Just What I Needed

by Lorelei James

  I didn’t turn around. She’d come to me, if for no other reason than to see if I’d chatted up anyone important or if I’d lost the twenty-five pounds that she’d always professed would make me “such a pretty girl.”

  Laura glided up, wearing her standard uniform of a nondescript beige dress, allowing her to slip into the background so her husband could shine. She flashed me a quick smile, then checked everyone else out. “Your father said you were here. How are you?”

  “Oh, you know. Keeping a stiff upper lip.”

  Selka moved in closer and demanded, “Who is Amelia?”

  That startled Laura. “That’s what we called Trinity when she was growing up.”

  “Why?” Selka asked.

  Laura sent me a “Did you put her up to this?” look.

  I could do nothing but watch as things deteriorated further.

  “Did she ask for name change?” Selka demanded.

  “No, but—”

  “You are not her mother, yah?”

  “I’m her stepmother.”

  Selka harrumphed. “You admire evil stepmother character in child’s fairy tales? You think, ‘I want to be that cruel woman,’ and that’s what you do?”

  “No! Why on earth—?”

  “Then explain to me this. You are not her mother. You did not get to choose what to name her at day of birth. So after her mother died, you just . . . decide to change her name? The one thing that her mother chose just for her? Poor child, grieving for her mama and you take her name from her too?”

  Laura looked absolutely horrified.

  “Congratulations for achieving goal of such coldness.”

  Selka faced me with tears in her eyes—not crocodile tears; she was genuinely distressed. She clasped my hands in hers. “I hate this for you, Trinity. I hurt with a mother’s heart to witness such behavior to a grief-stricken little girl and see that cruelty continued for years without a thought or a care. You have kinder heart than I. You should’ve changed last name. You should’ve cut ties forever and become the orphan they made you feel.” She pressed her cheek to mine and whispered something in Swedish. Then she blindly took the hand Ward offered and he led her away.

  When Laura started to speak, Walker said, “Don’t. Just go.”

  After she slunk away, he reached for me. And for the first time in our relationship, I recoiled.

  “Trinity—”

  “I . . . need some air.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  I looked at him. “No. I need a break from you too.”

  “Fuck that.”

  “Back off, Walker.”

  He held up his hands, surprised that I’d snapped at him.

  I wheeled around and strode down the hallway with no idea where I was going, desperate to find someplace where I could breathe.

  Spying a side exit, I pushed through the glass doors and ended up on a patio. With a bar.

  Thank god.

  As I waited in line, the night’s events played on a continuous loop. Why couldn’t I spiral into the blackout zone at will? Because I’d gladly let that vortex suck me up right now.

  I told the bartender, “I’ll have a shot of tequila. No. Make it two.”

  When I reached for my purse to pay, I realized I didn’t have it. “Sorry. I don’t have any cash.”

  Then I heard, “Put those on my tab, Bill.”

  I waited for the bartender to move so I could see my benefactor. When I realized who it was, I almost walked off without the tequila. “Did he have you follow me?”

  “Nope. Been in here a while avoiding the Lund party.”

  I ducked around a couple and stood in front of him. He was a giant. And not one of those troll-like giants, but a titan. A gorgeous titan. The pictures online didn’t do him justice. When he smiled at me, I might’ve swooned if I hadn’t seen Walker’s smile first.

  “You’re Trinity.”

  “You’re Jensen.”

  “Good to meet you.”

  “Same.”

  Jensen held up his lowball glass. I touched my shot glass to his. He said, “Skål.”

  Oh, sweet fire. I needed that.

  “Why’d you think I followed you? Are you paranoid or something?”

  Strange response. “I thought maybe Walker sent you after me.”

  “Did you have a fight?”

  “Sort of.”

  “That’s why you’re hiding from him?”

  “I’m not hiding. I’m taking a breather from everyone.”

  “You do that a lot?”

  I rolled my eyes. “What? Breathe? Why, yes, I do.”

  “Smart-ass sense of humor. No wonder Walker likes you.”

  Something was off with him. Was he drunk? “I get the feeling that you’re reserving judgment on whether it’s a good thing or bad that Walker likes me.”

  His handsome face remained blank. “What makes you say that?”

  “I know Walker is close to his family, and I’ve already met Brady and Lennox, Annika, your mom and dad, Dallas and Nolan. And yet this is the first time you and I have met. So either you don’t give a damn about your brother’s life because you’re so invested in your own, or you consider me a”—I refused to call myself a fixer-upper or broken—“drive-by.”

  “Have you ever been involved in one?” he said sharply.

  “One what?”

  “Drive-by shooting.”

  “Omigod, no!”

  “Do you own a gun?”

  “No.”

  “Do you enjoy setting things on fire?”

  What the hell? “Of course not.”

  “Ever been arrested for trespassing at an ex-boyfriend’s house?”

  “No. I’ve never been arrested for anything.”

  “Not even speeding?” he said skeptically.

  I shook my head.

  “Do you drive a car?”

  “No, I drive a damn donkey,” I snapped.

  But Jensen wasn’t done. “Do you have anger management issues?”

  “I’m starting to.”

  “How many cats do you have? And ones hidden in the attic because they’re on Prozac do count.”

  Okay, he had to be drunk. Or high. “One.”

  “Have you ever been involved with a motorcycle club?”

  “Yeah. Me and Jax Teller go way back. What is this, Jensen?” That’s when I threw back the second shot. I waited for the burn to fade before I spoke. “Are you an asshole to all of Walker’s girlfriends?”

  He granted me an evil smile. “Just the crazy ones. But that describes all of them since he’s magnetic north for chicks toting a whole bucket of crazy.”

  And he assumed I was like all the rest?

  Aren’t you?

  I shot a paranoid glance over my shoulder to see if my stepmonster lurked behind me, whispering doubts into my ear.

  Just then it hit me that I had plenty of those doubts these days even without her influence.

  “So what’s your damage? Daddy issues? That’d be new.”

  Enough was enough.

  “You don’t have much faith in your brother. And that sucks. He’s a good man, the most genuinely decent guy I’ve ever met, and I’m crazy about him. And if that makes me crazy, so be it.”

  I walked away. I wasn’t going to take on the “Are you another crazy one?” burden because I shouldn’t have heard any of the stuff Jensen had shared tonight. That was Walker’s personal business and not fodder for casual conversation.

  The Stephens party was still going strong. Two hours remained and then security would boot everyone out and lock the doors, so the piece would be covered up and safe until the teardown crew returned Monday to take it to the Stephens home.

  I’d stashed my purse beneath a banquet table during my mini-speech and bent down to retrieve it. That’s when I noticed the guy lingering by the first table. The same guy Walker had spoken to at length earlier.

  He approached me, so I waited with a polite smile affixed to my face.

/>   “You’re the artist?”

  “Yes, sir. You’re a friend of the Stephenses’?”

  He stared at the piece. “Mixed media is your preferred medium?”

  “One of them. I’m eclectic.”

  “Meaning you haven’t settled on a style. You’re just throwing things up to see if any will stick.”

  “Maybe I work in a variety of styles because I’m good at all of them,” I retorted.

  “Touché. Where else do you have installations?”

  Mediums? Installations? This had to be Dagmar Kierkegaard. My nerves went haywire. My palms started to sweat. My chest got tight. I tried to act normal.

  “You have no other installations?” he asked.

  “I have a piece at the Federal Reserve.”

  “What’s the theme?”

  “War and the aftereffects, victims and violence.”

  “War,” he scoffed. “Those pieces will be a dime a dozen in twenty years. Anything else?”

  “A metal sculpture in the Marquette Hotel lobby. A limestone carving on the twentieth floor of the Wells Fargo building.”

  “Paintings?”

  As Kierkegaard went down his list, I answered by rote. I could tell he thought my answers—my work—were sadly lacking.

  “I’ll be honest, Miss Carlson. You have talent. But it hasn’t been honed, or maybe I should say harnessed, as it needs to be. One piece does not a career make . . .” He smirked. “Unless it does.”

  Art school joke I’d heard a thousand times.

  “You’re not ready to have a piece in a gallery’s permanent collection. And something like this”—he gestured to the piece—“would have limited potential even as part of a traveling exhibit.”

  “It’s a commissioned piece, so the only place it’s traveling to is the Stephens home.”

  “Well, we all have to eat, I suppose.”

  “Yes, elitism isn’t accepted currency for art supplies, rent, health care and food. But wouldn’t it be grand if selling one piece of art could sustain me all of my days? Then I would have plenty of time to brag about my singular accomplishment in whichever gallery deigned to hang it and I’d never have to lower myself to take another commission again. Oh, right. One piece does not a bank account make. Ever.”

  He looked me in the eyes for the first time and I saw annoyance. “Here’s a professional tip. I don’t care who you are or how much money you have or what your last name is. You cannot buy your way into respectability. With one piece or twenty.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I was approached tonight and asked the going rate for a ‘donation’ in exchange for hanging some of your work.”

  No. No no no no. “I’d never condone that. I had nothing to do with that! I understand protocol, Mr. Kierkegaard.”

  “You should educate them on it, especially now that you know what it’s cost you.”

  “Cost me?” I repeated.

  “I don’t like being bullied. Chances are very close to zero that I’ll ever hang one of your pieces in any of the many galleries I represent. I’d say that your attitude toward artists who strive to make a difference with one piece was the final straw in my decision, but I’d made up my mind before you shared your opinion. I’ll admit it was refreshing. Few are ever so brutally honest with me for fear of . . .”

  Being blackballed.

  He didn’t have to say it. It wasn’t a secret that if you ended up on Kierkegaard’s bad side, you were screwed. It wasn’t verbal bile that rose in my throat but actual bile. I was three seconds from adding insult to injury and barfing on this man’s shoes.

  I raced out into the hallway, but I didn’t make it to the bathroom; I vomited in front of the door. Well-dressed people scattered. But plenty of them saw me leaning against the wall and apologizing to the janitor about the mess before I fled to the bathroom.

  I hid in the stall, my mind in as much tumult as my stomach.

  After I was relatively sure I wasn’t about to hurl again, I left the stall and headed to the sink to rinse my mouth and wash my hands. I glanced up and saw myself in the mirror. I looked like a train wreck. And tonight the analogy fit because in one stupid, reckless moment someone had derailed my career.

  Who? Walker? My dad? The stepmonster? One of the Lund family members? Something occurred to me—maybe Ramon had slipped in with the sole purpose of torpedoing my career.

  You’re reaching, Trinity. He’s in rehab, remember?

  With the way my thoughts were ping-ponging, I managed to focus on one thing: I wanted to go home. Immediately. But I didn’t have a car. Dammit. I was stuck here. I hated being stuck places.

  Talk to Walker. He’ll take you.

  My stomach churned at the very idea of talking to anyone. My mental shields were fried and I couldn’t deal with even one more thing. I needed to go home and regroup. Tomorrow I’d ferret out the truth. Tonight was a wash and the last thing I needed was to stay and end up saying more of the wrong things.

  Mind made up, I did the logical thing and called a cab.

  In a daze, I wandered toward the front exit, praying no one saw me. I’d text Walker once I was in the cab.

  But karma must’ve put a neon “Kick Me” sign over my head. The first person I saw was Walker.

  He said, “Trinity?”

  I kept walking.

  Of course Walker followed me. “Where are you going?”

  I whirled around and managed to keep my balance as his soulful eyes searched mine. “I’m escaping what has become my own personal version of hell.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Haven’t you done enough?” I took a breath and backtracked. “Did you do it? Throw your money and your family’s name around? Offer to pay to have my work shown?”

  “Sweetheart, you’ve lost me. Are you feeling okay?”

  “Besides the humiliation of vomiting in public?”

  “When did you get sick?” he demanded.

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m going home.”

  “Trinity—”

  Jensen approached us and said, “What’s going on?”

  “I’ve had enough of tonight. Oh, and thank you for giving me the spiel about all the crazy women Walker has dated. I’m sure he appreciates you talking behind his back just like Nolan did.”

  Walker instinctively tried to step in front of me. “What is she talking about?”