Painted Scars (Perfectly Imperfect, #1)(27)
I pull my phone from the back pocket of my jeans and give Mark a call while I rearrange the
finalized pieces along the big window.
When he answers, I chirp into the phone, “Hey, love.”
“I know that tone,” he groans. “You’re behind schedule again.”
“Of course, not. I would never do that to you.”
“Damn it, Nina. How behind are you?”
“A few days. But the big guy is done. I have five left. Can you send someone for the others? I’ll send you the address.”
“You moved?”
“Yup. Long story.”
“Will you be able to finish on time?”
“I’ll try my best, babe.”
There is some grumbling, and a sigh. “Send me a photo of the big guy.”
“I’m not sending you a photo, you will have to wait and see for yourself, Mark. Bye.” I put the phone back in my pocket and reach for one of the blank canvases.
“Who the fuck is Mark?”
I jump and spin around to find Roman glaring down at me.
“Why do you call him babe?” he demands. “And what kind of photo are you sending him?”
I blink at him and take a bite of my apple. “My pimp. All of us girls call him babe. And I’m sending a photo of my boobs.”
He narrows his eyes on me but doesn’t say anything.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Roman. Mark is my manager and the owner of the gallery where I’m having my exhibition. He wanted photos of the paintings.”
“Why do you call him babe?”
“Everybody calls him babe. Including his husband.”
Roman’s stance visibly relaxes, and his eyes lose their murderous gleam. Is he jealous?
“Can I see the paintings?” he asks.
So, it looks like we’re just going to ignore his strange behavior. Works for me, because I don’t want to dwell on the fact that I like the idea of him being jealous.
“Yes,” I reply. “Just don’t touch, some aren’t dry yet.”
Roman approaches the canvases and regards each one for a few moments until he stops in front of the newest one. “Is that . . . Igor?” He points the tip of the crutch toward the painting.
“Yes.”
“Why does he have a megaphone instead of his head? And is that . . . a dead chicken under his arm?”
“You are extremely perceptive, Pakhan.”
He looks at me over his shoulder and smirks. “And where is my painting? You promised me your self-portrait.”
“Naked one. I remember. It’ll have to wait; I need to finish the remaining exhibition pieces. Or I could do my self-portrait as one of those, I’m sure the critics will love it.” I shrug. “We might need to
add an ”eighteen plus” label on the—”
“No.”
“Then you’ll have to wait.”
“I’ll wait.” He turns and looks me over. “Are you hungry?”
His change of subject catches me unprepared. “A little.”
“Let’s go out for a lunch.”
I take Nina to a posh restaurant downtown, and we spend almost two hours there. She describes what she has planned for the exhibition, and I let her talk while watching her—her smiling eyes, the way she waves her hands in front of her face when she’s excited, or how she leans forward,
whispering in a low voice when she gossips about her colleagues who share the gallery. She must be aware that no one could hear her, the place is only half full, and none of the tables close to us are taken. Still, she keeps her tiny hand over her mouth, chatting about walking in on one of the other artists as she was groping the guy from finance behind the gallery floor.
There have been a lot of women in my life, but with Nina in front of me, they all just fade away.
We never even kissed properly, other than for the sake of the show, but I don’t remember ever being this drawn to someone. It’s like she bewitched me.
“What’s the deal with the dog?”
“I borrowed him from my aunt.” She grins and takes a sip of her wine.
“You borrowed a dog?” I stare at her.
“Technically, I offered to watch him for a few weeks. That should be enough time for him to do his part.”
“And that would be?”
“Well, you know how dogs are always running around the house, getting into rooms, and hiding there. Brando loves that, so I guess I will be chasing him around the house quite a lot in the following days. Who knows where he’ll end up?” She grins at me. “Maybe even in Leonid’s room at some point.”
I laugh and shake my head at her idea. “You are a dangerous woman, malysh.”
“What does that mean?”
“Malysh? It’s an endearment. It means little one.”
She tilts her head to the side and the corners of her lips curl upward in a small smirk. “Well, as I already said, most people are little compared to you, Roman.”
The waiter comes to fill our drinks. When Nina takes her glass, I notice that her wedding ring is rather loose, reach out, take her hand in mine, and inspect the ring. “We should get this resized.”
“Don’t bother. The engagement ring is keeping it in place. It’s durable by the way. I spilled some paint over my hand the other day and had to scrub it, it didn’t even get scratched.”