Chapter 19 #2
“Get the fuck outta my sight, you shithead! Go to your NYPD buddies about those problems. Tell them you need a raise and stop hassling me about selling the girl.” I back him up ’til he’s stumbling out the office door and into the hall.
“This is the last time I’m telling you this—forget she even exists! ”
He’s stuttering his way through a desperate apology when I slam the door in his face and stride back toward Grandpa Finn’s desk.
As if I wasn’t pissed enough after dealing with my father. Robby had to come in and make things worse.
I grind my teeth together as I sink down in Grandpa Finn’s creaky chair and breathe through the rage. It’s true that our money problems are mounting, and fast.
Something’s gotta be done about it. But I’ve also decided I’m focusing on making Chantal feel better.
For tonight, that takes precedence. Tonight is about her.
Everything else can wait ’til tomorrow…
It’s a long drive to Bushwick, but once Chantal gasps and her face lights up, the hassle’s worth it.
She and I drive in one car while I have Aleksei and Petrit follow us as backup (for worst-case scenarios). We arrive at a warehouse in the urban neighborhood that’s been converted into a live art exhibition.
The neon sign glows against the brick exterior: EPHEMERAL – A POP-UP ART EXPERIENCE.
She clutches at my arm like she’ll fall through the floor if she doesn’t hold onto me. I have to make an effort to keep from grinning.
That’s aside from the fact that Chantal looks even more gorgeous than usual tonight—Sorcha knew exactly how to shop for her, picking out a rosy pink dress that looks incredible on Chantal’s mahogany complexion.
It’s feminine with thin straps and a tiny floral pattern and shows off her cleavage and the rest of her body.
The housekeeper even picked up some make up for her, which made Chantal kick her feet in excitement. She’s only applied a touch of it, though—light-handed blush on her cheeks gloss on her lips and her eyelashes look slightly fuller than usual.
I love how my brat looks at any time, but it’s rewarding to see how happy being dressed up makes her.
“Is this really happening?” she gushes. “You can’t be for real right now!”
“Nah, we drove an hour to Brooklyn for shits and giggles.”
“More like you did not just bring me to Ephemeral!”
My head slants slightly as I glance at her. “You mean you’ve heard of it? Here I was thinking it was some discreet art show.”
“Have I heard of it? HELLO!” she squeals. “Art aficionado! Ephemeral is huge in the underground art exhibition world—they pop up all through the city and do all kinds of different shows! Always at random, always sooo exclusive and hard to get tickets for. How’d you even pull this off?”
I shrug, hands in my pockets as she holds my arm and we head toward the entrance. “Made a couple phone calls to a friend of a friend.”
And a couple threats about busting kneecaps.
But she doesn’t need to know that part.
“You know, my cousin Monique and I tried to get tickets to this, like, three months ago for the pop up in Queens, and they sold out in literally four minutes. Four minutes, Lochlan!”
“Then that makes tonight all the more special. Enjoy it, brat.”
She beams and then squeezes closer to me like she can barely contain herself. I’m no better as the grin I’ve been fighting finally ekes its way onto my face.
Inside, the warehouse has been transformed into a maze of installations and exhibits, each one more bizarre than the last.
There’s a room where the walls are covered in mirrors and filled with floating lights. Another where a nude woman is painting on a live canvas while musicians play discordant jazz in the corner. Some shit that looks like a pile of garbage but probably costs six figures.
I don’t understand any of it. But Chantal?
Chantal comes alive.
She tugs on my arm and drags me from room to room as she gushes about each installation.
We stop in front of a massive sculpture made of broken mannequin body parts that have been contorted to look like they’re playing Twister, and she gasps as if orgasming.
“Oh my god, this is a Fernandez,” she breathes. “I’ve been trying to get this man for my gallery for, like, two years. His waitlist is insane. Like, longer than the wait for a Birkin.”
I have no idea what the fuck she’s just said, but it sounds impressive either way.
“Looks like one big orgy.”
She snorts out a laugh, cupping her hand over her mouth. “Okay, so that’s kind of the point! It’s a commentary on the human condition, and how at the end of the day, we all mold ourselves to fit in with others by adapting to societal norms. This piece alone costs five hundred thousand dollars.”
I grunt. Half a mil for broken mannequin parts.
Maybe I’m in the wrong profession after all. Apparently there’s big money to be made in the art world.
We keep moving through the other exhibits, stopping every few feet to admire the next bizarre find we come across.
Chantal talks my ear off the entire time. I listen intently, surprisingly enjoying how enthusiastic and knowledgeable she is on the subject.
It’s obvious despite how pampered and prissy she first comes across, she genuinely has a deep love and understanding of art.
It makes me realize why Grandpa Finn went through so much trouble setting up the parlor with Grandma Darcy’s favorite art pieces.
He couldn’t give less of a damn about it himself—but he wanted to make her happy.
Suddenly I can relate in a way I never did with Cara. Our marriage was about duty and obligation and nothing more.
There was no passion or contentment to be found anywhere. Inside and outside the bedroom.
“Okay, okay, what about this one?” Chantal stops in front of a canvas that’s just… blue. Entirely blue, with only slightly different shades layered on top of each other.
…but still just blue to my eyes.
“Uh… it’s… very blue,” I answer bluntly.
She giggles and rolls her eyes. “The audacity! It’s not JUST blue. This speaks to emotional density. See the way she layered the hues to create depth and movement? If you look close enough you can literally see the strokes breathing. You’re supposed to feel your own innermost emotions surface.”
I stare at the canvas and still only see various shades of blue.
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“Something tells me you’re more of a traditionalist. Let me show you this Vercimilli piece. She might be more up your alley!”
I let her pull me in a dozen more directions ’til it’s been two hours and we’ve seen almost every piece on display at the exhibition.
We drift toward one of the more private corners of the warehouse, away from the crowds, and observe a smaller installation featuring a collection of artsy black and white photos of Manhattan.
Chantal’s excitable, restless energy has eased into a quieter, more reflective vibe.
“Why did you bring me here?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, why this? Why tonight?” She faces me fully, her dark brown eyes shining even in the low-lit warehouse.
She searches my face as if hoping she’ll find an answer before I speak.
“I know things are crazy right now. You’re in the middle of carrying out your plan, and I’ve seen how stressed you and your men are.
So why take time to bring me to an art show? ”
Because you looked sad staring out that window. Because Sorcha said you were homesick and it made me feel like shit.
…because I wanted to see you smile again.
I don’t say any of that.
“You like art,” I say instead, keeping my voice flat. “This is art. Seemed like an obvious choice.”
She stares at me with a hint of amusement and groans, “Lochlan.”
“What?”
She steps closer, her palm sliding up my chest. I should nudge her away. We’re in public; somebody could walk up and see us together.
We’ve already spent two hours here, and Chantal’s face has been plastered all over the city news for weeks now. Surely somebody’s bound to recognize her…
Bringing her out tonight was a stupid enough risk on its own. Even if I thought it was an obscure event, obviously it’s still a huge chance to take.
“I’m pretty sure I get why you brought me out,” she says coyly. “You’re really shy about your feelings, but I’m a really good read on people.”
“I’m not shy—”
“Thank you anyway,” she interrupts, smirking up at me, eyelashes fluttering.
“For real. I really appreciate it. You’re really thoughtful, and it shows you pay attention to who I am.
Most men just throw money at generic crap—jewelry, vacations, fancy dinners, whatever. But you actually thought about it.”
“Don’t make it into a thing.”
“Too late. It’s already a thing.” She rises up on her toes and presses a quick kiss to the corner of my jaw. “You big softie.”
“Call me that again and I’m leaving you here.”
“No you’re not.”
She’s right. I wouldn’t.
She’s mine, and my skin tingles from where she kissed me, an effect only she’s ever had on me.
We hang around at the warehouse for another half hour before finally calling it. Chantal’s still smiling as we climb into the car.
Aleksei and Petrit are waiting for us in the other SUV. It must’ve been a boring three hours, but that’s what they’re here for.
“That was literally amazing,” she says, settling into the front passenger seat. “Easily top five nights ever. That includes the time I got to meet Beyoncé at the Met Gala.”
I twist the key in the ignition, the engine starting up. “Glad you enjoyed it, brat.”
We follow Aleksei and Petrit out of Brooklyn toward the interstate.
The drive is mundane and tedious as always. Chantal insists on selecting the music and starts singing along to some R&B hit I’ve never heard before in my life. Once again, the only person who could possibly get away with touching the dashboard in my car.
About forty minutes outside the city, we’re winding through a dark stretch of road surrounded by nothing but trees when I notice bright, blinding headlights behind us.
One set at first. Then two. Then three.