by Natalie Wrye
I jump out of the passenger seat, running through the rain and inside. One minute after sweet-talking the familiar front desk clerk, Julia, and I plant myself in front of Sophia’s front door, my chest tight. Heart thudding a dangerous beat, pulse pounding, I take my fist, hammering against the door to the rhythm of my own respiratory system, shirt and jacket soaked, hair wet as I slump against the thick slab, demanding Sophia let me in.
My voice grows hoarse.
“Sophia!” I call out. “Sophia, I know you’re in there, dammit. Talk to me. Because I’m not going anywhere.”
Pound. Pound. Pound. Pound.
“Sophia!” My bellows echo down the hall. But there’s nothing on the other side of the door. Just silence.
The tightening of defeat starts to squeeze inside my chest until I hear a door opening, only to discover the one behind me swinging, a tall dark-haired man now standing in its frame.
The neighbor stares at me through pale blue eyes. “You a cop?”
I glare back, my eyes narrowing as we face. “No.”
“A lawyer? Or a process server?”
I blink. “I don’t even know what the hell a process server is, but I’m not that either.” I turn. “Mind telling me who you are?”
“You might not recognize me from The Alchemist.” He glances at me, up and down. “And for a second, I didn’t recognize you. But I’m Sophia’s coworker. And neighbor, of course.” The stranger steps forward, extending his hand. “Andrew Fletcher. You can call me Drew.”
I take it, shaking it. “Noah Quinn.”
“You’re Sophia’s boyfriend, aren’t you?”
“No, I…” I hadn’t thought about it. Hadn’t used that word. But I loved the sound of it. “Yes.” I nod. “I am. Have you seen her?”
“Not since she packed and left for Connecticut for the weekend. Something about a wedding, I think…”
He trails off, peering down at my tuxedo, before turning with me to find Lachlan and Jase coming down the hall.
“Did you find her?” Lach asks, breathing heavily.
“No, not yet.” I answer, looking over his shoulder. A small curtain of strawberry-blonde hair steps forward behind my brothers’ backs, and within seconds, they step aside to reveal Nancy, Sophia’s boss, strolling casually down the hall, her reddish brow furrowed.
Her gaze scans the semi-circle of men around her, landing on me at last. “Did I miss an impromptu invitation to a party in the hallway?”
“And speaking of parties,” Drew gives a renewed look to Lachlan, “is this Lachlan Quinn I’m staring at or does the crazy prick I once knew in college have a twin?”
Lach steps forward. “Drew?” He holds his arms out in disbelief. “Jesus, man, where the hell have you been?” He looks Sophia’s neighbor over. “I thought you died at some senior frat party and wound up in the fourth dimension of Hell. Or New Jersey. Since they’re practically the same place.”
“It’s a long…story,” he stumbles over his words. “One I can tell you another time. But what are you doing here?”
Lachlan points. “Looking for my brother’s girlfriend, Sophia.”
“Wait?” Nancy pipes up. “You’re Sophia’s boyfriend now, Noah?”
Drew glances at Nancy. “You know this guy?”
I frown. “We’re getting way off topic here. Does anybody know where the hell Sophia is now?”
“Exactly.” Jase adds with some bite. “I’m getting married in three hours, so if we could hurry this up…”
And suddenly the hallway breaks out into a roar, everyone talking at once. Through the curses and call-outs, interruptions and over-talking, the sound of Lachlan yelling over it all finally gets everyone’s attention.
We stop as my youngest brother wanders into the center of this chaotic arc of Sophia’s friends, his hands held high as he hushes.
“Everybody, just a second. Calm down! We’re missing the most important problem here!”
The small crowd stands still. And Lachlan keeps speaking.
“Where the hell are we going to get food?! I’m starving.”
Jase glowers, his brown eyes burning bright. He crosses his arms. “That’s the most important problem here, Lachlan? Seriously?”
“No.” I join Lach in the middle of the partial circle. “Mr. Hole-in-his-Stomach has point. We should get something to eat.” I look at the eyes of the people around me, my thoughts start swirling. “In fact, I think I know exactly where we should go…”
Chapter 27
SOPHIA
Trying to drown your worries with tequila just isn’t as fun when you do it by yourself.
In the muted dark of The Alchemist’s bar, before the doors even open for Sunday ‘faux-brunch,’ I order another shot from Rick, who now plays bartender—something I’m not used to, and I recap the last two weeks hating myself for how weak I sound, unable to help it.
Rick dries a glass behind the countertop, setting it in front of me.
“So, what’s the deal with this guy? You going to see him again or what?”
I scoff, my elbows on the countertops as I twirl my latest tequila. I stare at the wooden slab beneath my palms. “Yeah, sure, because I’ve always dreamed of being part of a man’s Mormon-like, multiple-wife harem.”
Rick grins. “Doesn’t every woman?”
“Hardy-har-har. I’d laugh if I wasn’t seconds away from screaming.”
Rick finishes drying the glass. “So, scream. I won’t tell. Though, our neighbors might not be too happy.”
I cast The Alchemist’s general manager a pointed look. “I scream, and someone will probably think you’re murdering me in here.”
“Murdering you?” Rick picks up another glass, running a towel around the corners. His brown gaze starts to cloud as he walks. “Now why would I do a thing like that?”
“Oh come on.” My eyes follow him as he ambles. “You going to tell me you never thought about it?”
Rick stops and glances at me. “Thought about what?” He places the glass away, sliding it in its slot and I press him, the mezcal drink in front of me making me even bolder than before. My back straightens as I face him across the countertop.
“You haven’t thought about seriously harming me, Rick?”
He purses his lips. “Hadn’t really crossed my mind.”
“Oh come on. You’re an infamous prick, and you know it.” I point wobbly. “And I’m a hardheaded, stubborn bitch when I want to be. We were destined to be enemies.”
He spins, one blond brow reaching high as he rotates to look at me. “Is that what you think we were?”
“Well, we’re not exactly being cast as Harry and Sally in any ’80’s movie remakes any time soon.”
I laugh, but Rick doesn’t join in on the humor, his expression gone serious.
My phone rings out loudly, and just as I start to hit “Ignore” to avoid talking to people for the tenth time today, I realize that the strange number on my phone screen is familiar.
My heart squeezes.
It’s the gallery. Dweller.
The one that sold my princess self-portrait to Noah.
I step away from the bar, picking up before I can think twice, and the second I do, the soft voice of the gallery owner, Mr. Tweeney, sounds over the line, barely audible above the clamor of the rain outside.
I lean into the speaker, scarcely holding my breath. “Mr. Tweeney?”
“Miss Somerset, I’m glad I got a hold of you today,” he exclaims quietly. “I have some news for you. Is this a bad time?”
“No, of course not.”
It’s never a bad time to hear from the gallery you’d submit your work to. A gallery you’d slipped a second painting to on Thursday night, when you were still reeling from a certain Australian’s strange request.
I’d been working on that painting all Wednesday night.
After leaving that Scottish bar with Noah, the urge to rewind the last few days, to take out my paint brush and capture the mysterious man
in all his nuanced glory, was as strong as ever as I sipped lavender tea in my living room late into the night.
I needed to get something on the canvas. But what?
I knew the urge the minute I felt it, knew it was as natural as breathing.
That Wednesday night, with a sip of my tea, I headed towards my little corner of the living room, reaching for the paints. My clothes were still stuck, still slicked to my skin from the earlier rain.
Luckily, the radiator’s warmth warmed my body, putting me at ease, and I reached for the easel, missing this. Missing the feeling of coming alive every time a paint brush was in my hands, every time I stroked its edge to a canvas, losing myself in its soft surface.
Not a day went by where I didn’t paint, and that desire had far surpassed subtle, settling like a sledgehammer in my stomach.
I set up a mid-sized canvas on an easel, taking my time. Oil paints were next. A small jar of water. Slipping on my messy apron, a souvenir from serving at The Alchemist, I swiped my paintbrush’s bristles in deep blues and dark grays, attacking the shape of the eyes first.
I let my fingers do the talking, communicating with the canvas in only the way that it can, and my conscious mind took a back seat, inspiration leading the way.
Bits of my mind, that ones that still clung to the belief in fairytales took flight, as I stroked at the course canvas in front of me.
Slashing and swirling. Swiping and circling.
I beat the coarse fabric in front of me with my brush, giving into the fantasy.
Four years of Russian Literature, a marred childhood and a lifetime of storytelling turned into a portrait, only this time the portrait wasn’t of me.
The strokes across the canvas became excited slices across the canvas as a prince began to take shape on the rough paper, and as the great American artist Georgia O’Keefe once said “I found I could say things with color and shapes that I couldn’t say any other way– things I had no words for.”
After finishing the painting I entitled “Prince in the Tower,” I had no words left to give, nothing left to say.
I’d left it all on the canvas. And the next day, I’d turned over the painting to the Dweller gallery, thinking nothing might come of it.
Until now.
Mr. Tweeney’s eager words excite me, and I have to sit down, my legs shaking as I grab a stool. I listen closely.
“We loved your painting, Miss Somerset. Absolutely adored ‘The Prince in the Tower’ and we’d love to sell it.”
The tequila in my system threatens to make a reappearance, elation making it hard to sit still.
“I would love to sell it at the gallery, Mr. Tweeney.” The words shake even as I say them. “Thank you so much! You won’t regret it.”
I hear his grin. “I know we won’t.”
It might be the worst timing in the world, but I don’t care. I’m proud of myself beyond words and I can’t wait to share the news with somebody—anybody.
Even if it has to be Rick.
I turn in my stool to face the tabletops, but the tall, blond man is no longer there.
No. I look and he’s near the door, locking it.
My brows knit together on my face but before I can say a single word, Rick tightens his grip on a dark object I hadn’t seen until now, his arm trembling, both eyes on me as he raises the item, leveling it at my chest.
My heart leaps into my throat as I freeze, my eyes stuck on the object in his hand. I can’t help but point at it.
“What are you doing, Rick?”
The manager growls. “What does it look like?”
I’ve seen a lot of horror in my lifetime, been part of more than my share.
Trying to drown your worries with tequila by yourself might not have been all fun. But trying to do it when there was a gun in front of your face? Nearly impossible.
My messed up childhood is campaigning for a re-run, and the mental walls, the ones that have shielded me from all the bad my Bronx upbringing had once brought into my life, make a reappearance.
I take a calming breath. “I have to be honest: It looks like, to me, that we’re not auditioning for that ‘When Harry Met Sally’ remake after all.”
Chapter 28
NOAH
I’m going to kill him.
I’m going to fucking kill him.
I should have recognized him from Al’s Pawnshop’s security tape, but I didn’t. I mean, I had only seen the man for exactly six seconds.
Luckily, with Drew and Nancy along for the bumpy and rainy ride, squeezed in Jase’s blue BMW, they’d proved to be of use...after all the yelling.
Leaving the scream-fest in Sophia’s hallway, Lachlan’s hungry pleas give me hope that I might find Sophia’s next move.
Navigating the noisy group of friends and family to Benny’s pizza, I hold onto some hope that I might find my hard-assed brunette there, but the only thing we find inside the shop is bad pizza.
Nothing like the Giani’s she had introduced me to.
In less than a minute I discover that not only is my Little Bear a good judge of pizza, she’s an excellent one of character when, at the pizza shop, we all make a discovery, one that leaves the rest of us reeling, the clock ticking with each hour that Sophia stays missing and the wedding draws nearer.
The dark-haired server sidles up next to the picture on the pizza shop wall, eyeing a plethora of past Employees of the Month photos hung along the worn and cracked brick. Sophia’s wide-grinned neighbor points to a frame.
“Well, I’ll be good and fucked…”
“From what I heard, you usually are.” Nancy chimes in behind him, tumbling her eyes.
“It’s our good friend, Rick, Nancy.” He juts a thumb. “An Employee of the Month. And to think, you hired a man who once hocked bad pizza to run the best bar between Wall Street and Midtown Manhattan.”
“Correction: I did not hire Rick. I returned his old job to him. And if he was good enough to manage for my father, who was I to notice right away that he would turn out to be such a creep?”
“I don’t know...” Drew comments blithely. “Maybe a bar owner with eyeballs? The guy’s bad news, Nance. And you know it. You have to let him go.”
“Who’s bad news?” Lachlan shuffles closer in for a look.
And soon we are all staring.
But the foul-tasting flavor of the pizza isn’t our only problem. Because with one glance, I find myself gazing at a familiar face.
A face that’s too familiar.
The face of the man who had walked out of Al’s Pawnshop, my father’s watch in his hands. The hair is different, but there’s no mistaking him.
The sandy brown hair was now blonde, but the Benny’s Pizza polo was the same.
The man in the frame…is definitely the one who purchased my watch from the little known Pawnshop in the Bronx.
I may not have personal experience with the others, but I hate him on sight, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end as I stare.
My voice is rumble when I start talking.
“Just who the hell is this Richard Slauson, anyway?”
Drew looks over. “Only the oiliest, sleaziest general manager to ever sliver his way into management, that’s who.”
Nancy cuts him off. “He’s my general manager.” She sighs, her eyes skimming over Drew. “And because of what my employees say, he’ll be my soon-to-be fired general manager.”
That explained why I saw the prick lurking in the background of The Alchemist.
But why had he bought the watch in the first place?
The question sours on the tip of my tongue. Along with the most important one:
“Where the hell could Sophia be?”
Nancy shrugs, her bob swaying. “The Alchemist isn’t open for another half-hour. But we could head over there.”
But I’m already ahead of her. In seconds, I’m out of the pizza shop, ferrying the rest of this motley crew to the next destination.
And this time? I�
�m driving.
I’ve been afraid of a lot of things in my lifetime. Abandonment. Losing my company. Tarnishing my image and everything that came with it.
But there’s nothing that prepares me for this.
There’s nothing like the fear of losing Sophia.
I gun it.
SOPHIA
“Rick, you don’t want to do this.” My voice is surprisingly steady. “Put the gun down, please.”
“Shut your mouth,” the blond animal snarls. “You can’t sweet-talk your way out of this.”
My eyes widen. “Have you met me, Rick? I don’t know the meaning of sweet-talk. Have you actually heard me talk to our customers? Sandpaper has more finesse.”
He ignores me, pointing with the pistol to a stool. “Sit.”
“Sure.” I perch on top of a leathered seat, my feet locked on the wooden foot rails. I inhale a deep breath. “Is that all?”
“No, that’s not all,” he sneers. “You and I are going to go for a ride in a little while.”
I freeze. “What kind of ride?”
“One to the police station.” He circles the room, situating himself behind the bar again. He keeps the gun aimed at my chest, and my eyebrows draw together in confusion.
“Why?”
“Why?” He repeats, mocking me. “Because once you tell the cops that you stole the watch you sold, then everyone will see the little liar that you are. The little liar that you always were.”
My stomach bottoms out, and nausea rumbles around inside. I glare at Rick. “Who are you?”
He grins, his toothy smile wide and sloppy. “Just a friend.”
I stare. “I don’t need any more friends.”
Rick pushes the gun closer, his hand jutting out. “I never said I was yours.” He starts pacing in the small space behind the bar. “No, my friends are a lot more…lucrative. Friends like Chris Jackson.” He angles nearer. “You remember what it was like to have friends like that? Or rather, your father sure does.”
“What does my father have to do with this?”
“He has everything to do with this.” Rick’s brown eyes burn with barely hidden anger. “Because if he doesn’t withdraw the testimony about Chris for his parole hearing, then his precious little princess…” He scoffs and I know exactly which princess he’s talking about. “Will wind up in prison right beside him.”
