The Client (18+ Only)

2: In Which She Gets Hung Up on the Big Details

2: In Which She Gets Hung Up on the Big Details

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Several days later, I was standing in the main room of Sheehan’s Gallery at an acceptable proximity from the man of the hour himself. Reed’s showing was packed with the kind of people who could stare at a painting of a stripe and declare that the artist was a brooding, gifted character.

Reed clearly didn’t want to be here, despite the fact that, according to the elderly gallery owner, his showing would be only twenty minutes, at most. He looked painfully uncomfortable in his suit, hunched over a flute of champagne in one corner as if he wanted to make himself smaller or disappear altogether. I had never been to an art showing before but I was pretty sure the artist was supposed to mingle with everyone, not cower in a corner like a kicked puppy.

I had to remind myself that he wouldn’t appreciate my approaching him, even if only to remove that look of unease from his face. He was always polite – monosyllabic, but polite – to me but the whole blindfolding thing was a quirk of his I was still struggling to understand.

Alfred had driven us to the little gallery and, sitting beside me in the backseat, Reed had just about hugged the door throughout the whole car ride. There had been a continent of space between us and I had to resist the urge to inform him that contrary to popular belief, I didn’t bite.

“Champagne?”

I dragged my eyes from a particular haunting oil painting hanging on the wall behind me and found a server offering me a glass of bubbly. Longing slammed into me even as I refused the champagne. Drinking on the job was a no-no, even if watching Reed was about as exciting as watching soil erode. Ex-marines Jake and Shepherd had been restless doing the daily rounds on the Lancaster property, so I didn’t blame them for requesting a reassignment from my father. I did, however, hate the fact that my father had sent them to a Hollywood director who was receiving creepy death threats. I felt sorry for the rich guy but my so-called friends’ chances of seeing action were vastly improved.

Beggars cannot be choosers, Lena, I told myself for the millionth time, catching Reed’s eye from across the room unintentionally.

For a long moment, neither of us broke eye contact. Reed did have the most intense, soul-searching eyes when he wasn’t hiding them. It felt like he was committing every blemish and every hair to memory so that he could paint it all later. It stripped me bare, made me feel naked when I was more than covered up in a turtleneck and cargo pants. I told myself that this was the only reason my stomach flipped over. He looked away before I did, swigging the rest of the peach liquid in his glass. Sighing, I went over to him because...because we were way too old for the look-at-me-look-away thing.

“Everything cool, Mr. Lancaster?” was my opening remark.

I tried to make myself seem as unassuming as possible with a Glock in my waistband – plus, Reed couldn’t have failed to see me approach him head-on – but he still looked startled. “Lena,” he said in a tone I already knew was one of irritation, “what happened to you won’t know I’m around?”