Bad for Business (For the Love of Crime #1)

1. Amelie

1

AMELIE

In a rare moment of stupidity, I’ve chosen my prettiest dress to scope out a rather expensive painting.

You’d think I’d be able to better curate my outfits after twenty-two years on this Earth, but I haven’t found that to be the case. Yes, I know to always choose something neutral. I know I shouldn’t draw attention to myself, but that isn’t fun ! Sometimes I just want to wear a puffy pink dress, regardless of how many people will see me.

Today, however, the goal is no one. Hence why I attempted to cover up, at least a little.

It killed me to grab a coat on the way out of my apartment. Some dingy leather jacket that Jensen keeps on our coat rack. I’d rather leave the house naked than wear black, but I didn’t have time to find a better option.

The art gallery that I’m headed to—so creatively named The Gallery— is only three blocks away. I’ve got about ten minutes before these heels start blistering my feet, so I pick up the pace.

My plan is very simple: I get in, snap a photo of the piece, and get out.

It’ll make our work tomorrow go much smoother.

I pop my gum as I turn the corner. The line to the museum appears in my field of vision, and I sigh through my nose. For a Tuesday, it’s a strange level of crowded. Don’t people have jobs on Tuesdays? Normal jobs, anyways. Not something like I do.

Whatever. It’s easier to stay hidden this way.

I wait patiently in line, fiddling with the rings on my fingers. A kid in front of me is tugging on the hem of his mom’s shirt, asking for a toy out of her purse, but she keeps waving him off until they reach the front. They pay the fee and enter, and I dig a bill out of my purse to do the same. The man near the door gives me a stiff nod as I hand him the cash and walk inside.

This building is one of my most hated places on earth.

It looks so sterile in here. Canvases line every wall—which I get, because it’s an art museum, but it lacks a look of chaos. The pieces are in straight, perfect rows, and they’re more classical than abstract. Most are painted with brown or white acrylic; or, if you’re lucky, you can spot the lightest shade of indigo.

My face is trained into what I hope is an amazed expression. I try to appear somewhat awestruck, like I’m observing this place for the first time. Like being surrounded by art is the most surreal experience of my life, something I’d pay to do again on my own free will. In reality, I’m staring numbly at these pieces. I’ve seen them too many times.

Only one in this building elicits any sort of positive emotion from me, and it hangs to my left.

I’ve never looked at this piece for anything other than enjoyment. It’s off-limits to me—I’d never take an offer on it. It’s the best one here, the only good one in my eyes, and I will not remove it from this wall.

It’s simple, yet not.

A flower. That’s all it is. But the closer you look, you can see that the petals and stem and leaves are made of words. Names. The letters are jumbled, tangled in each other and practically unreadable.

I’ve only been able to see my name amongst the others. Right in the center of the stem.

And for that reason, I’ve never looked at the plaque beside it. Never looked at the piece’s name or who painted it. I know that when I do, it’ll be ruined, and I don’t need to put a name to its creator and confirm my suspicions. I need to live in oblivion and have a sliver of joy in this place, thank you.

To my right is my least favorite painting, only because it’s so bland in comparison. I am nothing if not a maximalist. Singular blotches of color are my nemesis, and this piece is made entirely of different shades of beige. Beige! It physically hurts to look at it. I don’t even allow beige furniture in my apartment, much to my roommate’s dismay. Jensen and I fought for weeks over a jade green couch—he said it was too much, I said it wasn’t enough.

I won, by the way. The couch is my most prized possession.

Semi-reluctantly, I make my way toward the back where a particular painting waits for me. I move slowly, still trying to give the illusion that I care about this place, but I don’t. I’ve memorized every corner in here, every canvas on these walls. I see them in my dreams, and I mean that in a derogatory manner.

It takes me a moment to navigate through the mass of people—seriously, who comes to an art museum at this time of day?—but I finally reach the piece.

This one? It’s pretty new. Been here for a couple of weeks. We got an offer for it on the day of its reveal, so it’s much past time for it to go. Personally, I couldn’t be more eager to get it out of here.

I hate the look of the piece. I hate the person who painted it. I want it all gone.

At the base of the canvas is a stone path. Gravel. Nothing laid by hand. It’s too chaotic to be intentional. The rock leads into an ocean, or maybe just a very large pond. Some body of water nonetheless.

But what’s unsettling, what startles me when I look at it, is the gaping black hole that seems to hide behind the water.

The part of the canvas where the sky should be is just…black. Jet black, like the artist thought regular black paint wasn’t scary enough. The water seems to tunnel into the darkness until it disappears. I step closer than I’ve dared to before and notice a body swimming toward the void. Nearing the edge.

The air conditioning kicks on somewhere above me, and I shiver.

“A lovely painting,” I mumble to myself, letting sarcasm seep into my voice. Expelling what disdain I have for this piece isn’t a crime. Ripping it off the wall will be, I guess, but that’s a technicality. And anyways, talking to no one in particular is fun. It’s interesting to see who will listen.

In this case, a split second too late, I notice someone standing near me. He’s staring at the same canvas I am, head tilted to the side. I can’t make out his features, probably because I’m only viewing him through my peripheral vision. “I think so too,” he says.

And that voice, low and reverent, sends goosebumps over my skin.

If he knew who he was talking to, he wouldn’t be talking so freely. He would probably be escorting me out of here in handcuffs.

I don’t take my eyes off what’s in front of me, but I do make it a point to keep talking.

“Come around here often?” I ask stiffly, then mentally kick myself for asking that question. Are we at a saloon ? Am I about to draw my handgun and ask for ten paces? Ridiculous!

The man takes a step forward, and I fight the urge to turn toward him. To turn away. To run directly up the wall in front of me and claw my way out through the ceiling.

“More often than I’d like,” he says, and it sounds like an admission for something I don’t understand. “Though it’s quite nice. Atmospherically, anyways.”

I bite down on my lip, fully aware that I’m ruining my lipstick. I’ve got to turn around . It would be a bit odd if I didn’t, and the door is behind me. If I want to leave, ever, I literally have to turn around.

What if I just back away slowly and keep my head down? Maybe he won’t find it odd.

I take a breath through my nose, the air suddenly stale.

No. I’m not going to do that. I’m going to woman up and face the man behind me.

“It is nice,” I say, allowing myself a full look over my shoulder.

And when I do, when his eyes meet mine, his entire face drops.

“You,” he breathes, his voice slightly strained.

I plaster on the sweetest, most patronizing grin I can muster up. “Me.”

I never thought the day would come.

Henry Arlington is staring at me, completely speechless. I can’t tell if he’s just taking in the sight of me or if he’s truly stunned. I give him a look over, only because I’m curious, and I’m absolutely aggravated at what I find.

He looks the same as he did four years ago. Classy outfit—as in, beige trench coat and wire-rimmed glasses. It’s like looking at our high school English teacher, if Mr. Beal were younger and his life hadn’t gone down the drain.

Cut jaw. Dark hair. Glassy blue eyes, hidden behind those glasses I pretend not to like. Crooked smile, if he would smile, which I’m not expecting whatsoever.

He’s devastating.

Abhorrent .

Everything I want and everything I hate all at once.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” I say simply, popping my gum to tick him off. I know it’s a pet peeve of his, but he shows no signs that he cares. “At all.”

Henry swallows hard. “That’s not?—”

“It was nice seeing you.”

It wasn’t, but that’s alright. I don’t care much to tell the truth, especially not to him.

I pull my phone out of my purse and take a photo of the canvas, getting enough of the location in the gallery that Meg will get me an easy in tomorrow evening.

Even more than a few moments ago, I cannot wait to rip this piece off the wall.

My stomach is in knots when I lower my phone. Henry’s eyes are still on me, lips parted like he wants to say something. I don’t think he will, though. Words left us long ago.

I take a deep breath and turn around, my palms sweating an embarrassing amount as I step away.

“No,” Henry says suddenly, moving toward me. “Ames, let me?—”

“No,” I say in return, not looking over my shoulder as I basically bolt from the premises.

I’m two blocks away before realizing that he used my old nickname.