Chapter 24

Samson

I slung my bag over my shoulder and marched up the stairs to the third floor of Regina Scott’s mansion, determination solid inside me. That was who I’d become. Solid as a rock, as a mountain.

I’d spent the past how many fucking years bored out of my mind, flitting from business deal to business deal, opening clubs and restaurants, occasionally screwing a model and drinking for pleasure. None of it had worked. Nothing had excited me.

Not trips to Vegas or holidays in the Bahamas. They were good, sure, but nothing had filled that gaping hole, that yawning maw that threatened to suck me down into obscurity.

And now she’s filled it but pushed me away.

“Fuck that,” I growled.

I’d leave because she’d asked me to. She needed the space. She hated the idea of becoming like her mother, and I got that. I got that loud and fucking clear but she’d equated her fucking me with that and it was bullshit.

Regina didn’t love those men but Blair loved me.

And if I couldn’t make her believe that she needed to stand up to her mother, to prove that she was her own person, I’d show her how capable she was.

Blair was already mine.

I marched down the hall, past doors ajar, bathrooms and guestrooms, to her room at the end.

I opened the door and inhaled the lingering scent of her. My picture was still on the easel, unchanged since the last time I’d seen it. But I hadn’t come for that.

The desk drew me on. I opened the drawer, pulled out the sketchpad, then unzipped my bag and slipped it inside, closed up again.

I scanned the room once, nodded to myself, then left and shut the door behind me.

If she realizes it’s gone, so be it. Maybe she’ll call me and beg for it back.

My feet did all the work for me, as my mind worked around the options, worked and worked and worked. I had to free her, or help her realize that she could be free. I had to prove that I wasn’t some scumbag who’d come for a weekend of free sex and Christmas pudding.

I took the stairs two at a time, marched down the hall. Voices carried from the living room but I didn’t look down at them, just traversed the final set of stairs and crossed into the entry hall without looking back.

It killed me to leave her behind like this. It fucking killed me.

I’d gotten over my issues: the fact that I’d had no love growing up, that I’d learned the hard way that people didn’t just accept you for who you were. I’d let it go to allow myself to feel something for Blair.

I jogged out onto the front porch.

“Samson.” Regina’s simper followed me out into the Christmas morning.

I didn’t stop walking. My car was where I’d left it, parked to one side of the entrance. Another Audi TT to match the one I’d bought for Blair, except mine was sleek black.

“Samson!”

I spun on the spot and narrowed my eyes at the woman in fur and glitter.

She crunched across the snow and came to a halt in front of me, her lashes capturing the snow that drifted from the heavens. “If you ever contact my daughter again, I’ll call your superior,” she said, and her mouth twisted in distaste. “I’ll tell him that you took advantage of me while you were on the job.”

“Quite frankly, Mrs. Scott, I don’t give a damn what you do,” I said and fished my car keys out of the pocket of my jeans. I blipped the button, then got in and placed my bag on the passenger seat next to me.

I slammed the car door and cut off whatever the witch had been about to say, then revved the Audi’s engine. I took off for the gates, didn’t slow.

They opened for me, and I zipped out from between them.

A couple miles onto the freeway, I plugged my cell into the Bluetooth jack on my dash, and hit a button.

“Mr. Barnes.” My assistant, Phillipe, spoke in an effeminate whine and it filled the interior of my car, patching through the speakers I’d had installed custom. “Sir, I’ve been trying to get hold of you all weekend.”

“I told you I was going dark,” I replied. “And I’m not calling you for information on meetings. I need you to do something for me. Something important.”

“Yes, sir, of course. What is it?”

“I want you to contact the owner of every art gallery in SoHo and tell them I want a meeting.”

“Sir?” The unspoken question hovered inside the interior of the car, filling the gaps in noise of tires cruising along tar, the occasional growl of a passing truck.

“You heard me, Phillipe. Set it up.”

“Yes, sir. And it’s good to hear from you again.”

I hung up before the kid got soppy. I didn’t play that shit. I’d picked him up off the street a couple months ago, cleaned him up, and given him the opportunity, simply because he reminded me of what I’d been like at sixteen.

Alone, peddling stolen goods to survive, wearing the same clothes day in and out.

I cleared my mind of the past and focused on the present. On the future.

*

The Benny Hewitt Art Gallery had exactly the type of vibe and exposure I’d searched for. Glossy, wooden flooring, empty walls in cream, and room dividers for the right flow. I’d done my research in the past couple days on how art exhibitions worked to ensure I found exactly the right place.

It was central, too, and close to a few coffee shops that’d draw in that typical Beatnik crowd. Blair would’ve liked this.

She will like this.

“What do you think, Mr. Barnes?” The current owner, George Hewitt – Benjamin’s son – stood beside me in an Armani suit, his arms tucked behind his back.

Fucking A. That’s what I think. “It’s okay,” I replied and shifted my grip on Blair’s sketchbook.

My cell phone buzzed in the pocket of my suit pants, and I drew it out. Blair again. She hadn’t quit calling for the past two days, and she’d left me some ear-splitting messages about her missing art.

I sniffed and rejected the call, then slipped the phone back where it’d come from. I checked my Rolex. “I have a lot of other potential sellers to meet with,” I said. “If you’re done showing me around.”

“I am but may I ask what you’re looking for, specifically?”

You to drop your price.

“The perfect place,” I replied, then lifted Blair’s sketchbook. I opened it and flipped through the charcoal images, displaying each one to Mr. Hewitt.

“May I?” he asked and took the book by its edges. He turned the pages, studying each picture at length before progressing to the next one. “These are yours?”

“What?” I asked. “Hell no, man. I couldn’t draw like that in a million years. These belong to my chosen artist. Let’s call her that.” She’d painted a line right through my life, all right. “I’m interested in having them displayed but only under my conditions. And those are pretty damn high conditions to meet.”

“I’m sure my father’s gallery would complement these pictures,” George said, quickly, then shut the book and handed it back. “Let’s talk numbers, Mr. Barnes. You’re clearly unhappy with the price.”

“Am I?”

“I see no other reason you’d hesitate,” George replied and flashed me a sharkish smile. “This space is beautiful, and now that I’ve seen the art you wish display, I know it’s a match. A perfect match. You’re withholding for other reasons.”

I walked a few steps, my dress shoes tapping on the polished boards, and stopped in front of a large empty frame on the central divider. “You’re asking how much?”

“As I said on the phone, two-hundred dollars per square foot.”

“Let me ask you a question, Mr. Hewitt,” I said and swiveled toward him again.

The man toyed with his graying mustache, and nodded once, peering at me down a hawkish nose. “What is it?”

“Do I have schmuck penciled in on my forehead?”

George recoiled, narrowed his eyes. “Mr. Barnes –”

“That much per square foot. Here? This isn’t the Lower East Side.”

“What do you propose?” George asked and folded his arms across his chest.

“I want 150 per square foot. Final offer. Take it or leave it. I like the space but, hey, I’ve got plenty of other places to check out.” I tapped my heel and checked my watch again.

George tugged at the collar of his monkey suit.

“Do you accept the offer?”

“Yes,” he said, at last. “Yes, that’s fine.” And finally, a smile broke through the sober expression.

“Good,” I replied. “That’s good. My assistant will be in touch with you to arrange the remaining details.”

We shook on it, exchanged a couple bullshit niceties and then I was outta there, out in the New York evening, shoes clipping on the sidewalk. Folks strode past me, most lost in their phones or own conversations, and I kept my gaze on the horizon.

Not much longer now until I’d have her in my arms again.

My phone buzzed in my pocket again, and I didn’t bother taking it out. It’d be Blair, raging again about what I’d done. I hesitated, put my palm against my pocket and felt the outline of my iPhone.

Tempting – now that I’d actually done it, I could call her. But no, I had something else in mind. Something way better than telling her on the phone.

I waited until it’d stopped buzzing, then drew it out and tapped on the screen, brought up Phillipe’s extension and dialed.

“Mr. Barnes? How may I help?”

“Contact George Hewitt to organize the purchase of the gallery, Phillipe,” I said. “That’s job one.”

“And job two, sir?”

I halted, tipped my head back and inhaled the scent of the nearby cake shop on the corner, cinnamon and apple, and something else – a little vanilla? “Job two,” I said and barely contained the sense of triumph. I’d fucking punch the air in a minute. “Send the invite.”

And just like that, it was done.

Signed, sealed, and delivered, baby.