“Oh, such a moving piece,” the woman in a very expensive Armani pants suit the same color as her hair says as she looks over one of my pieces with the gallery owner. “There's a lot of raw emotion in the way she uses darkness to convey the depths of her sadness and anger over her oppression by our society.”

The gallery owner nods, letting the woman prattle on. He glances over at me, a small smirk crossing his face as he gets ready to launch into his sales pitch. While I don't make a big deal of my presence at each of these showings, I don't hide who I am either.

But patrons like these don't give a fuck who I really am. To them, my paintings are more of a reflection of their own minds and issues. It's interesting actually to hear their unvarnished opinions when they don't even know I'm listening. This one's especially funny, because I was in a good mood when I painted it, and certainly wasn’t worrying about any oppression at the time.

The showing's going great, I already see five pieces with little red 'sold' tags attached to the descriptions, and one of them's an upper tier piece. I normally don’t check exactly how much the gallery's asking for each one, but I did check that one. I'm going to be netting over twenty thousand dollars for it, and that's before the other pieces are added in.

I see a waiter holding a platter of champagne and I grab one, giving the lady in the suit a silent salute before sipping it. A moment later, the gallery owner's face flashes out a tight momentary smile, and I know that I've got another five thousand or so in my bank account.

“We're making bank tonight,” the owner says as he comes by fifteen minutes later, handing me a slip of paper. “That's the total so far. And I've got at least four other potentials.”

He disappears to talk up another potential customer, and I unfold the piece. I quickly take another sip of my champagne, mostly to stop myself from doing a little happy dance around the gallery. This might be one of those art galleries that doesn't stick its nose that high in the air, but still... I'm going to need to find a damn accountant for my taxes this year.

I fold the paper and slip it inside my dress, feeling slightly uncomfortable in the getup. It's not the skirt, I have no problems being girly-girl and wearing a skirt when the time's right, but it's the colors. As part of my camouflage I'm dressed as conservatively as I can, a blue cocktail dress and five inch heels that make me look… well, if not normal, at least less like the wispy refugee Irish-American banshee that my promo materials make me look like.

The gallery's very nicely crowded, with two floors and a couple hundred people around, talking but not in full on party mode. That's not how I operate. I mean, I get it. Some artists' style means they premiere new paintings best with rock bands playing in the background while the patrons try to down pints of Guinness. I've been to shows like that, and they're fun… but I don't paint that way.

At the same time, I'm not the kind who likes museum openings either. Everyone stands around, oohs and ahhs and whispers barely understood comments to the people next to them, or says nothing at all… and again nothing gets sold. But, when you're charging a hundred grand or more per painting, I guess it's a matter of price over quantity. You sell one and you’re set for the year. But this type of show, with light drinks and regular conversation, is much better for me and for my bottom line.  

“Excuse me, but there's a man over by your new piece, and he had some questions,” an assistant says quietly at my elbow. “I'd ask Bernard to do it, but-”

“But he's with a client,” I finish for him, tossing back the rest of my champagne. “That's okay, I'll handle it.”

It's rare for me to make a last minute substitution in my gallery shows, I hate putting the staff through all that extra work when they've already busted their asses to make a good show already, but I just felt the need to include this one piece. It was the portrait I did of Dan, and in some ways I think it's the best work I've done in the show. I just completed it yesterday, and brought it to Chicago wrapped and tied down in the back of my truck. I'd texted him to see if it was okay if I showed it, and he sent back a thumbs up, so I assumed it meant 'yes' and not 'shove it up your ass.'

But the gallery crew doesn't really know what to make of it. I head to the corner where the painting hangs, it was the only place I could fit it without totally screwing up the arrangement of the other pieces, and as I approach I see a man dressed far differently than any of the other patrons. Then again, I doubt many art galleries have a firefighter in uniform show up.

“Hello, the staff said you had some questions?” I ask as I approach, doing my best to be neutrally helpful. He turns, and looks me over. He's about Dan's age, with a slightly rounded but kind face, although his eyes are crinkly at the sides, I'm not sure if it's because he laughs a lot or if it's because of squinting on the job. “I'm Christina O'Hara.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss O'Hara,” the firefighter says, offering his hand. We shake, and I'm reminded of Dan's grip, strong and work roughened, although this man's isn't quite so strong nor so rough. “My name's Gerald Manheim.”

“It's a pleasure, Mr. Manheim. So what can I do for you?”

Gerald looks me up and down, then turns to look at the picture. “I read the blurb on you when I came in, it said you just moved to the town of Lakeville, is that correct?”

“Yes, I moved out there after my grandmother died,” I reply, smiling a little nervously. “Why? Are you from Lakeville?”

“No, but I have a friend who lives out there. Looking at your picture here, I was wondering… do you know Dan Benson?” he asks. “I'm not sure of course, I'm no art expert, but the way you painted this face, it looks like Dan.”

“He's my neighbor,” I answer, smiling a little. “Did you know Dan when he was… well, when he was a firefighter?”

Gerald nods. “He and I served in the same Engine Company together. We were… he still is one of my best friends. Even if he can be a little difficult.”

A little difficult? I suppose if you spend your job fighting three alarm fires, Dan could be a little difficult. For the rest of us, he’s a pain in the ass, even if I’m also attracted and massively turned on by him at the same time.

“What was he like, Mr. Manheim?” I ask, suddenly curious. “You know… before?”

“He smiled a lot… god he was a practical joker,” Gerald says with a chuckle, his eyes tightening as the memories go through his mind. He goes quiet for a minute, studying the image of Dan in front of us before speaking again. “He said, last time I visited, that he had a new neighbor. Said she was pretty. I'd say he's right.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, heat flushing my face. Did Dan tell Gerald about our encounter? It was just a few nights ago, but afterwards I was so flushed with energy I painted all night to finish this. “He's very interesting.”

Gerald nods. “That's true… and very haunted. That comes through in this painting.”

“I… I saw him one day, after putting himself through hell, and he was sitting in a boat, crying. Then another time he just kept lifting that rock over and over… I know most people won't understand him, but I wanted to try and convey what I've seen.”

“You did a good job, but the picture's not done,” Gerald says softly. “You missed a big part of him.”

“I did?” I ask, looking the picture over. “I tried, really. I mean, I got the pain, the strength, the sense of decency that he's got in there… or at least I tried.”

“And you did a good job of that,” Gerald admits. “But what you missed is what makes Dan a better man… hell, a better firefighter than I ever was or ever will be.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, turning to Gerald. He rubs at his cheek worriedly, and I can see he's debating what to tell me and what isn't his right to reveal. I reach out, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Please, Gerald. I'm sure you can tell by this, but… but I'm fond of Dan. I don't know if he even believes me, but I am. At the same time, he's an enigma. And I'm scared that he's going to keep sending me down dark paths and dead ends until I give up. But there's a part of me that says there's something inside Dan that I want to know, I don't want to give up on.” I clear my throat, and look at the picture. “Help me, Gerald. Let me know what I’m not seeing in his picture. Please.”

Gerald considers me for a moment before answering. “You know you're asking me to short circuit what most people do in a relationship, getting to know each other?”

I nod, understanding what Gerald's saying, even the layers underneath. “I know. But I don't want to know the little things… I want to know the truth, the soul of the man. Because he's not showing it all to me, and he needs someone. Even if it's not me.”

Gerald sighs, rubbing at his cheek again. “I see. The truth is, despite what some idiots around Lakeville say, is that Dan's a hero. Not in just one act, but deep down, where it counts. That's what made him do the things he did that day.”

“What happened?” I ask. “At least… at least tell me the full truth. All I know is that the newspaper issued a retraction?”

Before Gerald can respond, his phone plays a guitar riff, one I place immediately, Smoke On The Water. Gerald's face pales, and he takes his phone out, looking at the text message. “Shit… I have to go. General recall, all station personnel.”

“An emergency?” I ask, and Gerald nods. “Wait… one second.”

I reach into my tiny purse and pull out one of my business cards, handing it to him. “I don't give this out to everyone but please, when you have a moment, call me. For Dan.”

Gerald takes the card and glances at it before tucking it in his uniform pocket. “I'll try. But this is a four alarm fire, so I need to get going. Good luck, Miss O'Hara.”

Gerald turns and walks away, not strolling but not breaking into a run. I watch him leave before finding the gallery director. “What's up, Chrissy?” he asks, smiling hopefully. “Don't tell me that a firefighter has ten thousand sitting around for a portrait.”

“No… and I'm pulling it from the sale,” I say quietly. “My discretion, but it's just not done yet. The story I want to tell, it's not complete. And I won’t put it up until it’s finished.”

I have to give it to the gallery owner, he's been in this game longer than I've been alive and has probably dealt with a lot more ridiculous requests than I just made. Instead of grumbling or even letting a shadow of displeasure cross over his face, he just nods. “Of course. I'll make sure of it myself.”

He leaves and I turn back to the rest of the show, wondering what else might happen. Actually, I think about Dan, and what Gerald said. A hero… I could see it. He's already built like a superhero, with that body….

Nope, I'm going to stop that mental conversation right there. If I let my mind keep going, I'm going to need to leave the show early to rub one out at the hotel before heading home. No. No, I promised myself after our incident in his cabin that the next time I climax, it's going to be with Dan. After all, it's only fair, if he hasn't touched a woman, I shouldn't be touching my womanhood either.

Still, I'm going to need something to help me out. “Hey, waiter? Another champagne.”