Break Me Beautifully Page 12

  It's Min who answers first. "Your paintings were already sold to Mr. Mink's clients," she says calmly. There's a small, sad smile on her pink lips.

  "They're important men with tons of money," Bradford says, like he's trying to soothe me. "Don't fret, you'll make a massive cut from the sales."

  "Why would anyone buy them before seeing them?" I ask, my voice rising an octave. "I don't understand. That doesn't make any sense."

  "Jesus, do you need me to spell it out for you?" Bradford scoffs in disgust. "Money laundering, sweetheart. Did you really think this show was about you?"

  Lifting my chin, I look Marshall straight in the eye. He looks back this time, but his expression is empty. I can't read him. Not even a hint. "Why would you do this to me?" I ask. "Why, if my art was going to be sold no matter what it looked like, all for some fake auction front, would you pick me?"

  "Leona ..." He breathes my name, nothing more.

  "Tell me," I hiss through gritted teeth.

  "Because I genuinely love your work," he answers. His eyes warm over as he squares off with me, talking in the same gentle voice he uses with me in private. My stomach flexes in disgust. "You're amazing, Leona. I really believe that."

  "Do you think that's supposed to make me feel better?" I snap. His eyebrows shoot up, features twisting in concern, but it's not his turn to feel confused or hurt.

  Bradford is over this situation. I can see it in his bored face. "You've got a lot of growing up to do, Leona. Think about it. Your art will sell for more than you'd ever get as a newbie. This city would eat you alive, but thanks to me, thanks to Klintock, your art will hang on the walls of prominent men and women in positions of authority all over the world! Who cares if those people might dip their toes into illicit dealings? Money is money."

  I cared. I really, really cared.

  But I cared more that Marshall had hid this from me.

  "Excuse me," I say, ducking my head, spinning towards the exit. "I need some air."

  A ring-adorned hand circles my upper arm—Bradford. "Hold on," he barks, his eyes narrowing. "You better not be thinking of doing anything you'd regret."

  I tug to get away, but he holds tight. "What do you mean?"

  "You try to go to the cops," he growls, squeezing until I flinch, "And I promise, you'll lose more than some grand future making it as an artist, do you understand? I get even a hint you're—"

  "Bradford," Marshall says calmly, his own hand clasping onto the other man's shoulder from behind. "Relax. She's not going to the cops." He levels a serious look at me from over the other man's head. "Leona is smarter than that."

  It's as plain of a warning as I've ever gotten. Chills roll down my spine. In my haze of betrayal, I avoided letting the truth of this situation sink in. This was about more than just being used. It was how I was being used.

  Marshall had told me in detail about how he'd been punished for causing trouble with the mafia when he was a kid. I wasn't a child; they wouldn't go easy on me if I put their operation at risk.

  Both men break away, leaving space between all of us. Min is watching with wide owl eyes, her hands clamped together at her waist. "I'm not going to talk to the cops," I say. It's easy to sound like I mean it, because I do. I'm brokenhearted and furious at the man I stupidly declared my love to. That same stupidity won't allow me to put his life in danger by running to the police. I'm as mired in this plot as all of them.

  Bradford frowns thoughtfully. "If you're not back here in time for the show, I'll send someone searching for you. Trust me, neither of us wants that."

  "Thanks. I get it." With a final, scathing glare at Marshall, I storm towards the door. I can see the white daylight through the glass, the promise of freedom from this god-awful situation I've found myself in. Footsteps behind me alert me that someone is following me. It's Marshall. I know it even before he reaches for my hand, because I can smell him in the air.

  I spin out of his reach. "Don't!" I hiss. "Don't you dare touch me. You're trash scum, do you get that?"

  "Leona, wait," he pleads.

  "No. I should have listened to my sister. Jesus, I should have listened to you when you said you were dangerous!"

  "Just wait, I need to talk to you."

  "You had a chance to do that!" I shout, unable to hold back my rage. I can see Min and Bradford watching us across the room. I don't care that we have an audience. "You could have warned me what this was!"

  He locks up on the spot. There's a flash of something in his face—regret, I think—and good, he should feel awful for what he's done. His pain barely reaches my heart.

  Barely.

  "Leona," he starts, his voice hushed. "I ..."

  "Save it for the next girl you take advantage of." Tears burn in the corners of my eyes. I fight them back, determined to stay strong as I get everything off my chest. "You played with me. You don't even care, do you?"

  He shoots a furtive look at the others. His tongue moves along his lip, over his scar, and I remember how wonderful it was to kiss him. "It's complicated."

  "No, it isn't. You used me. Right?"

  "Leona."

  "Tell me the truth. We're too far to go back in time. Did you use me?"

  Again, that flicker of pain in his beautiful features. "Yes."

  It's what I was expecting and at the same time, I wanted him to deny it. I'm pathetic to think he'd say anything else. "In your defense," I say, making a bitter smile, "you did warn me."

  "What?" he asks.

  "I break beautiful things," I quote him lyrically. I have nothing else to say. I think he must, but he's gone stiff and silent. His jaw flexes like he's biting his tongue. I turn on my heel, heading out the door with my chin held high. I'm a vision of composure. impervious to harm.

  I make it outside before the first tear falls. I keep walking as fast as I can, my forearm coming up to wash away evidence of my crying. As I march down the sidewalk without any sense of direction, any idea where I want to go, I run through clip after clip in my head. Marshall kissing me. Marshall telling me he loves me. Marshall telling me all he suffered.

  Idiot. You're an idiot.

  There's a sick sensation in my middle. I hug myself, searching for the physical lumps or blades that I swear are slicing me up. They tricked me; Marshall, Bradford, even Min They all convinced me this was my big chance.

  What would they do with my art?

  How would they switch out the dirty money from the clean?

  Acid bubbles up my throat. I clap a hand over my mouth, afraid I'll be sick. What if everything I created lets them do more awful things. Drugs, guns. I didn't know for sure, but I had a vivid imagination. The mafia was never the good guys.

  My hands tremble, and even if I form them into fists, they still shake. A word swims from the gloomy depths until its plastered in the forefront of my conscious. Revenge. It's like holding a hot coal in my mouth. I told him I never felt angry enough to consider getting revenge on anyone.

  My emotions fuel my legs and let me ignore how long I walk. When the front of my squat studio on its quaint yet dirty street corner comes into view, I know I traveled miles on foot. The soreness in my muscles is nothing compared to the rage still building in my blood.

  He tricked me.

  He never cared.

  It was all lies.

  The key's teeth cut into my palm. I jam it into the door, letting myself in to the studio. I thought it was a kind gesture. God, I was so blind.

  Sunlight sprinkles in through the ceiling window. Multiple scents slam into my nose; paint, cinnamon, sex. It's a feast for the senses.

  "You bastard," I whisper to the empty air, to the ghost of him that haunts this place and my whole damn body. He's inside of me and I want him out. I'm at war with myself. I have an urge to destroy, and a conscious to know better. Lava surges through my veins, creating rage at a mind-boggling rate. The first tin of brushes flies from my fist, crashing into the far wall.

  The chaotic noise is intoxicating. I
t feeds my desire to hurt him the way he hurt me. The next thing I throw is a tin of watercolors. Easels are kicked to the floor, the metal frames clattering loud enough to echo on the walls. Every one of them is naked ... except for one.

  Marshall's painting sits alone. We left it here in our haste because neither of us knew what to do with it.

  But now?

  I have an idea.

  It's the only source of brilliant color in the studio. It draws me in like a moth to a flame, eager to sacrifice the part of me Marshall had declared untainted. Did he always know he'd leave me with scars in my soul? Was his playing hero an act?

  Leftover water stains the cement floor when I slap the cup off the tiny table. An old coffee cup that touched his lips goes next. There's no way to erase my memories of him.

  My hair hangs in my eyes. I brush it away so I can have a clear view of his canvas. Panting furiously, I shift the keys in my grip. They'll be perfect for tearing his art apart. I cross the floor, my ears full of his whispered words, my heart contorting with every memory of our bodies pressing together in bliss.

  I have to hate him.

  I have to.

  Without that feeling, revenge is impossible.

  "Do it!" I scream out loud. "Do it, Leona! Just do it! He deserves it! Hurt him the way he hurt you!" My arm whips back, the teeth of the keys glinting in the sun beams. The canvas will split apart, each time I stab will release the tension in my guts, and it would be so simple.

  The keys rattle when they hit the floor. I join them on my knees, head resting in my palms as I sob in frustration. I can't do it! No matter what he's done to me, I can't make myself destroy the painting he created.

  All the energy melts from my muscles. I sit their limply, gazing at the mess I've made, wondering what I'm becoming. And, perhaps worse, what I'll never become. My dream of a successful art career is dead before it breathed. Maybe I'll quit entirely. It's an insanely tempting concept. I could, I could just stop.

  Who would care?

  With great effort I drag myself from the studio. There's nothing for me in that place anymore. Marshall can have it. His painting belongs to him to do with as he pleases. I wonder if he'll think of me when he looks at it?

  I'm a zombie as I shuffle over the sidewalk. I only stop walking when I turn a corner and a small building blocks my path. It has a single, giant window. I stare at my reflection, trying to see if I have sucker written on my pale face. Maybe it's hidden in the dark circles under my eyes. I'd stayed up late and woke early to get my art done.

  All for nothing.

  Inside the building I notice there are a bunch of children. They're sitting in front of long tables with trays of thick acrylic paint doled out like blobs of ketchup. Most of it is on their hands and clothes.

  I see Sarah, but she doesn't see me. She's not wearing her hat or gloves, but her messy brown hair and sunshine smile are impossible to miss. Pressing my nose to the glass, I watch in wonder as she laughs, painting with wide streaks of red and blue.

  The art teacher wanders over, praising her, making the little girl wriggle in her seat. Their shared joy makes my heart inflate. It's such a rush of joy it hurts. Like I'm being pulled apart from the inside out.

  What's that? I wonder, squinting to get a better look at the paper she's taped to her easel. It's a scribbled drawing on a piece of paper I recognize intimately. My sketchbook is too familiar for me not to. She really kept the drawing she did in the park. Not just that, she was using it as her inspiration.

  I back away from the window before anyone notices me. Pushing my shoulder-blades onto the cool brick, I close my eyes and take a stabilizing breath. A rejuvenating one follows after. It's like mana from Heaven is slipping through my mouth to my belly.

  When I left the Ramette House, I'd felt so depressed I considered quitting art entirely. Of course that's crazy. Why deprive myself of my passion because of what someone else did? If something deterred the spirit of a girl like Sarah, I'd be crushed to learn it drove her to give up her dreams. How could I think that and also want to abandon my pencils and paints?

  Looking at my hands, I curl my fingers with a mild frown. Whatever happens tonight, it doesn't matter. I'll get through it. And when I crossed to the other side of this cruel snapshot of my life, I'd make sure to never create art for people like Bradford Mink again. No amount of money would change my mind.

  When my show ends tonight, I'll leave. I'll pack my things.

  Then I'll never see the man who said he loved me ever again.

  Chapter 15.

  There's a crowd milling around the Ramette House. Everyone is smiling, laughing, drinking, and complimenting the art. My art. It looks exactly how I imagined my first gallery show would. And I hate it.

  I can see the strings if I squint. This is a puppet show. No one here cares about the art on the walls. The backslapping, hand shaking, alcohol drinking is so much like the faux politeness I witnessed at my father's social events. I even recognize a few faces; the men who were chatting with Bradford at the gala, for example.

  Once I notice the huge men stuffed into their suits, I start searching for more examples of wolves in sheepskin. A scar here, a tattoo there, I even spot the flash of a gun on the inside of someone's jacket. Maybe they're all mobsters. It's possible. I think about asking Marshall just to see his reaction, but I'm busy avoiding him. The room isn't designed for avoiding people, though, it's too wide. I can see him towering over everyone else if I glance anywhere but at my hands or feet.

  I check my phone if only for a distraction. I messaged Katy multiple times since this morning, most of those sent after I found out about how I was being used by Bradford and Marshall. I was grateful I hadn't invited any of my family to my show. I couldn't bare dragging them into this mess and seeing them impressed for the first time in my life without knowing the truth of this nightmare.

  I hadn't told Katy what was going on because I was worried she'd get involved. I was struggling to figure out how I was going to escape this mess. Bradford wasn't playing around, what if he wanted me to make more art for his schemes?

  Marshall is coming towards me. I make haste through the parade of bodies. He doesn't stop following me, his presence constant from the corner of my eye. He's a hunter, and I'm his mark.

  Scurrying along the wall, I weave between people who are chatting about my paintings. I count eleven canvases as I go. The twelfth was used up by Marshall. The canvas I sacrificed for him. How much had I given up for that man?

  Too much.

  Far too much.

  "There you are," Bradford says, appearing directly in front of me. "Come on, we have work to do." He has his fingers tucked into the crack of the side-door in the wall, the one I've seen him vanish into more than once.

  "What do you mean?" I ask. "My part in this is done." I've been counting down the minutes, wishing for everyone to leave, so this event could be over with.

  He shows his teeth when he grins. "I think you don't want to skip out on this. Trust me, what you're about to see will get you hooked."

  I don't want to be hooked. Something bumps into me from behind—Marshall. He's a wall that keeps me from escaping. A new level of betrayal is reached and reaches another tick of the measuring stick in my heart. He looks down at me with those black diamond eyes. There's no emotion I can read, his voice gritty as he says, "Go. Inside."

  Everyone I've ever met in my life has always had plans for me.

  Marshall Klintock was never different.

  It's my first time seeing the other side of this door. There's a hallway covered in carpet, the walls a dull blue wallpaper. Through a small doorway I glimpse a kitchen. Min is inside standing over a teapot on the stove. She meets my eyes, startles, then ducks to avoid me.

  "We don't want tea," Bradford says as he leans inside. "This is a celebration for a job well done, not a book club. Bring the black label whiskey and a bottle of champagne."

  "Of course, sir," she calls after us.

 
I can see straight to the end of the hall. Three men are standing with their backs on either side of a gold-knob door. One is wearing a dark blue suit, but the others are in jeans and loose dress shirts. They share a unifying trait; the guns in their hands.

  The man on the far left looks at me, and I recognize him from the gala. Nicolo, he'd said his name was. His tongue stud had wagged while he warned me about Marshall. Now his mouth squeezes into a knot as he looks me over, then eyes Marshall behind me. All he can do is shrug because he knows his advice was a wasted effort.

  "They inside?" Bradford asks the guy in the blue suit.

  "All four of them," he replies.

  "Good, good. Seya better not be smoking in there." Bradford claps the guard on the shoulder before opening the door. Whatever he sees makes his eyes light up. "Seya! Burgh! How the hell are ya?"

  I hesitate in the doorway, wondering if there's still a way to get out of this. Warmth spreads over my back as Marshall hovers closer. "It'll be okay," he mumbles in my ear.

  A flicker of hope blooms in me. I stamp it quickly, refusing to be let down once again. I'm done being played. "No," I say, "it won't."

  "Leona," he whispers. "I promise—"

  "Don't," I cut him off, making fists that turn my knuckles white. "No more lying to me. Maybe I'm naive, but I'm not too stupid to learn from my mistakes." I march into the room without giving him a chance to say anything.

  The acrid smell of tobacco assaults me. The room is small with rich yellow walls and maroon accents that remind me of my father's study back home. For a second I'm actually homesick. I never thought that would happen.

  More men recline on glossy, chocolate-colored sofas and chairs in the middle of the room with their heels propped up on the low, rectangular table in the center. One of them has a cigar pinched in his teeth, the ash collecting in an empty champagne glass he's holding.

  "Seya, I told you not to fucking smoke in here," Bradford scolds him.

  "I'll stop when I have something to drink," he counters. He's a slim man in a tight fitted gray suit and matching pants, his ankles crossed on the table, shoes matching the furniture. They match his eyes, too. The color you'd see in the gentle face of a deer in the woods. But his eyes aren't kind in any sense of the word. They rake me over, making me feel violated. "Who's the chick?" he asks.