to keep a party going.
Leaning over, I pawed through the bottles on the low shelves running the length of the closet. My hand closed around the bottle of vodka but as I lifted it, my bracelet caught on the burlap, pulling it back. I cursed, setting the bottle down and unhooking my jewelry from the wall covering.
Then I frowned. The burlap was loose, fastened only by hooks at the very top of the wall. And there was something behind it.
I gently pulled it back. Photos. Like some sort of massive collage. Only there was no artistic bent to it.
My mouth went dry as I tugged harder on the burlap. It fell in a whoosh, covering the shelves and spilling onto the floor. So many photos. They covered the entire wall, overlapping with one another.
They started with Isaiah as the subject. Him here at The Collective, around town, at his house. But there was one common thread. He clearly had no idea he was being photographed.
I moved deeper into the space, my stomach cramping as the photos turned from Isaiah to me. Except there was a different bent to these. Each one had angry Sharpie lines across them or even marks from what looked like a blade. My eyes Xed out. Face torn off. Words written across them.
Liar. Slut. Thief.
Holy hell. This was obsession. Rage.
“You bitch.” The words were low but filled with so much anger. There was no soft airiness like I normally heard in Hannah’s voice. There was only vitriol.
I whirled, taking in the woman I’d always thought of as a friend. Her red hair was piled on her head in an artful bun, her pale floral dress hugging her form. She looked beautiful, but there was nothing but hatred in her eyes as she filled the doorway. “Hannah, I?—”
“You what? It wasn’t enough that you made this whole night about you? You just had to invade my space on top of it?”
My jaw went slack. “No, I?—”
“You just had to throw yourself at Isaiah for the millionth time?”
Shock zinged through me as I tried to put the pieces together. The photos of Isaiah. The ones of me. I dropped my voice, trying to gentle it as much as possible. “Isaiah and I are friends. That’s all. I’m with Linc. You know that.”
Hannah’s eyes flashed with rage. “But he’s not enough for you. You just have to keep Isaiah on the line. Give him just enough that he won’t let go. So he can’t see who else is right in front of him.”
Nausea slid through me as memories swept through my mind. The way Hannah flushed anytime Isaiah paid her attention. How she was always offering to help him load sculptures or upload new listings to the website. How she seemed to hover around the edges of anywhere he was.
“There’s nothing between us,” I said calmly. “There never has been.”
“You’re right. And there never will be,” Hannah muttered.
And that’s when I saw it. The X-ACTO knife clenched so tightly in her hand that her knuckles had turned completely white.
“Because you’re going away for good.” And then she lunged.