Aria

 

 

 

We sat in a cold, dim room. Despite the darkness, my skin prickled from the glare I knew was coming from the towering, muscle-bound man standing by the door. The hoodie he wore shadowed his face, making him appear even more menacing. Like some thug waiting for a pretty young blond like myself to take a wrong turn down a dark alley.

Only, we weren’t in an alley. We were somewhere much worse. Somewhere, that if Morgana, Evaleen Bechmann, and I screamed at the top of our lungs no one but this thug and his equally menacing friend would hear.

We were in downtown Chicago in one of the tallest building in the city where the top floor was the home of the wealthiest resident: A. Hawthorne.

But we were in the basement garage of that building in a tiny room surrounded by cinder blocks and one door. In other words, I should be scared.

I smirked. “Why are you hiding by the door? Afraid I might bite?”

I wasn’t frightened.

Growling for added effect, I kept my eyes trained on the hoodie guy by the door.

“Aria,” Morgana whisper-screamed at me.

I laughed at our ridiculous situation. Laughed because these guys only wanted to scare us. We weren’t tied to these chairs. They looked tough, but I’ve been around men who were the stuff of nightmares. Hoodie and his friend, Buzz Cut, were like boy scouts compared to them.

“What are they going to do to us, Morgana? Take us to some warehouse and brainwash us to take over the government? Come on.” I snorted and rolled my eyes at my redheaded friend.

“You never answered us. Why are you here with the paintings?” Buzz Cut moved forward and into the light. His dirty blond spikes almost disappearing under the harsh glow of the hanging lamp.

“That’s none of your business. Why would we tell you anything? We don’t even know who you are.” Evaleen’s blue eyes narrowed as she leaned toward him.

I liked Evaleen. She worked with my roommate, Morgana, so I’ve only known her less than two months but she’s tough and loyal. The perfect person to have with me when I decided to infiltrate a wealthy recluse’s home.

Despite her blond hair always pulled back into a frumpy schoolmarm style and dressing like one too, she had a no-nonsense approach to life that fit perfectly now.

“My name’s Bradley. That’s all you need to know. Now tell me why you were with the delivery of A. Hawthorne’s paintings or I’ll have you all arrested for trespassing,” he said as his dark eyes narrowed.

Evaleen snorted while Morgana whimpered.

Hoodie moved closer, hiding the most stellar gray eyes I’d ever seen beneath his hood. He concealed that secret weapon well. When Morgana, Evaleen, and I first arrived and got out of the delivery van, Hoodie was the one who grabbed me and pulled me into this room.

The light in the garage was faint but his gaze hit me like a bolt through thick smoke. Those pale gray eyes caused me to make a wish—to kiss him.

Unfortunately, I never got the chance to make good on my wish.

The men thought it odd that three women were helping to deliver some paintings when the actual delivery guy and his assistant were perfectly capable of doing it themselves. At least Hoodie and Buzz Cut weren’t dumb. I knew it was risky to pass ourselves off as part of the delivery team, but I had to come here.

When the wealthiest man in the city, if not the country, buys your paintings, you want to shake his hand. And I was giddy to catch a glimpse of the famously withdrawn A. Hawthorne.

“That’s funny, Bradley. Since when is being in a garage trespassing. For all the police know we were only looking for our car. Besides, you two strong-armed us ladies into a dark, closed off room. Even if A. Hawthorne can buy off the police to cover this up, I don’t think he can do a thing about us keeping it off social media.” Evaleen smirked.

That’s my girl.

Thugs may have muscles, but brains will always win in the end. A smart person would know not to let fear and emotions cloud their judgment. Bullies rely too heavily on their emotions to know better.

Bradley didn’t seem to like what Evaleen had to say. His eyes widened, and he went over to Hoodie. They whispered and as much as I leaned forward I couldn’t make out their words.

Hoodie finally came into the light. His eyes, turning to me, burned and seemed to brighten the room just enough to cause my heart to take notice.

He pulled down his hood to reveal thick dark hair that dusted his ears. And his skin, smooth and tan. I wondered if he lived in a country full of sun and sand and was forced to the cold, concrete-blanketed Chicago as punishment.

“Aria.” His hypnotic eyes, the deep rumble of his voice, held me tight as he knelt in front of me.

“Yes?” I said transfixed.

“Why are you here?”

“To meet A. Hawthorne. Those were my paintings he bought. I just want to thank him.”

Way to spoil everything, Aria.

Where was my usual flirty snark? His eyes were a dangerous drug. If his eyes had the power to get me to reveal my secrets against my will in a dark room, imagine what his hands could do?

My heart stumbled at the thought.

I soon found out their power. He placed his palm on my arm. My resolve obliterated the moment his fingers dusted my skin. And my breath, it withered and died as I leaned into his hand.

He had to feel that. That heat. That electricity. Or did his eyes protect him from such mortal things?

After a moment he rose, letting his hand fall and leaving me desperate for his touch. I suddenly felt the early March air in my bones. It was bitter and unloved.

When I glanced at him, the corner of his mouth ticked up, just enough to bring some of that warmth back.

“I think I can make that happen.” He reached a hand toward me to help me up and I took it. At that point, I would hand over my wallet and perhaps my ovaries to make him smile.

Bradley opened his mouth to speak, but Hypno-eyes halted him with one look.

Those eyes were weapons. Even Bradley did as they commanded. He shut his mouth and let Hypno-eyes lead us out of the room to a set of elevators.

Once we were all crowded into the lift, Hypno-eyes leaned forward and stared at a mirror. The doors closed, and the elevator began to rise.

“Wow. That was cool. Did the elevator just scan your eyes?” Morgana asked.

“Yes. Mr. Hawthorne had his private elevators equipped with the latest security technology,” Bradley said.

“Like James Bond or—” Morgana said before being cut off by Evaleen.

“Or Get Smart.” Evaleen smirked at Bradley. “Let me guess, his shoe is also a phone?”

Hypno-eyes snorted and everyone in the elevator turned with wide eyes.

He shrugged his broad shoulders. “What? It was funny. I love Get Smart.”

The elevator stopped, and the doors opened causing my mouth to drop open. We stepped onto gray-tiled floors and into a small hall with bright white walls. But it’s what covered those walls that had my eyes melting.

Works of art.

Not my artwork, but master works of art.

Stuff I had only seen in textbooks during my art history class at Northwestern. I remember falling in love with Native American art in school. To the point where I studied Native culture and even learned some Navajo.

I stood only inches from paper warped and molded decades before I was born by R. C. Gorman. Fear that my hot breath would wither its beauty but too in awe to move.

“Stunning. How does A. Hawthorne have such a piece? Shouldn’t this be in a museum?”

That’s when I felt the warmth from down in the basement return to my arm. I turned to discover Hypno-eyes and I were alone in the hallway. A large, dark wooden door sat wide-open at the end. Bradley must have escorted my friends away and I hadn’t even noticed.

I should be worried, for them, for myself, but for some reason I felt safe. Those eyes and now, his touch, did strange things to me. Had me reacting to the world in a way I never had before, well, not since I was young. Not since I was innocent of the evils that existed in the hearts and hands of men.

His eyes crinkled with warmth. “It’s much safer here than a museum basement. Most of the collection is loaned from time to time to galleries and museums around the world.”

 “A. Hawthorne may be a recluse but at least he’s not a hoarder. I’m glad he allows the public to experience these treasures,” I said with barely contained excitement.

Hypno-eyes frowned and abruptly turned his back to move toward the door. I guess Mr. Hawthorne’s employees didn’t like people calling him a recluse. It’s a good thing I hadn’t brought up the rumors that he prefers to sleep with prostitutes.

I’m not one to judge women on what they have to do to survive in this male-dominated world, but I would think a billionaire wouldn’t need to add to the exploitation of women. But what did I know of the happenings behind closed doors of penthouses?

I walked through the door and it eerily closed behind me. I hoped it was the latest tech gadget closing that door and not a dead painter’s ghost here to collect his lost work.

I quickened my step from the eerie door and was struck once again as I entered what appeared to be the love-child of a living room and a museum.

My friends sat on a what I thought to be a replica of an orange Florence Knolls sofa. But as I glanced around the room, I realized there were no replicas in this room. No knockoffs or vintage-inspired. Everything was original, from the George Nakashima end table to the Matisse hanging on the wall behind Evaleen.

I pointed to my friends and said, “When I die, I want to be cremated and my ashes scattered in this room.”

 “You got it.” Morgana gave me thumbs up.

“Ah, Dixon, you can’t just scatter your ashes anywhere you want. This is someone’s home. They don’t want a dead person’s ashes on their couch.”

Despite Evaleen’s cute habit of calling people by their last name and sound logic, I chose to ignore her comment.

“Ms. Dixon, A. Hawthorne will meet with you now. He is down the hall; the second door on the right.” Bradley pointed toward a hall that appeared to be in competition with the Louvre.

This was it—the point of the whole evening. To meet the man who didn’t just buy my paintings but propelled me into the elite artistic circle. If A. Hawthorne showed interest in an artist, their career was set. Every gallery wanted to show their work.

I can finally get a chance to show my paintings, not just in Chicago but New York, Los Angeles, and perhaps even the world. No more slinging drinks for tips. No more drunk losers groping me, expecting me to smile when they take what I never told them they could have.

I left my final resting place and moved quickly down the hall. Standing in front of the door to the room that held my savior I paused and removed my puffy black coat. Smoothing my shoulder length hair and rubbing at my good luck charm around my neck—my sister’s old heart pendant necklace—I reached over knocking on the door.

It opened, and I wondered if all the doors in this place were possessed. In the middle of a square room with a large wooden desk and a few black leather chairs stood Hypno-eyes.

He waved me inside. “Come in, Aria. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Alexander Hawthorne.”