Chapter 5
CHAPTER
FIVE
Do as you’re told. The words sour on my tongue.
The curtain’s already up, and my job is to stand in the spotlight and lie like I mean it. An artist busker at seven in the morning on Billy Goat Hill? That’s one hell of a lie.
I lean into the command, and my shoulders ease down an inch.
It takes two swallows to keep my stomach from turning itself inside out, but at least the view’s great.
Or it would be, if the fog weren’t swallowing the skyline.
I’ve lived in the Bay for years and never been here, which says plenty about who this park is for.
The surrounding multimillion-dollar houses cleave it from the rest of the city.
Alistair can afford this sort of morning stroll.
If he wanted, he could have it all to himself.
Fortunately, he hasn’t decided to purchase that sort of exclusivity, and our plan takes full advantage.
My “crowd” of five unfamiliar faces looks just as thrilled as I feel, which is to say: not.
One guy in a thrifted trench coat keeps staring at “my” canvas too hard, mouthing his lines without actually saying anything out loud.
Another checks her phone mid ooh, clearly accepting her next gig.
Relying on these strangers makes me want to crawl out of my skin, but I can’t sell my fake talent if I’m painting alone.
I’ve stuffed most of my styled hair under a beanie.
My once-glowing cheeks and trimmed goatee are now chapped and dull.
Fine. Wasted grooming aside, it’s the lack of a jacket that might kill me.
After all the planning and preparation, my carefully selected attire is a tank top to show off my arms, assuming they don’t freeze off before anyone notices.
The wind cuts straight through my sleeveless top, and my nipples could cut glass.
A cheer snaps from behind me. The woman playing “girl on run” claps like she’s witnessing genius.
Which means he’s here.
I shift into character by facing the colossal canvas beside the rope swing. It’s anchored with piles of rock after the easel collapsed three times during setup.
Ripping my hands out of my jeans pockets, I pick up my palette and hook my thumb through like the internet taught me. In some genius improvisation, I smear paint across my otherwise pristine shirt, hopefully giving me that oopsie I’m a painter look.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of him and nearly turn before remembering I’m supposed to be absorbed in the painting.
Alistair Blackwood is strolling through Billy Goat Hill just as Evie said.
He’s bagging his tiny black-and-white lowchen’s poop.
The poor dog’s legs are shaved to resemble four shaggy clogs, and I sympathize with how cold it must feel being dragged out here.
At least the dog can claw at the ground in a self-satisfied yeah, clean that up way.
I need Alistair’s attention without being obvious.
One of the crowd members asks their preplanned question to help ensure it happens. “What are you working on?”
“I don’t work on it,” I say, loud enough to carry. “I paint what’s being worked on inside me.”
That gem of a line results in unearned applause from my paid audience, and despite knowing that, my pride still flickers. Fake it till you make it, right?
I risk another glance. Alistair’s tying the poop bag, and we lock eyes. I keep it brief this time as the electricity of this stunt sparks between us.
“This one I call…” I stall, staring at the acrylic cityscape someone else painted from this exact view. “Billy Goat City.”
The volume of their applause makes me regret all the bad things I thought about them. They’re really getting into it, sticking to the script, leaving me to risk all the glances to check if Alistair’s coming our way.
His path angles toward us. My stomach drops. It’s working.
“What’s your inspiration?” a new voice asks, and I know it before I turn because weeks of research have trained Alistair Blackwood’s voice into my bones.
The crowd parts for our mark to step closer, taking the bait.
“Great question… sir.” I drag out the formality and scan him from shoes to eyes, just like we rehearsed. “I’ve lived in the city my whole life. It’s more than my home. It’s my memories.”
His attention slips, like he’s already checking out.
“Sorry,” I add quickly, killing the prepacked poetry before it embarrasses me. “That was the artist’s answer.” I tap the edge of the canvas. “The real answer is I like the way the fog keeps me from seeing the truth of what I’m painting.”
That earns me a fraction of stillness.
“You’re Alistair Blackwood, right?”
He turns to go.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I jog after him.
“Sir? Sir.” His security guards close in, but he waves them off with a single casual flick of his finger.
“Sorry,” I huff, breath puffing in the cold air. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“They scare easier than I do,” he says, nodding toward the guards. “What did you need?”
“Just wanted to give you this.” I hand him a business card, a last-ditch effort now that things have gone south. “If you ever want a private commission. And to say thanks for what you do for the arts. It’s… inspiring.”
Alistair puts a hand on my arm, his fingers landing on my bare bicep, warm and certain. Possessive. My first instinct is to flinch, so I do the opposite and lean in enough for him to register. I’m the canvas now. Let him look.
“It’s nothing,” he says, examining the card while his hand lingers on my arm. “Marcus Wilder.” His brow lifts. “Do we know each other?”
“I think I’d remember,” I say, thrill cutting through the nausea.
He studies me longer this time, his hand still resting on my arm, and I think the lie might finally be interesting enough to keep him.
Then he lets go.
“Good luck to you,” he says, already turning away.
Panic rises so fast it strips the performance off me. I need something sharper than charm, something that will hook him before he can go.
“King,” I say.
Alistair stops with his back still half turned to me. When he looks over his shoulder, the furrow in his brow is small, but the tightness at the edge of his mouth tells me I’ve finally touched something real.
“That’s what they should call you,” I add quickly, before the silence can expose too much. “King of the arts.”
He doesn’t respond, but since he hasn’t left, I offer the card again. “You forgot this. I want you to have it.”
This time, his inspection is open, dragging from my face to my chest to the card in my hand. I hold still and let him take his measurements, relieved to have landed on something as simple as being checked out.
His gaze returns to my face, and the relief curdles. That thin smile hasn’t found desire. It’s found the lie.
He knows.
Heat floods my face, betraying me before I can stop it. He takes his time deciding whether he cares.
“Is that so?” he finally asks. “Because I find, even when given the chance, most people don’t know what they want.”
The words linger longer than he does, and I can’t follow. Any further attempt at getting his attention won’t get the same finger wag. I’ve just lost the job I lied my way into, which means I can’t afford his security guards giving me either hospital bills or bail to pay.
I trudge back to the canvas, staring blankly. The fog is lifting. Alistair’s gone. My fake art show is over.
“Pack it up,” I tell my rented audience. “We’re done here.”