Chapter 4
Chapter Four
LIAR
Iwoke up feeling practically normal. I stretched, hoping my toes or fingertips would encounter muscles and warmth, but instead, just cool, empty Egyptian cotton. They were extremely nice sheets. Nix had expensive taste for a home health specialist. Or a fighter for that matter.
I made a face as I sat up alone in my bed, surrounded by ridiculously large screens on each wall.
Beastie had more than made good on his word, and I’d spent a lovely time napping between Pride and Prejudice episodes and his Grand Turismo, or whatever else he was playing.
They were all fighting and driving games, like he didn’t get enough of that in real life.
It had been nice to spend a lounge day with Beastie and room service.
No stress, no conflicts, but at the same time, Nix hadn’t texted or called me all day.
It felt like he’d sent Beastie to babysit me while he did whatever he did, which still wasn’t clear.
Also the whole super serum thing. Was it real or not? It couldn’t be real, but…
I sighed and got out of bed to climb into the world’s most luxurious shower.
I was seriously spoiled, even if I didn’t get Nix in my shower with me.
The thought of my husband made me self-conscious and antsy.
What I needed to do was bake a pie. Maybe two, apple and peach.
I’d go to the market, see what was fresh, and make that oven worth his while.
Then, when I had his guard down, I’d ask more questions about the super serum thing and what he did for a living, and all the rest of the stuff you found out before you agreed to date a guy, much less marry them.
I nodded and then dressed in my denim skirt and a smiley face t-shirt with my sneakers. I looked too young to be married, also dying, but mirrors didn’t tell you everything. I left the room and almost tripped on Tom, who stood quickly, kind of lurching upright, novel forgotten in his hands.
“Mrs. Death-Hammer. Is everything okay?” he asked, blinking like he’d been dozing.
I smiled at him. “Fine, fine. I’m going grocery shopping.
You look like you’ve been here all night.
” If Nix hadn’t even come home last night…
Apparently we needed to clarify our expectations.
Just because I was sleeping didn’t mean he could just abandon me.
I wasn’t dead yet. Seriously, couldn’t he wait for me to be buried before he focused on his work?
“I’ll have someone send a car around for us.
” He pulled out his phone and followed me down the hall and into the elevator.
I pulled my own phone out and started composing a text to my husband as we descended, but I wasn’t sure exactly what I was supposed to say.
He’d just found out I was dying. Didn’t he want to see me more in our last moments together?
He could watch me sleep like a crazy stalker.
Did he get caught up in his work and forget to text me? What was his work, exactly?
I was frowning at my phone when the elevator opened and I stepped out, almost running into an older gentleman who was looking up at the sculpture over the elevator in the large, luxurious lobby.
“Beg your pardon,” he said, while I said, “Excuse me.” We both made that polite laugh sound that you do when you’re trying to not act weird in front of strangers. Tom stood behind me like an invisible brick wall.
“Could you give me directions to the gallery?” the stranger asked, looking first at me, then at Tom. “I heard they had a lovely impressionist collection on display right now.”
“Do they?” I asked, looking back at Tom for verification.
He stared back at me blankly. “There is an art gallery in the Providence, but I’ve never been.” Our brick wall wasn’t an art lover? Pity.
“Ah,” the man said, nodding soberly. “I’ll ask the clerk.
Once again, I beg your pardon.” He gave me a slight bow and headed for the desk.
I had pie to make. Really, I did, but if there was an actual quality impressionist exhibit in the hotel, how could I not see it immediately?
I followed him and heard the woman tell him where the gallery was, just up these stairs to the right on the way to the reception hall.
He thanked her, nodded to me, and then went towards the stairs with the air of one who knew where he was going. Apparently, now he did.
Naturally, I followed him.
“Weren’t we going grocery shopping?” Tom asked, staying close behind.
“Art is more important, particularly if it’s good art.”
“I could order groceries for you.”
“It’ll only take a minute,” I said, but he looked unconvinced. It’s like he’d seen me in an art supplies store.
If it hadn’t been good art, it would have been under fifteen minutes, but they had a very good collection of original impressionist paintings, from Manet to Monet and everything in between.
I stood there staring at a water lily painting that took up most of a wall for a good twenty minutes, just soaking in the color, the light, the energy of the piece.
It fed my soul. Everything in the past few weeks had been extra stressful, even if it was something magical to be with Nix, whose touch didn’t hurt, it had definitely been a strain.
I finally turned and almost bumped into the stranger again, because he was standing two feet to my right, studying the painting like I had been. He glanced over at me, and his expression was exactly right, so I finally made the connection.
I stumbled back a step. “You’re Flowers.” Why had it taken me so long? Because I was an idiot and I’d been dealing with kidnapping and blood loss when Horse showed me his picture.
He gave me a slight frown before he nodded respectfully, a perfect gentleman nod. “You have me at a disadvantage. I don’t believe we’ve ever been introduced.”
Awkward. Did he not know who I was? Not that I admitted to him being my father, even to myself. “No, I just saw your picture once. You’re an artist.”
“Ah.” He smiled slightly, but his eyes were narrowing as he studied me. “My work isn’t usually appreciated by a broad audience.” Oh crap. So, he only had private shows? What did rich artists do with their paintings?
I dug deep into my talents as expositor extraordinaire and shrugged casually.
“My uncle has a piece. What brings you to Las Vegas? Surely not the art.” This would be so much easier if I had a drink or something to hold between us so he couldn’t see into my eyes the way he was looking, so piercingly, like uncovering secrets was his superpower.
That would be ironic. I was a super liar, and my father was a super truther. Not like that was a word. It should be.
“I’m waiting for an associate, the gentleman who owns this hotel. He wasn’t exaggerating about the gallery. Whether he has something truly valuable to give me, or is playing his own games, I have not wasted my time.”
“It is an excellent gallery. And the sculpture in the lobby is extremely well done as well.”
“You are an artist? You haven’t told me your name,” he said, cocking his head just so. He was sharp. Very sharp. “Perhaps I’ve heard of you.”
“I’m Mrs. Death-Hammer.” I said and gave him another smile that was hopefully casual and normal instead of whatever I was feeling, this roiling sensation in my stomach like I’d done two too many ollies and was about to collapse in a puddle of perspiration.
I should run away, but I was feeling delicate all of a sudden, and also like I couldn’t run and hide until I got to the bottom of this biological father nonsense.
His face went blank as he masked all emotion, all expression, and examined me in a cold and calculating way that made my heart race faster and faster.
I turned and headed to the nearest settee, but I kind of veered over only to find his arm out for me to catch. I grabbed him, but he didn’t touch me, only walked me slowly to the settee like catching faint damsels was his career, he just slung paint on the side.
He nodded at me while I sat down, then stood next to me, glancing around like he expected a waiter to come up and offer assistance.
Tom was by the door, nodding off even in his standing position.
We’d been there for over an hour. Horse was also in the gallery, seeming to study a lovely Renoir but his eyes met mine for a moment before he went back to what he was doing.
He was paying a lot closer attention to us than Tom.
Was that comforting or the opposite? Did Horse tell Flowers about me?
That actually made sense in a horrible, twisted, terrible way.
Why not reunite me and my long-lost father?
Because I already had a dad, and he was the best dad in the world.
No one else would have taught me break-dancing and boarding. He was magic. But he was gone.
“You remind me of my mother,” Flowers said, attention seemingly back on the water lilies.
“Oh? Did she faint in art galleries?” I asked, trying to make light of it.
“She lit up the room with her smile and exuded joie de vivré like no one else. Everyone called her Sunshine.”
“That’s my name,” I said, before I thought it through.
He turned to look at me, focusing on me again with that terrible intensity.
“Your mother named you that, or is it your nickname?” There was something important about the question.
Of course it was. If my mom had named me after this guy’s mother, that made it kind of likely that he was involved in my birth process.
I wrinkled my nose and studied him. He’d probably been pretty hot when he was young, but he seemed so responsible, nothing like someone my stupidly romantic fatalistic mom would be attracted to.
“Were you ever married?” I asked.
His brow rose, ever so slightly. “You keep asking questions without answering any of mine.”