“We don’t know who it’s from. What if it’s from the government?”
He arched a brow at me. “The government?”
I laid my hands on the lid, bending slightly. I cocked my ear towards the crate, but heard nothing. “Yes, the government. It could be some super-secret spy stuff and, once we open it, our lives will be changed forever.”
“Really, that’s what you think? That’s more likely than you winning an auction on E-bay and forgetting about it?”
“You never know, Tore... that kind of stuff can happen.”
“Sure it can... in your twisted, little mind, maybe. You really need to get out more and find something more constructive to do with your time.” He popped up onto his feet and disappeared down the hall, soon returning with a hammer and flathead screw driver, “and stop watching X-files reruns.” He shook the handle of the hammer in my direction as he scolded me.
He kneeled back down and wedged the screwdriver under the lip of the lid, whacking it once with the hammer. The lid creaked as it inched open.
“All right, but don’t say I didn’t try to warn you when we’re huffing anthrax in a few minutes.”
He gave me a dismissive huff and continued to work his way around the lid, until the last nailed groaned, popping the lid free. He lifted it and set it aside. I jumped to my feet and shrieked.
“What the hell is that doing here?”
“Anthrax?”
“No, not anthrax. Give me the lid, give it to me!”
“Why? There’s nothing on it.” He handed the wooden lid to me over his head as he looked down at the contents, still safely stashed within the crate. I flipped the lid over and over again, but there was nothing. This had to be a huge mistake. Damn, that delivery driver was so going to get fired.
I quickly tried to hand the lid back. “Put this back on”
“Why?”
“Because we can’t keep it. It doesn’t belong to us.” The crate lid still dangled from my hand when an interesting thought crept into my mind. If the driver’s going to get fired anyway, I could just keep it. What would be the harm? I wondered what the penalty for grand theft would be. I sighed. Maybe it’d be worth going to prison for.
There was another knock at the door. I didn’t even bother with the rules, just showed Tore the scissors, motioning to the door, so I could keep my eyes glued to the crate. I was completely lost in my own little world. All that existed was me and... my precious.
“Still visually molesting the poor thing, I see.” I spun around to see Devon wearing a very self-satisfied smile on his face.
“What the shit is that doing here?”
“It’s your birthday present. Yay, happy birthday!” I marched towards him and slugged him in the arm. “Oooww, what the hell’d you do that for?” He laughed, rubbing his bicep.
“That...” I pointed to the crate, “is a six-thousand dollar painting, Devon. Not a birthday present. A birthday present is a really lame card and a twenty-five dollar gift certificate to the recipient’s favorite store. Geez, for your last birthday I got you a CD. What were you thinking?”
“After you optically raped the poor thing at the gallery, I thought you ought to make an honest painting out of it.” He laughed again.
“This isn’t funny. I can’t accept it. It’s too expensive. I appreciate the thought, but you need to return it.” I have to admit, I really wanted to keep it, but I didn’t feel right accepting such a lavish gift.
“Hmm, that’s going to be a problem, you see. The gallery has a very strict no-return policy, so if you won’t accept it, I’ll still be out the money and forced to store the painting in a closet because it doesn’t really match the décor at my place.” There was a hint of mischief in his eyes. He was very proud of his devious behavior.
I considered punching the smug off his face, but instead leaned my head back towards the crate. The idea of the Mourning Inamorata sitting in a closet was heartbreaking to me. I was stuck between a rock and a hard place, stuffed there by my best friend. The price tag for such a birthday gift was steep, but it would be rude to throw the gift back at Devon so... in reality, there was only one solution.
“Guess I’ll just have to keep it because... you know, I’d hate to muck up the ambiance over at Casa Le Devon.”
He wrapped his arms around my shoulders, pinning mine to my sides. “Good, I knew you’d cave. Happy birthday, dork-face.”
“Thank you, butt-munch.”
“Now that you’ve accepted it, there’s a tiny condition I forgot to mention.”
“You conveniently forgot to mention, I’m sure.” I eyed him suspiciously. My arms were still pinned, which I soon realized was to keep me from hitting him again.
“The gallery and artist are doing this dinner party thing for everyone who bought a piece. We’re kind of obligated to go.”
“We? How are we obligated to go? You’re the one who bought the thing.”
“As a gift for you.”
I groaned, but there was a potential to brighten the dark, little social cloud Devon cast over me. “You said the gallery and the artist. The gallery, as in, the one owned by your wannabe girlfriend, Katarina?”
It was his turn to groan, but he nodded.
“Goober patrol?”
“A little bit, maybe. I don’t think it will be too bad, since her boyfriend will be there, but I’d like the buffer just in case.”
“Her boyfriend, you mean Mr. Covington?” I replied in a pompous accent.
“Yes, Mr. Covington to be sure.” Devon mimicked my tone, tapping ashes from an imaginary cigar.
I gave it a few seconds of consideration. What was one crappy dinner party in exchange for such an amazing birthday gift? Not to mention, the chance to get enough ammunition to torment Devon for the next year.... “All right, I’ll go but have I told you lately...”
“How much you hate me?” he finished my sentence with a goofy grin.
I winked and clacked my tongue, as I shot the pistolas.
Chapter 12
Even with the possibility to pester Devon about Katarina, I was still not looking forward to the dinner party and, by the time the day rolled around, I was downright dreading it. The tiny silver lining to the evening was that it wasn’t a super formal event. Given the caliber of people who were sure to be in attendance, even if I wore the fanciest thing in my closet, there wasn’t a huge chance I was going to impress anyone with my wardrobe. So, rather than stress out trying, I opted to just be myself.
I paired black leggings with one of my favorite peasant tops, which was an off-the-shoulder number with black and white embroidery across the bodice. I pulled my hair up into a high ponytail, to show off my neck and shoulders better. I paired the whole outfit with calf-high, black boots. Some chunky jewelry and a teardrop necklace completed the ensemble. I put on the finishing touches, just as the doorbell rang.
I came tearing out of the bathroom to answer the door. Devon was mostly decked out in all black for the evening. Black pants, black shirt, black blazer, and, just to add a pop of color, a burgundy scarf hung loosely around his neck. He looked so perfect and put together that I wanted to strangle him.
“Seriously, Devon? Seriously?”
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“You trumped me... again. Can’t I be the pretty one, just once?” He looked me up and down, shook his head, and gave a little sigh. He didn’t say another word, merely chuckled his way to the elevator. I looked down at my attire, hoping it wasn’t the reason for his snickering. I shrugged and followed behind in his beautiful wake anyway.
When we arrived at our destination, I stepped out of the cab in front of a mega-high rise in uptown. Devon mentioned it was also the artist’s home. The building stretched to heaven itself. Yet, in the black of night, it had a menacing quality to it, as if it was just going to take on a life of its own, bend over, and remind me that I didn’t belong within its walls.
The place was a whole other world unto itself, co
mplete with a doorman who took our invitation before punching a code into the elevator, which went all the way up to the penthouse. Apparently, the art world had been kind to Mr. Covington, since he was the richest bastard in the entire building. An eccentric shut-in, who also happened to be wealthy beyond imagination? Yeah, the evening had the promise to be “interesting”, to be sure.
The elevator ride took forever and a day. Seventy floors later, the doors finally opened. My jaw landed on the floor as we stepped directly into the most lavish home I had ever seen. I’m not sure what I was expecting for an artist’s home, but this certainly hadn’t been it. It was very modern in design with straight, hard lines everywhere. The furnishings were in rich browns, dark blacks, chrome, leather, and everything was highlighted with track lighting. It was so clean and precise. It looked like it was more for show rather than living. I felt completely out of my element.
I gawked around in awe when we were greeted by none other than Katarina, the Ice Queen herself. She was, of course, perfectly put together and, seeing her in the setting of the apartment, seemed fitting. Taking another glance around, it occurred to me the place didn’t have an artist stamp, but the stamp of a cold, hard, businesswoman. In other words, it had Katarina written all over it.
“Hello Devon, darling. So glad you could make it.” She greeted him with a kiss to each cheek again.
Blech, kiss-kiss, vomit-vomit.
“We wouldn’t dream of missing it.” He kissed her in return.
Ha! Guess again, friend.
Her greeting for me was definitely less cordial. Of course, she had the sunshine and rainbows shooting out of her ass where Devon was concerned, but it all turned into a downpour of shit when it came time to greet me.
“Olivia, how... lovely... to see you again.”
I nodded curtly, barely giving her a smile.
The Ice Queen couldn’t be bothered to give a proper tour of the abode, given the amount of guests and all, so we were given a quick, directional, pointed tour of the place. The apartment had all the usual rooms: living, bath, bed, dining, kitchen but it also had a bar and a veranda overlooking the city. The whole place was a huge, open space of decadence and extravagance. The party was fully staffed by a catering company, including the bar. It all felt choreographed, leaving nothing to chance.
Katarina and Devon chatted on and, at some point, I tuned her out. Given the amount of shiny objects in the room, it wasn’t hard to get distracted. So, I was only vaguely listening when she began yammering on about the fully equipped artist’s studio the place also boasted.
“There are a few new pieces on display, if you’d like to have a look,” Katarina told Devon, “and I think even the new one Drake’s been working on is still out.”
I snapped my head in her direction, giving my undivided attention. “I’m sorry, what did you just say?”
“The new piece is on...” She didn’t get a chance to finish before Mr. Covington stepped out of the studio. Gone were the casual clothes—this time he was wearing a black pinstripe suit vest over a crisp, white, button down and pinstripe pants to match. He looked even better than I remembered and, that alone, made me want to cry. He was smiling and had just released from shaking another man’s hand, when his gray eyes found mine. His smile swiftly turned to a look of shock. The other man excused himself, leaving Drake and I staring at one another.
Had I taken a cab out of purgatory? I must have, because... fuck all, I’d just found myself in the epitome of Hell.
Katarina was the first to speak again, breaking the awkward silence that only Drake and I seemed aware of. “Ah, there’s the man of the hour. Darling, you remember Devon?”
He nodded absently, breaking eye contact with me momentarily to greet Devon. I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to run and jump out the picture window or, better yet, push him through it. I wondered what a fall from seventy stories up might do to a Reaper. My murderous plan didn’t get the chance to fully develop before Katarina “introduced” us.
“Drake, this is Devon’s friend, Olivia.”
If I hadn’t been secretly plotting Drake’s ultimate demise, I might have been more pissed and even called her out on her tone. But, as it was, all I could manage was a quick head nod in his general direction. I looked away, trying to find an excuse to escape.
“If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to get a drink.” I didn’t wait for a response before I hightailed away, leaving my best friend, the ice queen, and giant douchebag in my wake.
I slammed one drink and was ordering another when Devon caught up to me. The concern on his face was genuine and sweet, yet I found myself wanting to punch him. He unknowingly purchased a painting for me by the very same asshole that ditched me a few weeks ago and then, to add insult to injury, dragged me to that asshole’s house for a dinner party. I pounded back my second drink and raised my glass at the bartender for another. Devon clamped his hand down over my glass and furrowed his brow at me. “What the hell is wrong?”
How could I even begin to answer that? My best answer would have been everything, but I couldn’t tell him that. I couldn’t tell him any of it. I just had to get through this disastrous evening and keep my problems to myself. The best I could hope for was for it to pass quickly and that I could control the urge to stab Drake with a shrimp fork.
Devon still waited for an answer, but I was saved from any explanation when it was announced that dinner was served. I followed the crowd into the dining room. Devon followed me and we found ourselves entering a dining room with more square footage than his entire brownstone.
In the middle of the room, there was one extremely long table to accommodate all thirty or so guests. This was not to be an intimate meal by any stretch of the imagination. I took a seat at the far end, hoping to put some space between Drake and myself. But the universe once again made me its bitch when he took the head seat at my end of the table, right next to Devon.
The meal was nothing short of pretension on a plate, served with a side of truffle-infused foam. The conversation wasn’t much better. Mostly, it was a lot of prattle about the erratic fluctuation of the market and since I knew nothing about it, I was able to keep my head down and not engage. I was almost into the home stretch but as we were finishing our desert of lavender-infused crème brûlée, the wife of one of the yuppie yahoos across the table started asking me questions.
“Which Covington original did you purchase?”
“Mourning Inamorata, but I had nothing to do with it. That was all Devon.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Drake perk up. I tried very hard not to care or feel uncomfortable that he was now listening to the conversation.
“I bought it for her as a birthday gift.” Devon patted my hand. “But give yourself some credit, Liv. You’re the one who fell in love with it. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have purchased it. So, actually, you had everything to do with it.”
I turned my head slightly to smile weakly at him, but noticed over his shoulder that Drake appeared stunned. I tried not to let my eyes linger on him too long but wondered what the expression had been about. Did he think I wasn’t sophisticated and cultured enough to appreciate his art? I was just about to bring the question forth when he addressed Devon.
“I wondered who bought it. Katarina insisted it be added to the show, even though I didn’t want to part with it.” He paused for a brief moment. His tone was almost sad when he spoke again. “I’m glad it ended up in good hands.”
I knew he was looking at me again, but I refused to meet his gaze. The whole conversation had become unbearably uncomfortable. When Katarina announced coffee and drinks would be served in the next room, I excused myself to go to the restroom, shooting out of my chair like a rocket and damn near knocking it over in my haste.
Behind the locked door of the swanky bathroom, I tried to pull myself together. I stared into the mirror and gave myself a pep talk. Okay, home stretch. You’re almost done. Sure, this night has been a total nightmare but look at the bright side... That’
s where my mind went blank. What bright side? There was no bright side to this. It’s not as if I could even really get a cathartic release by destroying the damn painting. What would I tell Devon? My sweet dear friend, who had done such an amazing thing for me? Sorry buddy, it just fell off the wall and shredded itself? Maybe I could get a cat... Fuck my life!
Taking a very deep breath, I emerged from the bathroom. I made a beeline straight for the bar to get another drink, but then thought better of it, asking for seltzer water with lime instead. Drake was nowhere to be seen, but then again, neither was Devon, so I headed out to the veranda to get some fresh air. Most of the guests were chatting one another up inside, so I practically had it to myself.
The veranda extended almost the entire front side of the building with a brick half-wall running its length. I wondered how a Reaper’s salary covered such a place. Honestly, most of them are fairly well to do. Revenants were too. If you were around long enough, you were bound to pick up a few tips and make some wise investments, but this was above and beyond anything I had ever seen.
I walked to the far end and leaned over the edge to have a look down. From that height, there was no way to make out anything on the street, but the view out over the city was impeccable. Drake may have been a douchebag, but he was a douchebag with one hell of a view.
I looked out over the city, enjoying the warm night breeze, when someone walked up behind me. I didn’t need to turn around to see who it was. The beautiful scent of the mountains after a rain was a dead giveaway. I closed my eyes tight, cursing myself for being secluded, giving Drake a chance to catch me unaware.
He walked up next to me and bent down, leaning on the brick wall. He, too, looked out over the city with his hands clasped in front of him. I turned my head, trying not to acknowledge him or, at the very least, look in his direction. The noise of the city didn’t quite reach so high and the silence was painful and uncomfortable. A weird feeling rolled off him with an air of sadness. I couldn’t imagine with this high-life what he could be sad about.
Prayer for the Dead (Revenants in Purgatory) Page 9
