Chapter 7 Iris #2
“You could’ve done better,” he says. “I know the owner. Want me to do some pushy-pushy?” He winks. “I’ll drop your name. Easy money. No critics or curators. Just chalk and cocktails.”
I study the boards and say, “Maybe,” then nod toward the polka-dot-inspired paintings I’d noticed earlier. “Or maybe I’ll just replace those.”
“Please. Your Spotlight Study wipes the floor with them,” he says.
The thought of chalk work and extra cash doesn’t hold me for long. My attention drifts back to the room, to the laughter, the boasts, and the flung-around achievements.
Reggie follows my gaze. “Don’t tell me you’re envying the office set.”
“I’m not envying,” I say, sipping foam from my glass. “Just wondering what it’s like to have a paycheck.”
Reggie laughs. “Come on. You’ve been there.
Look closer. Those are the faces of stress incarnate.
See that girl over there, glued to her phone?
She’s calculating how many billable hours it’ll take to cover that third espresso martini.
And that guy with the Patagonia vest? He’s crying on the inside, Eye. Always.”
I can’t help it. I laugh. “That’s bleak, even for you.”
“Bleak but true. Meanwhile, you, my dear, are somehow…” Reggie tilts his head, studying me with mock seriousness. “Glowing. Anything you want to tell me?”
Glowing? Maybe. With rage.
He continues, “Met a certain someone? Perhaps a follow-up with that very good doctor whose clinic you barged into with a stray who promptly walked away from you this afternoon?”
There it is. He’s still miffed I didn’t call him the second I left Avelis. Still offended that I “robbed” him of the chance to meet Marcus Lockwood in the flesh.
“Nothing like that,” I say, already knowing exactly what I want out of this afternoon with him.
Reggie raises his glass. “To the inspiration you fled from, and the four-legged diva who ditched you for greener pastures.”
I tap his glass with a half-smile. The truth is, there’s only one person who can tilt the scales back in my favor. Even the universe knows better than to cross him.
Reggie Nygaard.
My chaos, my compass, my six-foot-two hype crew who can cut through my bullshit with a single raised brow.
He takes a sip, then points at me. “Come on. You had a date with him. Say it.”
“Marcus? Gods, no. He’s not my type. And certainly not my muse. If you want him, I can introduce you to Liam. He’ll make a good middleman.”
“I am not a pooch in need of a matchmaker,” he says, affronted. Then his eyes narrow, and he studies me longer than I’d like.
“What now?” I ask.
“You’re annoying me,” he says, tracing my expression. “Okay, this isn’t about some man who made you blush. So, what is it? Did something happen? Is this about your parents’ place? Are you short again?”
Well, the toilet apocalypse has been handled, and my mom’s roses no longer bloom shredded Kleenex. The house still needs work, and a nine-to-five won’t save me. Neither will cutting meals down to once a day.
But that’s not what I’m here to tell Reggie.
I let out a long breath. “I haven’t exactly been truthful with you.”
He leans in, his lips curving. “Iris Vaughn doesn’t marinate in guilt. So, darling, what did you do?”
“I told you LeBlanc loved the painting. That I’ve been holed up at my studio with Blanket, working on the rest of the collection.”
Silence stretches. “Oh, honey…”
“That I’d catch up on rent once he handed over the advance.” I let my shoulders collapse toward the bar. “Well, he didn’t love it. He didn’t even like it. He said I’d lost my edge.”
Reggie reaches across. “Oh, baby, I’m sorry. He’s blind. Blind and tacky.”
“Don’t be sorry, Reg. I needed the slap. He was right. I’ve lost my edge. And I want it back. I just don’t know how yet.”
“All right, let’s get into it. Do you want emotional validation, tough love, or wardrobe reinvention?”
“None. I need a big break,” I say, like he doesn’t know. “And it needs more than wishful thinking.”
“Well, the opposite of wishful thinking is hard work,” he says. And before I can protest, he adds, “But I know you. Things don’t just suddenly fall back into place the second you pick up a brush again. You need a trigger.”
I throw my arms up. “Thank you!”
“Okay. What trigger?”
“A dare,” I reply.
His brows jump. “Define ‘dare.’”
“Something unthinkable. Dangerous.” I watch him take that in. We artists are crazy that way. What looks irrational to everyone else can be the single drop of water that opens a hidden leaf.
Reggie picks up my glass and then squints into it. “What did they pour you? Truth serum?”
I yank it back. “Reggie, focus. I know I have it in me. I can make something bigger than Crimson Reverie. And this isn’t about chasing some delusional artist fantasy. I know what sells now. I’ve learned. I can make something that knocks people out of their stupor and makes them throw money at me.”
I lean in, conviction slicing clean. “But to do that, I need to be knocked out of mine. I need something that shocks me first.”
He ruminates, actually considering it now. “Okay…an unthinkable dare.”
“Something smart enough to make my muse sit up.”
“God, I’ve missed this side of you.” He pauses. “How about…painting without using your hands?”
“Cute, but no,” I say.
“Okay…break into the Natural History Museum and sketch the T. rex by flashlight.”
“Tempting, but still no.”
“All right.” His voice lowers into the plotting register. “You want bad? Get your ass to LA, find Karoline Vitto, pitch her that smartwatch ornament you made me, and make it the next ‘must-have.’ Wear something so iconic that they name a street corner after you.”
“That’s not a dare. That’s career suicide.”
“Well, do you still have a career?” he says it so casually that I almost miss the sting.
“Dammit, Reggie.”
“I love you. But you’ve been hiding, and not just the dots. You. Vitto would be a power move if you’re game.”
I don’t argue. Because he’s right.
“Fine. I’ll think about it. But I want something now. Something outrageous to make me remember I’m still alive.”
He snaps his fingers. “A heist.”
“A heist?”
“At LeBlanc’s.”
I huff a laugh. “Now we’re talking. But this one’s a little too close to a felony for my taste.”
“Fine, fine. Remember our golden era of sneaking into invite-only clubs?”
A curl of energy licks low in my gut.
Back then, Reggie was still a wannabe designer, but that didn’t stop him from obsessing over couture like it was his birthright.
He’d rope me in as his mannequin, wrapping me in polyester that could almost pass for silk.
Before we ever stepped out, he’d stage what he called a private preview, topping me with a ridiculous headdress and impossible heels he’d scored on Canal Street.
The runway was the front hall of our shabby Port Richmond apartment.
Its uneven, chipped tiles trained my ankles for battle.
I could still scale a fire escape in five-inch heels thanks to Reggie’s relentless coaching.
Those days were fucking glorious, and now the Queen of Bad Ideas himself has me wanting. “Go on.”
“There’s one near LeBlanc’s. My business partners swear it’s the new crown jewel of New York nightlife. Steel basement door, just like any other in Chelsea’s alleys, but look for a tiny chain decal on the top right corner. That’s your mark.”
“Okay…”
“Just okay?”
“I’m thinking,” I say.
“Or—” his tone turns cabalistic, “—you could stay local. And by local, I mean your exile-barn territory. Go hunt down the Hudson Valley off-ledger club. Think the Illuminati’s sexier cousin.”
The curl of energy quickens into pulses, and my feet jiggle on the footrest of the stool. “Where in the Hudson Valley?”
“Rumors have it, it’s north of the river, west of where Airbnbs start charging triple.”
“Reggie. Be serious.”
“Well, the most credible one I’ve heard puts it in the Hudson Highlands.”
Hudson Highlands still counts as my neighborhood.
Though if Reggie calls it the Illuminati’s sexier cousin, it’s got to be inside one of the estate pockets, nowhere near my turf.
Still, how have I never heard of it? I’ve been renting that damn barn for more than a year.
Then again, I’ve barely spoken to anyone up there.
But really, how hard can it be to chase down a rumor in a place with half the people and twice the trees? Even one as cryptic as Reggie’s?
Ideas tumble one over the other, reckless and intoxicating.
Consequences? Please. I’ve already scraped rock bottom.
From here, the only question is how spectacularly I climb…
or crash. Either way, they’ll remember my name.
Whether it’s for the night itself or what I set loose after. No one will know until it happens.
“I’ll find it! I dare you!” I say, lifting my glass.
Reggie eyes me like he’s not sure if he should be thrilled or terrified. Then his watch beeps. “Well, darling Eye, I’d love nothing more than to see this dare unfold live and uninterrupted, but alas—” he flourishes his wrist “—I’ve got a flight to catch.”
“Go.”
“I expect updates. Pictures. Preferably a viral scandal or two.”
“I’ll consider it,” I say, keeping my tone modest.
“Don’t just consider it. Live it.”
He kisses me on both cheeks and sweeps out in a rush of cologne. I stay where I am, my heart hammering harder than it has in weeks. Reggie always knows where to aim. But what he doesn’t know is how far I’ll go once I’ve decided to hit the mark.