Constant (The Confidence Game Book 1)

by Rachel Higginson

  I relaxed against him, finally letting myself open up and enjoy this perfect evening. The occasional raindrop felt like a familiar kiss on my exposed skin. I took a deep breath and decided to enjoy tonight no matter the cost.

  I had to start enjoying my life and stop looking over my shoulder constantly.

  It was time to start forgiving myself for the decisions I was forced to make. It was time to bury the dead and find happiness in the land of the living.

  Still, my feet faltered just before the front door, a gust of something ominous twirling through me. My mouth dried up as I faced the restaurant-gallery and acknowledged that letting Jesse take me inside would irrevocably change who I was as a person.

  It would change every single thing about me.

  It would truly be a step in moving on—a step I had once assumed I would never be able to take. Until now.

  Until this man.

  “Ready?” Jesse asked, his eyes twinkling with promise for the night.

  “Ready,” I answered, finally… finally feeling ready.

  Later I would realize what an absolute idiot I had been.

  Chapter Nine

  My entire body relaxed inside the gallery. There was so much to see, so much to examine, that I could have ignored Jesse for the entirety of the night.

  I had always loved art. Before Juliet, it was the one vice I’d let myself indulge in. I didn’t want the fast cars or the jewelry or the stacks of cash—although I had access to all of it. I just wanted the pretty paintings. The abstract ideas brought to life on canvas by the mix of creative genius and a simple paintbrush.

  “Wow,” I whispered while we waited for the hostess to notice us. “This place is crazy.”

  Jesse grinned. “This is your thing?”

  I nodded. “Oh yeah, this is my thing.” The majority of tables were placed along the outer walls by the wide, open windows and the pieces by an artist I didn’t immediately recognize hung toward the center. White partitions were placed strategically throughout the space, making it seem like there were separate rooms, but also open at the same time. Everything was well lit and modern, the art showcased with hanging spotlights and the tables set away from the brightest lights.

  To the left, a long bar stretched the length of the wall. I recognized one of the bartenders from around town. She was dressed in a black dress kind of like mine, mixing a fancy cocktail. All I wanted to do was get a drink and peruse the paintings. Forget about the date. Forget about dinner. Just give me alcohol and whoever this artist was—because he was fabulous.

  The hostess was about to finally acknowledge us when one of the waiters rushed over and whispered something in her ear. She frowned, looked down at her seating chart and then at me. Her eyes narrowed as she continued to listen.

  I turned toward Jesse, feeling self-conscious, and discreetly tugged at the hemline of my dress.

  He must have felt the weird vibe too, because he turned to me and slipped his hand to my waist. “When I called, they said they didn’t do reservations.”

  Before I could say anything, the hostess called out to us. “How many?”

  Jesse turned back to her. “Two.”

  She looked down at her seating chart as if she hadn’t been studying it awkwardly for the last five minutes. “It will be about twenty minutes before a table opens up. You’re welcome to the bar in the meantime. We encourage you to grab a drink and enjoy the art on display.”

  “Is that okay?” Jesse asked sounding a little unsure. I could tell this wasn’t his element. I didn’t know if it was the gallery part or the swanky bar aspect. Frisco was a pretty chill town and the restaurants and bars reflected that atmosphere. Jesse’s nightlife leaned more to Foote’s or the nearest German beer joint rather than expensive cocktails and fussy food.

  “It’s what I’ve been dying to do since we walked in the door,” I told him honestly.

  His expression relaxed. “All right then. Let’s get a drink and browse.”

  The hostess waved us toward the bar with a sneer I couldn’t decipher. Her behavior was strange enough to make me wonder if I knew her from somewhere. Had I somehow offended her without realizing it? “Do you know her?” I asked Jesse. Maybe he had dated her before. Maybe she was pissed that he was here with me.

  “Never seen her before,” he replied.

  “Hey, Caroline,” Cass greeted me as we slid up to the bar. I knew her from Juliet’s preschool class. Her son Max was the same age as Juliet.

  I shook off the weird vibes from the snobby hostess and focused on the pretty bartender. “Hey, Cass. I didn’t know you worked here.”

  She passed a couple drinks off to a waiter and turned her full attention to us. “Yeah, I applied as soon as I heard they were hiring. I was over at Mick’s before. But this is better. Closer to home and they’re really great about working with my schedule so far.”

  “That’s awesome. It’s so hard to find that.”

  She nodded. “Yeah, the owners are pretty much the best. And isn’t this place amazing? This is seriously the coolest bar I’ve ever been in. They wanted to bring the East Coast to Colorado. I think they pulled it off.”

  “They did,” I agreed although I felt a little weird about how much Cass was gushing about her bosses. She was a single mom like me and we’d bonded over raising kids alone. She was a tough cookie. Her ex had been a real piece of work from what I’d gathered, although she rarely talked about him. The point was, I had never heard her compliment anyone before, except for maybe her son Max.

  “Anyway, you’re obviously here to drink. Let me help you with that.”

  “To see the art,” I clarified. “The booze is a bonus. Oh, and this is Jesse. Jesse this is Cass. Our kids are in school together.”

  “The horse guy,” she nodded familiarly. “I know you.”

  The tips of Jesse’s ears turned red and I had the pleasure of watching him squirm. “Uh, yeah, horses. The Hasting Ranch outside of town.”

  Cass’s eyes widened. “Ah.” Shooting me a sly grin, she nudged a drink menu in front of us. “Well, nice to meet you, Jesse. Take your time deciding on what you want. But to be honest, I make a fucking awesome mojito.”

  Her reaction embarrassed me for some reason. The Hasting Ranch was well known in Summit County and clearly well off. But Jesse didn’t exactly own it. And even if he did, his money was not what finally got me to say yes.

  I knew what it looked like though. Cass was a single mom and I knew she was struggling. She worked late shifts when her mom could watch Max. And she struggled to pay the preschool fee every month. She saw me and assumed the same thing.

  But I didn’t need Jesse’s money.

  I had my own.

  Maybe it wasn’t the fortune it had once been, but it was enough for Jules and me.

  Although I did take her up on her raspberry mojito and she was not lying. It was amazing. Jesse grabbed a pint of beer from a local brewery and we left the bar to browse the exhibits.

  Now that we had settled into the venue, conversation with Jesse grew a little strained. At first we just awkwardly stood in front of a painting, taking in the details silently.

  Which was fine with me, but I could feel Jesse getting more and more awkward. I ignored him at first. The painting was breathtaking. A woman’s silhouette stood in the center, her body raised up on her tiptoes, her face covered by a long hood. Her toes just barely touched the surface of the water, making it ripple in every direction. Her head tilted to the side and her arms were stretched out. It was mesmerizing. Was she in pain? Or something otherworldly altogether? The background was an interesting mixture of dark sky and exaggerated stars. And in the corner of the piece, the initials swirled together in a way that I couldn’t read.

  I squinted at them anyway. I felt at home with this painting for some reason, at peace. She wasn’t in pain, I decided. She was offering something. A gift.

  “It’s really beautiful,” Jesse murmured when I continued to stare at it.

  �
��Do you see the artist’s name anywhere?” I asked him. “I can’t find it.”

  He looked around. “You think these are all by the same person?”

  “I think so. Look at the detail, the way the bodies are formed, it’s all in the same style. It’s an installation by one artist. I just don’t recognize any of the pieces.”

  “You’re really into art then?” Jesse asked, sounding surprised. “Do you paint too? Or just appreciate?”

  We moved over to the next painting. Another woman, her face only partially covered this time. I blinked at it for a long moment. The woman seemed familiar. I couldn’t put my finger on why, but there was something about her face that I recognized.

  “I just appreciate,” I finally answered Jesse’s question. “I mean, I’ve definitely tried my hand at painting before. Like when I was younger. But I struggled to come up with my own voice.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I tore my eyes from the woman half submerged in the same lake from the last painting. This time her hood had slipped back, only covering her eyes, as she tipped her head back and gasped for one last breath.

  Focusing on Jesse, so I could give him my full attention and stop being so rude, I said, “I just never found that original voice inside me, that unique story I had to tell. I got good at copying other artists, replicating what had already been done. But I could never seem to paint something original.”

  “I find that really hard to believe. You’re so… comfortable in your own skin.”

  My cheeks heated faintly. “Do you mean weird?”

  He chuckled. “No, that is not at all what I meant. I mean, you’re so confident. So completely sure of who you are. I can’t picture you struggling to know yourself. Even in painting.”

  His compliments soothed some of my old insecurities that I hadn’t realized had surfaced until now. “I was younger,” I explained. “And truthfully, I didn’t really know myself. I’ve grown up a lot since coming to Colorado. Having a kid will do that to you, I suppose.”

  “What brought you to Frisco?” His question was so natural that I couldn’t even blame him for it.

  I had been the one to bring up my move. I had basically opened the door for him. But I still didn’t want to answer it. Not even to someone like Jesse who I mostly trusted.

  Taking a sip of mojito to stall, I turned back to the painting. This was why I shouldn’t date. This reason right here. Where could this even go?

  I should have played this out better. I should have thought of every scenario, of every possible outcome. Where was my due diligence?

  Sure, I could make this up as I went. I could answer every one of his questions with a lie. But then that would be our relationship—a storybook of lies and half-truths. I could maybe even remember them all and keep them straight, but then Jesse would never fall for me. He’d fall in love with the girl I told him I was, the girl I made up to give him pretty answers that wouldn’t get him killed.

  I couldn’t even get naked in front of him without having to explain the orthodox cross tattooed over my right breast or the puss in boots on my left hip. Symbols of my old life, of my old position as a thief. I was bratva. I was bratok, a soldier. I was not Russian by blood, but in every other sense I was one hundred percent Volkov.

  But I hadn’t played this all the way through because I never thought I’d actually say yes to this man. The fact that not only had I said yes to a date, but also managed not to think about what would happen beyond it said I was seriously losing my touch.

  Goddamn, Caro.

  It wasn’t like I could keep seeing him. I could never be the girlfriend he wanted, expected. I would never open up to him and tell him about my past or what brought me to Colorado or why I had a go-bag stashed in the trunk of my car and cash hidden all over my apartment. I couldn’t even answer easy questions honestly, like where were my parents? And why did we never go visit them? Or stupid questions, like, where did you go to elementary school? Do you have Facebook?

  I licked dry lips and mumbled the inane excuse I’d given Maggie once upon a time. “I just needed a change of scenery.”

  He stepped closer, no doubt struggling to hear me. “Really? That’s why you moved here?”

  I should have known a flippant, canned response wouldn’t be enough for Jesse. He wanted a peek into who I really was and what made me make life altering decisions. He wanted to know me, really know me. But he could never know the truth. And not just because I was afraid of scaring him or that he would call the police or even that he would judge me. He could never know about my past for his sake. For his protection.

  Meeting his gaze again, I threw myself into the lie, the con, the game I could play so easily. He wanted more from me. Well, here was more. “I fell in love with the mountains. It was like love at first sight for me. I wanted to live somewhere with depth and soul and… personality. I thought, why the heck not? I asked Francesca if she wanted to come with me, which of course she did. We threw everything into my car and headed out here. It’s been the best decision I’ve ever made.”

  His lips stretched into a sweet smile. He believed me. “I agree.”

  Something about his blind trust took a dig at my heart, tore away at the hard layers I’d built around my callous outlook on life. It made me hate how convincing I was, how good at the game I’d always been. Jesse Hasting was so much better than me. He was the kind of good I would never be. It wasn’t fair of me to hold his attraction. He deserved better than me.

  A waitress walked by and I latched onto the opportunity to change the subject. “Excuse me.” I touched her shoulder before she could speed away. When she turned to me, I gestured at the painting. “Who is the artist? I can’t seem to find a name anywhere.”

  She smiled the same kind of adoring smile Cass had at the bar. “He’s one of the owners,” she explained. “He and his partner wanted to open with his installment.”

  Awe swelled inside my chest as I took that in.

  “Is he an artist by trade?” Jesse asked before I could. “Or businessman?”

  The waitress’s smile deepened familiarly. “He claims to be a little of both.” She looked around the floor, but we were in the center of the gallery and most of our view was blocked by other paintings and the guests wandering around. “He’s around here somewhere. I’ll point him out to you if I can find him.”

  My heart kicked a warning in my chest. A feeling of fear slithered through me, leaving a greasy trail of slime in its wake. I noticed another painting and that same vaguely familiar woman stared back at me from the center. It wasn’t just a connection to the emotive work or the artist in some intangible way. I knew this work.

  I knew this artist.

  “What’s his name?” Jesse asked, completely oblivious to the panic kicking my adrenaline into drive.

  “Augustus Oswald.”

  Augustus Oswald.

  Augustus.

  Oswald.

  I knew an Augustus. And I knew an Oswald. Father and son. Only I knew them as Gus and Ozzie.

  Oh shit.

  Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

  Taking a step back, I prepared to run. But still some stupid, stubborn part of me refused to accept this as reality.

  This couldn’t really be happening. They couldn’t have found me.

  The note. The box with the Dahlia. Mistakes. Coincidences. A cruel twist of meddling fate. But not intentional.

  Except I knew better.

  The old Caroline would have already been gone. I would have thrown Juliet into the car and not even glanced back at this sleepy town.

  I would have been halfway to Mexico by now. Or the moon. Anything to get away from the possibility of being found.

  I’d gone soft over the five-year lull. Mushy. I was a marshmallow parading around like a shark. Only marshmallows didn’t have instincts and they didn’t know how to bite back if they were attacked. They were gooey and useless and not alive.

  Holy shit, was I about to not be alive too?r />
  “Oh, there he is.” The bubbly waitress pointed across the gallery.

  I refused to look.

  “Which one?” Jesse asked.

  “The one in the hat.” I would have bet my kidney that it was a stocking cap. “Our other owner is around here somewhere too,” she explained as if letting us in on a secret.

  Partner?

  I had assumed marriage partners before. Like they were together—partners. But now I realized I had assumed wrong. So very wrong.

  I couldn’t breathe. I legit couldn’t breathe. My lungs started making a wheezing sound and my throat had all but closed up. This couldn’t be happening.

  I turned my back on Jesse and the waitress and in the opposite direction of Augustus Oswald—such a bullshit name by the way—and scanned the gallery for an escape. But I couldn’t see anything! My view was blocked by paintings and dividers and reminders that I had made grievous mistakes in my past—mistakes that I couldn’t outrun forever.

  The reckoning day had come and I was the least prepared I had ever been.

  “You stupid marshmallow,” I whispered to myself, clutching at my chest in case the sudden pain there turned out to be an actual heart attack.

  “Are you interested in buying a piece?” the waitress went on. “He’d be the one you talk to. Then they’ll ring you up at the front.”

  “Thanks,” Jesse told her. “We’re still browsing but—”

  “Jesse, I don’t feel good,” I blurted, telling the entire, one hundred percent truth. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  His hand landed on my shoulder. “What’s wrong?” he asked, sincerely concerned.

  I struggled to suck in a breath, to fill my lungs with the oxygen they so badly needed. “I need to go home. I need to go home right now.”

  “O-okay.” Jesse’s hand dropped around my waist, helping me forward. But it didn’t feel like help. It felt like an anchor slowing me down, holding me back from the escape that I desperately needed.

  I wanted to push it off, push him away and just run. And run. And run. And never look back. I winced, feeling my fear like a physical pain. Like a bullet wound in my gut, a knife in my back.