2. Chapter 2
SEAN
THIS GALLERY IS PACKED WITH San Francisco art types, and I stick out like a tactical vest at a poetry reading.
I've been weaving through the space for twenty minutes, strategically avoiding Sienna and Declan as they wander around with the kind of reverent expressions usually reserved for religious experiences.
Don't think I have an eye for art. Only literature.
Let's see… Three exits. Forty-seven people so far. One security guard at the front who wouldn't know a real threat if it introduced itself with a business card. But I don't think Sienna's art show is an especially high-risk event.
My mind catalogues everything anyway: unconscious habit.
One of Sienna's watercolor paintings catches my eye.
There's a vibrant blue ocean blending into whitewashed buildings stacked on a hillside.
Though, as is her style, there are creepy red eyes peeking out of windows.
A few ghostly skeleton hands are curved around corners.
Also, there are plenty of black, ugly clouds rolling along the horizon.
It's an unsettling painting as much as it is beautiful.
Despite the darkness in it that's giving me the chills, she captured the colorful Mediterranean vibe I left behind two weeks ago.
I kind of liked the Greek city I was in, even though I kept getting mistaken for a Chinese tourist (I mean, come on ), but I can't say I truly miss it.
Not sure I miss any of the places I travelled to, even though I had hoped one of them would pull at my heartstrings.
I long for that feeling of ' yeah, this is where I belong ' but it eludes me. I even visited my parents in Seoul for a month adn it still didn't feel right.
Funny how that works. Guess I'm a hopeless case.
Doesn't matter since I'm here now.
I scan the gallery again, reading the terrain; it's automatic behavior at this point. My brain takes note of any potential threats, working out exit strategies and choke points.
There's a couple near the wine table having an argument they think is subtle, but the look on the woman's face screams 'affair'—hers or his, I'm not sure. One of them fucked up.
A man with a backpack is lingering too close to the bathroom, like he's trying to prevent someone from entering and discovering the mess he left in the toilet.
A woman near my left has glanced at her watch four times in two minutes. Her energy is anxious but not violent.
None of them are actual threats, only my brain grasping at straws. It just needs something to do besides remember why I'm here, why I had to leave Greece, why I agreed to come to this gallery opening when every instinct begged me to stay away from the States.
I'm here because Declan asked for a favor. Because I owe him. Because the woman he loved was kidnapped on my watch.
I take a sip from the wine I've been nursing and let the tart flavors pull me from that particular rabbit hole. Missteps, lapses in judgment, fucking Jeremy. It's a highlight reel I've watched too many times.
Jesus , how did I not sense that guy was working for the enemy? I didn't catch that. And it got Sienna kidnapped from her hotel room in Hawaii.
If Declan and I hadn't been able to rescue her, if she'd gotten killed…
No, it's better not to go there. She's safe now. She didn't pay for my failure.
I drain the rest of my wine, frowning at her ominously beautiful painting. It's the painting or it's everything else, but I'm feeling sick and acid is boiling in my throat. Once I fulfill this favor for Declan—being a show pony for a tech conference—I should leave the States again.
"I can't believe it. You actually came."
A sickening twist in my stomach makes me close my eyes. That's Sienna's voice. I was hoping they wouldn't find me yet, give me more time to prepare myself for the avalanche of guilt that'll smother me when I see their faces.
She doesn't wait for me to turn and greet her.
Instead, she moves around until she's blocking my view of the painting.
I barely have time to force a smile before she's moving in for a hug—arms outstretched, crimson hair framing her face, elegant black dress perfectly suited for her art opening, grin wide enough to flash those pearly teeth.
I return the hug like a normal person would, though it's strange to have casual physical contact again after a year of minimal human interaction.
Declan appears beside her, those intense blue eyes hitting me first before I realize he's not wearing his standard outfit: a suit. Every day for all the years I worked as his security, it was the same thing: crisp slacks, white button-down, suit jacket. Sometimes a vest.
I almost have a heart attack when I glance down at his faded jeans, then stare at his plain, black t-shirt .
Oh, man. Women do change you.
He looks good though. He's relaxed and happy and like a different man.
Well, except that intensity hiding under his smile and crinkled eyes.
He gives me a nod and the ghost of a smirk.
He actually looks glad to see me, even though I'm the guy who failed to protect his woman.
Nothing says 'job well done' like your client ending up in mortal danger.
Yeah, this guilt isn't an avalanche. It's a thousand tiny needles just gouging my organs out.
Damnit, they shouldn't be so excited I'm here.
"I said I'd come," I reply, stepping from Sienna's embrace. I flick my black bangs off my forehead and drop my gaze to my empty wine glass.
"I know," Sienna says, "but you've been so aloof. I thought for sure you'd bail at the last second."
Declan chimes in: "I knew he'd come begrudgingly. He always keeps his word."
I swirl my empty glass like I can manifest more alcohol to get me through this. "I wouldn't say begrudgingly. You know I like your faces."
That gets a chuckle from both of them.
Damn , the needles are done shredding my insides and now a boulder is crushing my lungs.
Smothered in snow, stabbed to death, and smashed by earth.
What a great fucking feeling. The same one I've been hauling around since the Marines.
Since Wunmi, then Hawaii. Since every moment I've failed at the one thing I'm supposed to be good at: keeping people safe.
Declan is about to say something, his blue eyes sparkling more than I've ever seen them—all Sienna's doing—so I turn back to the painting, desperate for a mental distraction from this uncomfortable shame.
My voice comes out too loud in the hushed gallery. "You really did an amazing job capturing—"
"Shh!" Sienna cuts me off with a hiss, glancing around nervously. She steps closer, lowering her voice to a whisper. "Keep it hush-hush, remember? No one knows I'm the… you know."
I nod, remembering too late. "Right. Sorry."
It's easy to forget that Sienna's become something of an art world enigma this past year.
After everything that happened with her ex, Anthony, she decided to create her art under various pseudonyms, selling pieces in galleries across the world.
A ghost artist with collectors scrambling to connect the dots. Smart move.
"I wish the world knew how truly amazing my wife is," Declan says, his voice softened with pride as he pulls her close. "But she insists on keeping it a secret. Stubborn woman."
"Says my stubborn husband," she shoots back, smiling up at him like he made the sun rise just for her.
He presses a kiss to her temple, and she melts into him like they're two pieces of the same puzzle. The way they look at each other, like they've found the answer to a question I haven't even figured out how to ask, captures my complete attention for a beat.
That familiar emptiness expands in my chest. I'm the third wheel. The outsider. The guy who's spent the last year running from country to country, devouring self-help and science and all kind of books like usual, while avoiding the fact he has no fucking idea what he's looking for.
All I know is what I'm avoiding.
I run my tongue over my cracked lips, all the cracks in my life suddenly exposed. It's kind of hot in here. Stuffy. I rock on my heels as restless energy crawls under my skin.
"Do you have a favorite?" I ask Sienna, nodding toward the collection of paintings around us.
She smiles with that genuine warmth that makes everyone feel important. "All my favorites are at home. What about you? Do you have a favorite? I want to know what speaks to you."
"What speaks to me, huh? What a very artist thing to say."
She laughs and links her arm with Declan's. "Come on. Show me."
They're both waiting, so I shrug and pick a direction. I wander through the space and the eclectic people while Sienna and Declan trail behind. Through my peripherals, I notice how Declan is still limping; he might have that limp the rest of his life.
When we went to rescue Sienna, Anthony got the jump on me and knocked me out. While I was swimming in darkness, Declan was shot and stabbed in the same leg.
My stomach twists again and I worry the guilt might make me puke. Though knowing this crowd, they'd probably rope it off and put up a little placard: 'Guilt and Bile, Mixed Media.' A commentary on the human condition.
My combat boots echo with each step. The crowd parts without me saying a word—something about the way I move, I guess. Or maybe they can smell the outsider on me.
I stop in front of a painting that snags my attention like a hook in the chest. It's a window painted off-center on the canvas.
That's all it is, really. The outside world is vibrant, alive with color and light, but everything inside the room is shades of gray.
Muted. Distant. Like watching life happen through bulletproof glass.
Freedom lost.
Something in it resonates with the hollow space behind my ribs.
"How much?" I hear myself ask before I've fully processed the thought.
Sienna laughs softly, then leans close to say, "What are you talking about? You can have it as a gift."