by Ada Scott
“Good,” I say in a low, husky tone. She turns her head up, exposing her neck to me, and I gently put my fingers to her chin, bringing her gaze to mine as I smile. “Because tonight, we’re going to an art gallery opening.”
The wide-eyed surprise on her face is so plain it could be funny. “Art gallery?” she repeats.
“You’re an art major, aren’t you?” I say casually, standing up and bringing her with me by the hand. “You didn’t have such a great time at the club when we saw each other. I think you should get a taste of some of the finer things Vegas has to offer. So, we’re going to the Skyline Gallery opening.”
As quickly as the surprise sets in, I see it melt away to excitement on her face—real, genuine excitement, and a beaming smile. For a few moments, she’s at a loss for words, her mouth moving but nothing coming out.
“I thought you’d be the type to appreciate that,” I say, filling in the words for her, giving her hands a reassuring squeeze.
“Oh my god,” she finally gushes, “The Skyline? I-I mean, of course I’ve heard about it, but I never thought that I could ever…” She trails off, then looks a little worried at me, hesitating. “I know the opening gala is an invitation-only kind of thing, so—”
My hand is already halfway out of my pocket, and I pull out two gold-gilded tickets that make her eyes light up.
“You don’t have to worry about any of that kind of thing while you’re with me, Jane,” I say, letting her look hers over with careful fingers, as if she’s handling an artifact, before I tuck them both back away safely. “We’ll be more than welcome.” I look her whole outfit over and add, “And I think we’ll make some waves, judging by how you’re dressed.”
The genuine happiness written all over her makes me swell with pride. I never knew it could be so satisfying to spoil a woman like this, but I like the feeling. Maybe I’ve been wrong to deny that part of me, to hide it away for so long. Pride guided my actions for so long, then stubbornness. Now? It’s anyone’s guess.
In the next moment, she regains some composure and smooths her dress out—a nervous habit, I’m guessing—and smiles. “Thank you, Caleb, that sounds...wonderful!”
The way she snaps back to her acting mode makes me chuckle, and I offer her my arm. She slips hers through it, and her free hand goes to my bicep. I feel her fingers playing along it subtly, and it makes me smile to know she likes the feel of my strength. The more genuine tonight is, the better.
“Let’s not keep the city waiting,” I say, and we head downstairs.
I have a sleek black limousine waiting for us. I open the door for Jane and let her in before climbing in myself, stooping low. No matter how roomy the ride is, I always have trouble fitting my bulk into it.
The way she’s looking around at the limo’s interior, I can tell she’s never been in one before. “I take it your prom date didn’t treat you to a nice ride?”
She blushes and smiles as she crosses her legs across from me in her leather seat. “My prom date and I weren’t exactly romantic,” she says as I take my seat. “We were just friends, and it wasn’t really a surprise to anyone when he came out as gay when we were in college.”
“Oh?” I say with a raised eyebrow and a smile.
She glances out the window, some humor in her eyes at the memory. “Yeah... Oh, and neither of us had a car, and he didn’t think ahead to book anything on prom night, so we ended up having to take the bus. To prom.”
“You’re kidding,” I laugh.
She twists a lock of hair around a finger, realizing she’s oversharing but not able to stop herself. “And it was a Saturday, so a guy who’d had a little too much to drink spilled some coffee on my dress going past me to get a seat. We, um, didn’t exactly make prom king and queen.”
She seems nervous about having let that all slip, but I just laugh, and soon she’s laughing too.
“Wow, I’ve got a high bar to meet, then,” I say.
“Well, what was your prom like?” she asks with a raise of her own eyebrow as the limo pulls off onto the road.
“I didn’t have one, actually,” I say, and she tilts her head to the side curiously. “I was in the service already when it would have happened.”
“The service?”
“Army,” I say, and her eyes widen, but confusion crosses her face a moment later. “Wait, wouldn’t you have been too young to sign up if it made you miss a high school prom?” A second later, she realizes she probably shouldn’t pry and blushes, but I wave off her embarrassment.
“Sixteen, and that’s technically true,” I say, thinking back to all the trouble I had to go through to get my papers falsified and sign up two years earlier than I should have been able to. “But like you, Jane,” I say with a wink, “I’ve got a few surprises up my sleeve.”
She’s still twisting her lock of hair, but now she looks interested. I can almost read the thoughts going through her head, but she doesn’t speak most of them. She must think she’s being polite, but I find myself wanting to know more about her, wanting her to talk more. But instead, after a moment, she breaks the silence with something else.
“I’m guessing the army is where you got an appreciation for art?” she asks, smiling coyly, and I grin back at her.
“Exactly,” I tease. “Really, though, if I were that much of an art expert, we might be on a very different date tonight,” I say in a more serious tone. “I’m going to need your eyes for some of the pieces on display tonight.”
Jane furrows her eyebrows after a moment.
“I... I don’t follow.”
I sit up and move across the floor to sit beside Jane, leaning close, making her draw in a sharp breath as I lean into her ear to speak softly. Her whole body trembles a moment before the words come from my lips to play across her ear.
“I need you to tell me if they’re forgeries.”
Jane
Forgeries? What?
I stare at Caleb out of the corner of my eye, trying to study him without arousing his suspicion. This is weird. I mean, why the hell would he ever choose to drop half a million dollars and change, plus a rush fee, on what seems to be just one date night with me? And why does he want me to point out forgeries for him? Is this some kind of weird break-the-ice game he found in a pickup artist book or something?
Not that he seems like the kind of guy who would ever require a gimmick or playbook to help him with the ladies. I mean, he’s got to be hands-down the most attractive man I’ve ever been this close to. Just sitting next to him in this limousine is intoxicating. My whole body is prickling with heat, my nerves on fire. Every time he even casually brushes up against me, I can feel a shiver down my spine. My heart is pounding even though we’re just sitting here, not even speaking. His very presence is enough to make me dizzy.
And the thing is… well, I’m disappointed.
It’s crazy: when I first heard that knock at my hotel room door, I was filled with panic and dread, terrified of who might be on the other side of the door. I was dreading the moment my wealthy suitor would lay his hands on my body, touch me in ways nobody ever has before. I was picturing some middle-aged sexually deviant playboy who would treat me like a human sex doll or something.
I never, ever, in a million years could have predicted that the man who paid such an exorbitant amount of money for me would be someone I recognized. I sure as hell didn’t expect to see the bouncer from my (very brief) time at the adult club. The guy I shared only a moment of meaningful eye contact with. The man I’ve been idly fantasizing about. I assumed after quitting my job at the club I would never see him again. Las Vegas is a big city. You can lose a person in the crowds so easily. But not only is he back, right beside me, but he’s the one who poured a ton of money into arranging it.
How does a bouncer at a shitty adult club even afford this kind of luxury? Who could have ever seen this coming?
I’m not disappointed that my highest bidder turned out to be Caleb from the club. No, I’m disappointed be
cause he doesn’t seem at all interested in actually, you know, taking my virginity.
He’s sitting next to me staring straight ahead, like we’re just colleagues on a work outing or whatever. Like he doesn’t even understand how badly my entire body aches for him. I never thought I would feel this way, but I want this near-stranger to touch me. I want him to use my body, to pop my cherry and make me his own, even if just for a week.
But he just wants me to go to this admittedly awesome private gallery event and see if I can point out the forgeries. Unless this is some weird fetish roleplay fantasy thing, this isn’t exactly the kind of prelude to a sexual encounter I would expect from our arrangement. But then again, what do I know? I’ve been on dates in the past. I’ve even kissed a few boys in my day. But those were all guys I met at school or on my dating app. None of them set every inch of my body aflame the way Caleb does. And none of them paid anything in exchange for my virginity.
Unfortunately, it seems to be one sided. Caleb is completely professional, barely touching me except for what is necessary because of our closeness in the back seat of this fancy limousine. I wish he would touch me more. I wish he would touch me everywhere.
Suddenly, he does. He reaches out and gently sets his hand on my thigh just above my knee. My breath catches in my throat and my heart skips a beat. I hope he doesn’t notice the goosebumps on my arms. He turns and gives me a reassuring smile.
“Don’t worry. There’s no need to be nervous. Apart from taking note of any forgeries you detect, I just want you to relax. This evening is meant to be enjoyable for you, too,” he tells me genuinely. He gives my leg a soft squeeze and I feel like I might explode. I nod and anxiously tuck a loose tendril of hair back behind my ear.
“Thank you,” I answer, not sure what exactly I’m thanking him for. A lovely night out at a high-end, exclusive art showing that I would never have the means or connections to attend on my own? His kindly reassurance? His shiver-inducing touch?
The small fortune he’s paying for my companionship? Who knows.
“All you have to do is have a glass of wine, smile and laugh at the stupid jokes these high-society people tell you, and be my beautiful date. Act natural,” Caleb explains.
“I will certainly give it my best shot,” I promise him, but I can tell my nervousness is apparent in my shaky voice. Caleb slips his arm around my shoulders and I freeze up for a moment before melting into his warm embrace. “I just hope it isn’t too obvious.”
“What’s not too obvious?” he asks, furrowing his brow.
I blush instantly. “That I’m not exactly high-society myself.”
Caleb scoffs. “You look the part. I promise every woman in that gallery is going to be green with envy when you walk into the room. Besides, the only reason any of these people comes across as elite is that they act like they are. It’s all in how you carry yourself. Fake it ‘til you make it. As long as you’re confident, you’ll find that you can blend in with just about any crowd, no matter the venue. Half the battle is just believing in yourself. If you don’t question whether you belong somewhere, then nobody else will either.”
It’s surprising to hear such sage advice from a man I knew up until this evening as just a bouncer at a low-level adult club in Vegas. But in a way, it makes even more sense coming from him. After all, he didn’t look out of place at the club, and he doesn’t look out of place in his nice suit tonight in the back of a limo either. In fact, I can’t imagine any situation in which he wouldn’t be cool and collected. He’s like a chameleon, changing his appearance and demeanor to suit whatever environment he walks into. It’s sexy, honestly. He’s like James Bond.
“That’s really good advice. Thanks,” I tell him genuinely, grinning. He gives me a wink.
“Of course,” he says. Then he leans forward and rolls down the partition, telling the chauffeur, “Right up here by the sidewalk is fine. No need to wade through the crowds at the front. We’ll just take the back entrance. Thank you.”
The limo pulls to a smooth stop and the driver comes around to open Caleb’s passenger door. Before I’ve even shifted and reached for the door handle, Caleb holds out his hand for me. I take it and let him help me out. I look up at the luxurious loft-style building in front of us, tensing up with fear.
This is the kind of event my professors don’t even get an invitation for. Nobody I know gets to attend these high-class, exclusive gallery showings. This type of event is usually only reserved for people of a very narrow, specific tax bracket that I am absolutely not a part of. You have to either be somebody or know somebody who knows somebody.
You have to be a designer-handbag, weekends-in-Nice, private-airplane kind of person. As for me? I’m a broke-ass art school student with a tower of hefty medical bills looming over my head like a storm cloud. I’ve gone entire weeks at school subsisting on a diet of microwave noodles and peanut butter sandwiches. Half my clothes are from thrift stores, and not just because it’s the trendy thing to do.
But tonight? I’m dressed head to toe in designer clothes, my makeup is spotless, I smell like an heiress socialite, and I’ve got the most devastatingly handsome man by my side. I take a deep breath and hold my head up high. Tonight, I’m not just playing a part. I’m going to be a high-society art critic, and I’m going to have fun doing it!
“Ready to go inside?” Caleb asks. I give him a determined nod and he takes my hand in his, making me tingly all over again.
We walk up the steps to the back of the building and to my surprise, Caleb simply rings the buzzer and an impeccably-dressed, burly man opens the door to let us in. He says, “Good evening, Mr. Sharpe, you’re looking well.”
“Thank you, Henry. Same to you,” Caleb replies
“I didn’t realize you’d be here tonight. You’re not on the list.”
“My girlfriend convinced me we needed to go out more often. Do you mind letting us in, friend? I’ll owe you one.”
Henry pauses before giving another smile and a nod to Caleb, saying nothing more and simply letting us slip inside.
Caleb leads me down a hallway and into an elevator, which we take all the way up to the top floor. My nerves are still on high alert, my heart racing as I prepare to face the crowds of sophisticated, wealthy art “aficionados”. But just as the elevator doors open for us to step out into the gallery, Caleb squeezes my hand and suddenly I feel completely calm. I can handle this with him by my side. I feel safe. I feel powerful.
I reassure myself. I’m an art major. I probably know more about this than anyone else in the room. I’m going to fake it until I make it.
As soon as we step into the room, heads start turning our direction. I can see the surprised, intrigued expressions on people’s faces at the sight of us. I’m sure they’re all wondering how a girl like me could possibly have snagged a date like Caleb. He’s easily the most attractive person in the room, and every woman seems to turn toward him like a magnet, like they just can’t help themselves. And could I even blame them? With his towering height, broad shoulders, dark hair, and piercing blue eyes, it’s impossible not to notice him. He catches everybody’s eye without even trying, especially in his trim, well-tailored suit that just barely hints at the rippling muscle underneath his clothes.
God, I want him so badly.
But that’s not what tonight is all about. He paid a lot of money to bring me here for some reason, and I’m not going to let him down.
So we weave through the crowd, mingling and schmoozing with the elites as we go. We laugh at stupid jokes that aren’t funny. We nod in agreement with idiotic statements made by wealthy CEOs. We sip our expensive complimentary wine—even though I’m underage. Nobody asks for my ID. In fact, nobody seems to question any aspect of my being there for this event. Caleb was right—if I just act like I belong here, nobody really cares to think otherwise. As far as they can tell, I’m probably an heiress or an Instagram-famous model or something. Everyone greets me with a smile and makes small talk about the
venue, the wine, the soft music playing over the speakers, and of course—the art itself.
Over the course of the evening I take note of two interesting facts. First of all, just like I suspected, nobody here seems to even know much about art. They’re all just bored, wealthy people who want to look like they know art. They’re all faking it just as much as I am, except that I do know art. In fact, I even go as far as to say that art is my passion. Which brings me to my second observation: there are multiple forgeries in this gallery.
Some of them are bespoke works of art I’m honored to get to see. But not all of them. There’s a painting being touted as a rare Goya with brush strokes and a color palette inconsistent with his work. There’s a sculpture tagged as a newly recovered bust created by William Rush that I recognize as using more sophisticated, modern tools. There’s even a Vermeer with holes drilled in it to look like holes made by worms centuries ago. These forgeries are all fairly easily spotted if you have any idea what to look for, but in this crowd of fake art critics and socialites who just want to be associated with the arts scene, it’s no surprise they haven’t been noticed yet. Or perhaps they have been noticed, and it’s just that none of these people care.
But I do. I’ve studied all these artists for years, memorizing their work, writing extensive essays on them. I’ve read probably a hundred articles and books about art forgery and how it’s done. I want to run my own gallery or museum someday, so I train myself hard. I’m just a student, but my genuine passion for art has given me a sharper eye for these details.
Of course, I don’t mention any of that to Caleb. Not yet. Not here. I don’t know what kind of game he’s playing, but I have a feeling he doesn’t want any of these folks to know just yet that they’re all oohing and ahhing over fake works of art.
