Eleven
Amelia
My gallery is in the Hudson end of Chelsea, a good-sized independent unit. My inheritance makes it affordable. Barely. To pay the mortgage, I still need to shift a reasonable amount of art each month.
My name is in a clear, crisp font above the door: Anderson. It’s partly in honor of my parents, who made this possible, and it gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling every time I walk in.
I have a small office at the back, and I fire up my computer and start working through my emails. We’re holding an exhibition a week from Wednesday, and there’s still a lot of work to do. That will be my big seller for this month, hopefully making up for last month’s not-so-good revenue.
Sierra walks in just before nine. She’s both my assistant and my best friend, her admin skills making up for what she doesn’t know about art. She’s also bringing me a latte from my favorite coffee shop.
“Perfect, just what I needed.” I take a sip, sighing in pleasure as I lean back in my chair.
“You’re in early.”
“Yeah, I… couldn’t sleep.” So to speak.
“Worried about the exhibition?”
“No, not really.” I wasn’t, until she said that. “Should I be?”
“Just a lot riding on it.” She gives me one of her sympathetic looks to let me know she’s here for me, while slowly adding to my panic.
“We’ve got it all in hand, right?”
“Oh, yes.” She sets her coffee down on the edge of my desk and ticks off on her fingers. “Three pieces of Michael Amiento’s work with six more to come. Jeanne Quek’s stuff is arriving early next week, and I’m really excited to see them.”
I smile. That was a bit of a win, if I do say so myself. She’s an unknown name, but what she does with metal is genius. “I know they’ll be popular.”
“That’s fifteen, and we have seven from our collection.”
“And the invite list?”
“Ninety-two confirmed so far.” Sierra looks smug. “We’ve got Jordan Fletcher coming from Time Out.”
“No way! That’s great news!” A good review could really help my fledgling gallery find its feet.
“It is, isn’t it? The wine and canapes are booked. So that’s everything, right?”
“Good.” I relax back into my chair, breathing more easily. “I’m going to be out this Wednesday. I’m meeting my sister, but I’ll be in the area if you need me.”
“Oh, wonderful. It’s all in hand here. You deserve a break.”
“So spill it,” Lucy says as I walk up, two days later.
She’s leaning against the wall near the gun range, arms folded, dressed in her usual work skirt suit. Her inheritance hasn’t changed her at all; the money’s in the bank. Partly why Serranto was so interested in her, the bastard.
“Nice to see you too.” I come in for a hug, careful not to wrinkle her.
She returns it warmly then pulls away, narrowing her eyes at me. “I’m waiting.”
“Uh…” I look around. The street’s bustling, late lunch crowd from nearby offices, foot traffic, deliveries. I lower my voice. “So you know that gala?”
“The one Steven was at?”
“Serranto, yes,” I say, half correcting her. That man doesn’t deserve the courtesy of a first name. I shift my weight. “So… uh… I met someone while I was there.”
“You did?” Lucy replies, tone carrying her surprise. “Romantically? What about Scott?”
Romantically. That’s a laugh.
I choose to answer the easier question first. “Scott’s ancient history.”
“Oh. Is that a relief?” Lucy never liked Scott.
“Definitely.” I didn’t realize how good until he was gone. I haven’t given him a second thought since his peculiar text.
“Good. So who’s the new man?” Her head tilts. “And why the hell do you need a gun?”
“Home defense.” I ignore the awkward question.
“Has something happened?”
She was always going to ask, and I feel guilty for the half-truth I’ve prepared. “Uh… someone broke into my apartment block.” True. “They got in through the main door too easily.” Definitely true. Still don’t know how. “Made it onto my floor.” And into my apartment.
“Holy shit!” Lucy’s eyes have gone round. “That’s scary. What happened? Did the police come?”
“No… he left before then.” After he’d stayed the night. “Still, it made me think. Can’t be too safe, right?”
“I suppose not,” she says thoughtfully. “I guess I understand the rush, but you should still apply for a license.”
“How long does that take?”
“A while.” She shrugs. “Six months, easy. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not suggesting you wait. But I’d feel happier knowing it was all legal.”
“I will,” I promise to help allay her tension. I half mean it, too.
“Well… let’s go and see what suits you.” She leads the way in. “So when do I get to meet your new man?”
I laugh nervously. “Still early. I’m not introducing him to anyone just yet.” And nor will I.
Inside, the smell hits first: gun oil and metal. The man behind the counter looks up with interest, probably less used to seeing women walk into his shop. Glass cases line the walls displaying neat rows of weapons.
Lucy walks over with confidence. “I’d like to buy a handgun, please, and we both want to try it out on the range.”
“Sure, little lady. Do you have a license?”
Lucy fishes a card out of her purse and holds it up, ignoring the man’s condescension.
“That’s in order,” he says, peering at it. He looks past Lucy at me. “And you?”
“Just here for the experience,” I say lightly.
“The gun is for me,” Lucy says, blushing furiously. She’s useless at lying.
“Fair enough.” The man doesn’t seem to care. “Do you know what you want?”
I step forward, taking an active interest. I want to ask questions, but that might tip off that the gun isn’t for Lucy at all.
She doesn’t hesitate. “Do you have a Smith we have the place to ourselves. “It’s light, easy to use, and the recoil isn’t too bad.”
“Have you done much shooting?” This is a side of my sister I’ve never really seen. I knew she had the license, but not why or what she did with it.
“A bit, yeah.” She gives me a small smile that suggests she’s been in places like this every other week, then hands me a set of ear defenders.
Shooting a gun has never really appealed, but I’m motivated now. I want to know how to use the damn thing in case Van Wyk ever returns. I’ll shoot the fucker in the leg if I need to. Maybe even a little higher.
Plus, Lucy is good at this stuff. When she takes her turn, her shots are more accurate than mine, her grouping tighter. It brings out my competitive edge.
An hour later, we’re out of rounds and my hand is aching, but I feel I’ve gotten the hang of it.
“Wasn’t that fun?” Lucy asks back in the shop, bright-eyed.
“It was.” I enjoyed it more than I expected, particularly when picturing Van Wyk’s face on the targets.
Lucy pays for the gun, a case, and a box of rounds. I know how to load the thing, but not how to clean or maintain it, and she promises she’ll come and check on it from time to time.
“Thank you.” I give her a hug on the street outside. “Do you need to get back to work, or do you have time to look around the gallery?”
She glances away, biting at her lip, cheeks tingeing red. “Uh… I have plans this evening.”
I blink twice. “You do?” That sounded a bit incredulous in my own ears, but she caught me by surprise. She normally tells me about her men, and this is definitely a man. I try again, with more enthusiasm. “That’s great! Who is it?”
“Uh…” She can’t meet my eyes.
The cold chill of foreboding runs over my skin. “Lucy…”
“I’m just having dinner with him,” she mutters.
“Shit. It’s Serranto, isn’t it?” I know it is, and her kicked-puppy expression only confirms it. “Goddammit, Lucy!” She has no idea what I went through. What I’m still going through. What I just bought a fucking gun for. “Why?”
She says nothing, just stares mournfully at the sidewalk, still unable to look at me.
“I can’t believe you,” I snap. “You know what he’s like. I proved it to you. And you go back to him anyway?” I throw up the hand that’s not holding the gun we just bought. “Why did I even bother?”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then help me understand.”
She meets my gaze, her eyes liquid. “I’m doing it for you, Ammy. He…” She swallows. “…he said if I didn’t meet him again, he’d make sure your ‘fucking gallery would never get off the ground.’”
I stare at her as cold rage fills me. Not just at Serranto, but at that bastard Van Wyk. He told me this would be dealt with. I should’ve known he couldn’t be trusted.
Underneath it all, my guilt swells. It’s my fault she’s with him, and my fault again that she hasn’t said no.
Fine. I’ll do it for her.
“No.” I give the word as much vehemence as I can muster. “No, hell no, and abso-fucking-lutely no.”
“He’ll go after your gallery…” she says on a breath, eyes wide.
“Let him,” I snarl through gritted teeth. “I’ll take that bastard head-on if I have to.”
I can’t help but glance down the street to where my beloved gallery sits, clenching my jaw.
Let Serranto do his worst.
The art world may be small, but I’m carving my own niche. The artists I’ve found, the exhibition I’m running, the style I’m backing. It’s all my own work, my own goddamn money, sweat and blood. It’s real, it’s my passion, and he can’t take any of that away from me.
He can’t touch me.
“It’s a goddamn bluff,” I say to Lucy. “You are not going tonight. Instead, you’re coming to my place. We’ll do dinner, eat ice cream, watch old movies.”
She gives me a wan smile. “All right. But what am I going to tell Serranto?”
“Nothing.” I pause on the sidewalk, turning toward her. “You’re going to block his goddamn number, right now. And if he turns up at your door, you’re going to shoot him in the fucking balls.” Just like what I’ll do to Van Wyk when I see him next.
Lucy looks at me aghast. “I can’t do that!”
“In the kneecap then,” I say, taking her phone. “Pin code?”
She gives it to me tentatively, and I hold the phone so she can see as I scroll through her contacts, find his name, and block it. “Home defense,” I tell her as I hand it back. “If he forces his way in, it is absolutely legal to put a bullet in the fucker.” That’s what I’m focusing on, too.
“I don’t think I can…”
“I’ve just seen you shoot. You could do it while he’s still getting out of the elevator.”
“I’m certain that’s not legal.”
“Just keep him away, that’s all I’m asking.” I grip her hand. “Promise me?”
She hesitates for a moment, then nods. “I promise,” she says. Then squares her shoulders, her voice strengthening. “You’re right. He’s a bastard, and I don’t want anything to do with him.”
“Good.” I give the word weight, letting it stand as a pact between us.
Two hot, well-armed sisters against the world.
Those fucking men won’t know what hit them.