There Are No Saints (Sinners Duet #1)(8)

My stomach growls, reminding me that all I’ve eaten so far today was a croissant. God, I hope I didn’t miss the snacks—parties and shows subsidize half my grocery budget.

I don’t have time to change clothes. Remembering that Joanna keeps a couple things stashed in the coat closet, I dig out a 90s-style crushed velvet dress, wrinkled and smelling of turpentine.

Then I hop a streetcar to the gallery. The floor-to-ceiling windows illuminate the street like the whole building is one vast, glowing lamp. Music bursts out the doors when anyone enters or exits.

I slip inside, immediately enveloped by the hubbub of laughter and conversation. You never feel out of place at an art event because everybody is dressed so eccentrically. I’m surrounded by every type of attire, from brocade suits to raggedy jeans.

I don’t have to ask Erin where to find Blackwell’s piece—it glows on its plinth like a collection of celestial bodies rotating in space.

I stand in awe of this beautiful thing, hitting me like an arrow shaft to the chest, filling me with a helpless sense of longing.

I wonder if I’ll ever create anything this good.

After I’ve goggled at it for a good twenty minutes, my snarling stomach finally pulls me away.

Sadly, the buffet table bears only a few scattered grape stems and a couple of cheese rinds.

“The hyenas picked it over,” a gruff male voice says.

I turn around, beholding the ox-like frame of Alastor Shaw, his broad face devoid of its usual smile.

I might like him better this way. I’ve never been a fan of people who smile too much. It feels like they’re trying to force you to smile back at them, which makes my face tired.

“That’s what I get for being late.” I shrug.

“What’s your name?” he asks. “I haven’t seen you around before.”

We’ve crossed paths several times, but I wouldn’t expect him to remember.

“Mara Eldritch,” I say.

“Alastor Shaw,” he replies, holding out his hand.

I take it, feeling his thick, calloused fingers close around mine.

“Yeah,” I laugh. “I know.”

He grins back at me, sheepish, friendly crinkles at the corners of his eyes. “Well, it never seems to get me a table anywhere good,” he says.

“It might get you a free mimosa at Sweet Maple,” I say. “My boss is a big fan of yours.”

“Yeah? Let me guess, he’s forty and balding?” Alastor says wryly.

“Sixty and bald,” I confirm.

“I’m never the favorite of the ones I’d like to impress,” Alastor says, leaning against the buffet table so his muscular forearm makes brief contact with my hip. He hasn’t broken eye contact.

“I don’t believe that for a second,” I say.

“Oh no?” Now he’s leaning in all the more. “What would I have to do to—”

At that moment, Erin inserts herself neatly between us, pretending not to notice Alastor, saying brightly, “There you are! I thought you weren’t going to make it?”

She gives me a hidden prod with her elbow.

“This is my roommate, Erin,” I tell Alastor.

“Right—we met at the showcase,” Alastor says. He’s still smiling, but I think I see a flicker of irritation on his face.

Erin doesn’t notice, probably because she’s not used to men eluding her advances. Her sleepy smile and luscious body have a near-perfect record of attracting her quarry.

“You offered me a tour of your studio,” Erin says, peering up at Alastor from under her long lashes. “But we never exchanged numbers . . .”

“I’ve gotta pee,” I say, slipping away from the pair of them.

I didn’t need Erin’s elbow to the ribs to remind me that she has dibs on Alastor. I wouldn’t need it either way—I’ve never dated anybody famous and successful, and I’m probably not secure enough to handle it. Not that Alastor seems like he’s much for dating.

For what he wants, I’m sure Erin will suffice just as well as me—probably better. I like sex but I’m not that great at it. I’m too easily irritated. If a guy eats a slice of pizza and then tries to kiss me, if he makes a clicking sound when he swallows, if a hangnail scratches my skin, if he even fucking thinks about kissing my ears, my pussy clamps shut like a bear trap.

I wander the rest of the galleries, trying to recapture that transcendent feeling I experienced looking at Blackwell’s work. Nothing else hits me quite as hard, so I circle back around to take another look at it.

The small placard reads, Fragile Ego.

I wonder what that means. Blackwell’s work is rarely self-referential.

I chat with a couple other people I know before sneaking out back of the gallery to take a hit off Frank’s vape pen.

It’s beginning to rain again, a light drizzle that barely dampens us any more than the usual fog. The droplets condense in Frank’s tight curls like tiny gemstones, and the smoke curls around his face with every exhale until he looks like Zeus with a beard made of clouds.

“I wish I had my camera,” I laugh. “You look incredible right now.”

“You’re high,” Frank laughs back at me. “I’ve looked like shit all week.”

Frank’s boyfriend broke up with him. He’s been miserable ever since.