by Mira Gibson
In conclusion, she said, “Good,” and then shifted beneath him, motioning to get off the bed.
Easing off of her, he let her slide out and watched her pad into the bathroom where she closed the door. When he heard the faucet running, dread caused his stomach to drop.
Aidan was surging into the forefront of his mind.
He did not want to do what he was about to do and terribly conflicting emotions tightened in his chest because of it.
Please come back, he thought, staring at the bathroom door. If she did, he wouldn’t have a chance, but when Greer popped her head out of the bathroom, asking, “You don’t mind if I rinse off in the shower for a minute, do you?” he knew he would have just enough time.
“Not at all,” he said, feigning a lighthearted smile.
The second she shut the door again, he eased her nightstand drawer open, wincing as the wood whined against the metal rungs holding it. There was nothing but a few books and some makeup inside so he closed it and her hobo bag caught his eye.
It was hanging on a rack next to her robe and winter jacket that was alarmingly similar to his.
He made quick work of pulling his jeans on then felt in the bag. The second his fingers met with cool metal, he knew he had found the gun.
He rushed into the studio and set the gun on the coffee table, freeing his hands to dress quickly. As soon as he had his boots on, he tucked the gun into the inside pocket of his jacket though it barely fit and returned to the bathroom door.
“Hey Greer?”
“Yeah?” She said over the shower stream.
“Sorry, I got a text from a friend. I have to split.”
“Okay!”
“I’ll call you later. Maybe I’ll come by.”
He thought he caught a good-natured laugh come out of her in response, but she soon said, “I’ll be around.”
After lingering for a moment and begging himself to drop the gun back in her bag, he forced one foot in front of the other until he was passing through her door. By the same measure, he descended the stairs and spilled out of her building, all the while fighting a sharp pang of regret stabbing his gut.
When he reached Aidan’s building and heard his voice blare through the intercom a moment after pushing the Call button, he avoided all pleasantries and yanked the door open.
Climbing the stairs did little to distract him from the rage building in his chest and the second the apartment door drew inward, presenting Aidan and his cocky smirk, Hunter shoved the gun at him, asserting, “I’m done with you now.”
Chapter Nine
In the days that followed, Greer’s anxiety diminished and her concentration flourished. She spent her days in her studio, stroking thin layers of clay into Hunter’s likeness, pleased to discover it was turning out even better than the last sculpture. Her nights were filled with Hunter, on her couch, talking about art, smoking clove cigarettes in her bedroom, and making love as soon as the conversation lulled. Any fear she'd had that he wasn’t right for her or would cause the same pain Brandon had, melted away. Her friends, Jennifer Okimoto and Tasha Buckley were reveling in their pieces as well. Whatever obstacles had been presented during the weeks leading up to The Phoenix Juried Art Competition were now overcome. Jennifer’s painting, an abstract oil on canvas that to Greer looked like a battlefield, was delicate and evocative in the same breath. And Tasha’s photographs were equally stunning - the diverse faces of Harlem, where she lived.
She felt so at ease with Hunter in her life, in fact, that she hadn’t reached for her gun, needing to feel its weight in her hand to regain a sense of control that if push came to shove, she could use it.
So focused was Greer that she barely ventured out of her studio and before she knew it a week had passed. Her sculpture was finished and when she studied it, she felt a deep sense of pride that it was undoubtedly the best piece she had ever created.
As soon as her intercom buzzed, she turned off the faucet and set the dish she was washing aside. Drying her hands on a paper towel, she made her way to the door and pressed the Talk button.
“Yeah?”
“Dawson Fine Art,” a guy said through the intercom.
They were early, but she pressed the Door button, allowing them into the building, then rounded through to the kitchen where she tossed the balled paper towel into the garbage and debated knocking back a shot of whiskey.
She hadn’t seen Brandon since the worst night of her life when she’d come home to discover her artwork destroyed. Greer had called every fine art packer in the borough to transport her sculpture over to the Phoenix, but only Dawson’s could accommodate. Go figure, the one packer available was the one Brandon worked for.
As she padded to the studio door and cracked it open, she reminded herself that even if Brandon was among the packing crew, the fact that they wouldn’t be alone provided enough of a buffer. She wouldn’t have to talk to him and he wouldn’t have to talk to her if he was busy packing her art, but deep down she dreaded that he would probably try. He had that night, after all, and he’d reached out since.
Answering the door in a thin robe and nothing else hadn’t been her smartest move...
But if she had been able to come to her senses that night, ward off his advances, and turn him down, clinging to images of Hunter, then she would be able to avoid him now.
Despite her resolve, she started praying, please don’t be Brandon, anyone else, please, until she saw one of the movers reach the landing.
Sighing in relief that it wasn't her ex, she waved him in and took note of the next mover following after him.
“Come on in,” she said, holding the door and watching them enter with their dolly, straps, and blankets to bundle and secure her sculpture.
But when she turned to close the door, Brandon was approaching.
His stride, the way his jeans hugged his legs with just the right amount of give, the wall of his chest beneath his jacket, and the blue-collar look of him - work gloves and Timberland boots and the red, flannel shirt he wore - called to mind what had happened between them that night. He had grasped her, his warm hands sliding around her nude waist, pulling her in, finding her ass, and stirring up feelings he had no right to stir up.
She realized she wasn’t breathing and when he reached her, saying, “Hey,” through an easy smile, it only made things worse. The glint in his eye told her he probably thought she’d called Dawson’s on purpose as a means to get him here, as if she had changed her mind, perhaps regretting she had turned him down and sent him on his way.
“It’s in here,” she said in an even tone.
“No kidding? Your sculpture is in your studio? Go figure,” he teased, being sure to graze her thigh, as he passed.
Brandon and the other movers stared down at her sculpture and one of them muttered, “Shit.”
“How many flights?” The other asked. He looked like every gas station attendant Greer had ever seen growing up in New Hampshire, except he had a thick Brooklyn accent. “Three?”
“Two,” Brandon supplied.
“Felt like five,” said the first, who was wrapping his head around how they would carry the hundred pound mass down the stairs. “We’re going to need a ramp.”
Approaching their huddle, she asked, “Can’t you carry it?”
“It’s too long,” said one of them, whose name-patch read: Tony. “Hey, Jim, grab a few panels from the truck.” Then to Greer, he explained, “We’ll ramp it down the stairs, lift it around the corners. Damn, this is going to be a bitch.” He clapped his hands in conclusion, starting for the door with Jim and leaving Brandon.”
Shit, indeed...
“Looks good,” he said, rounding the sculpture then touching eyes with her. “I hope you win.”
“Thanks,” she said dryly, folding her arms.
He jutted his chin at the piece between them, commenting, “Doesn’t look like me.”
“I used a model.”
Nodding as if he knew the full story - he had seen Hunter brie
fly and was observant enough to put it together if he tried - he asked, “Now that you’re done, can you make time to talk?”
“Brandon, I shouldn’t have called you-”
“I heard about the break-in,” he interrupted. “And the others around town. I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t be. It’s not going to happen again.” Before he could argue, she said, “Here,” inviting him to follow her into the bedroom where she pulled her hobo bag from the rack and set it on the bed. To set the stage, she said, “No one’s going to mess with me and if they do...” She opened her bag and began riffling through, searching for her gun, all the while knowing this could very well provoke another argument. Brandon was also from New Hampshire, however, and their kinship because of it came with a healthy respect for firearms. But her gun wasn’t there.
She felt the color rush out of her face, as she straightened up, her mouth drifting open in shock.
“What?” He asked, nearing her.
She had an impulse to check every inch of her apartment, but there was no point. She knew she had left it in her bag.
Stammering, she managed to push the words, “Ah, nothing,” out of her mouth.
“Look, there’s been talk around the neighborhood about who’s behind this,” he said, but she barely heard him.
The only person who had been in her apartment, been in her bedroom, was Hunter.
“Greer?”
“Yeah?” She asked, snapping out of it and meeting his gaze.
“People are saying it was Aidan Marks.” The name wasn’t familiar and Brandon must have been able to read her expression, because he added, “Troy Motley?”
“I don’t know them,” she said, at a loss.
Brandon eased out a carefully measured breath, which reminded her of all the times she had seen him preparing to tell her something he knew she wouldn’t want to hear.
“You know the third guy,” he said softly, taking her hands, which went suddenly limp. “Hunter Black.”
“There’s no way,” she blurted out, backing away and folding her arms.
“It’s what people are saying.”
Suddenly, she realized what he was trying to pull and she gaped at him because of it, her mouth flying open, appalled.
In the studio, the movers returned, Tony shouting directives at Jim and calling for Brandon.
But he didn’t leave. Studying her shock and anticipating what would come next, Brandon interjected, “How well do you even know him?” He took a shallow step towards her and in response she backed up even further. “I recognized him when he left the other night and I’m not an idiot. You’re obviously sleeping with him. That’s your business, I guess. Just know that you’re sleeping with the enemy.”
Leaving her, he started through the bedroom and into the studio where the movers were wrapping Greer’s sculpture in blankets, a precaution before lifting it onto the dolly.
As they worked, their voices billowing out in starts and fits, she stared vacantly at her bag, wishing she didn’t believe her ex.
Brandon wasn’t the type of person who would invent something like this just to win her back. But if what he had said was true, it meant everything Hunter had done - finding her scarf, showing up to model, having sex with her - was an elaborate cover to destroy her chances at the Phoenix.
And she was furious because of it.
No part of me is going to hurt you.
She wanted to punch a wall, but she grabbed her jacket and bag instead, rushed through the studio, and slowed only to say, “Lock up, would you? I have to go.”
Brandon called out, “Greer?” but she was already padding down the stairwell, juggling her bag and pulling her jacket on quickly.
When she reached the street, frustration punched at her chest. She didn’t know where Hunter lived. She had never gone to his place, rather he showed up at hers. But figuring he was close, she kept moving, pulling her cell phone out of her bag, opening a web browser, and hunting through the internet to find his studio address.
She had to scroll through five Google pages to find it, as she rushed down the sidewalk and tried not to clip shoulders with passersby.
Humboldt Street, number 389.
She wasn’t far. Zigzagging her way through Bushwick, she couldn’t imagine what she would say to him.
You used me from the start?
Can I have my gun back?
You thought you wouldn’t win the Phoenix unless I didn’t enter it?
All confrontation scenarios led to the same heart-sinking conclusion: It would be over between them.
But she didn’t want it to be. Had she been naive to believe him? Had he been that good of an actor? The way he had looked at her, the things he’d said, the week they had spent together, which disarmed her, making them close as though she knew him far better than she should've after only a few weeks, had completely convinced her he might very well be the one.
Had it all been a lie?
The moment she got to his building, a young woman, who was dressed in leggings with Uggs and carrying a rolled yoga mat, stepped out, holding the door for Greer.
Slipping through, she breathed, “Thanks,” and began getting her bearings. Hunter’s apartment had to be on the second floor.
As she climbed the stairs, a knot of dread twisted in her stomach at how this might go down. But when she reached the landing and saw Hunter outside his door, every fear she had was instantly replaced with a much worse one.
A blond, voluptuous and giggly, was wrapped around Hunter.
It stunned her. Her heart fell out of rhythm then started punching through her chest, and she was so thrown by the sight of them, that words wouldn’t come, only a shrieking gasp.
Hunter turned his head, locking eyes with her and urging the woman off, but Greer was already racing down the stairs, as a wealth of emotions threatened to shatter her.
She needed Jennifer and Tasha and whiskey and for the world to disappear if only for a little while.
She couldn’t reach Jennifer’s apartment fast enough in Queens.
Chapter Ten
“Seriously, Ashley, get off!”
He was gentle about urging her back, though he would rather send her flying across the landing. Staring at the stairwell where Greer had just disappeared, he listened to the sound of her rushing down the stairs and the entrance door clicking open then slamming shut. And because of it, he wasn’t aware of Ashley nearing him, as determined and obstinate as she always was.
“You’re done with your sculpture,” she reminded him, using a slippery tone he couldn’t stand. “I waited. I’m not waiting anymore.”
Breathing heavily, his legs turning to rubber with the conflict splitting his insides - should he go after her? call her? let her cool off for an hour? - he nearly bolted, but remembered the movers were coming to pack his piece and take it to the Phoenix.
“Stop ignoring me,” she demanded so he glared at her. Her brows popped up and she let out a stark laugh that cut his ears. “Don’t tell me you’re into Greer Langley. She looks like a centipede.”
He screwed his face up and told her to leave. He could fix this if he could talk to her, but not with Ashley tangling herself in his business.
“She’s going to find out, you know,” she pointed out in a snide tone. “Whatever fling you thought you were having is over.”
“Find out what?”
As if to reel him in, she folded her arms, stating, “What everyone’s talking about.” She neared him in a few slinky steps and hit him with, “Word on the street is you were the one who broke into her studio.”
“What?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Don’t mess with Aidan. This is the tip of the iceberg and if you keep heading in the direction you’ve been...” Smiling, she really milked her next point. “Well, I imagine things will only get worse for you.”
“Let me guess, you’re fucking Aidan now?”
If he offended her, he wouldn’t know. He was already
tearing down the stairs.
Fuck the movers.
Every artist who had entered in the Phoenix would be delivering their pieces today and spending the afternoon setting up with the curator for tonight’s exhibition, but Hunter happened to know Tasha Buckley kept strange hours at the photo lab she managed part time.
As he hurried down the street, he pulled up the number for Muse, hoping and also dreading he would catch her.
He had only encountered her a handful of times and luckily he hadn’t been the focus of her fury, but he’d heard the rumors - her reputation, her skill for dogging cops, the ghetto-fab smack down she could lay when provoked - and though there was something about her that liquefied his bowels, he knew if Aidan had a worthy opponent, it was Tasha.
That was his plan: take down Aidan to eliminate the threat then offer his victory to Greer to win her back.
If he exposed the real culprit behind the break-ins, she would have to believe he’d had nothing to do with it.
The second he heard the line open up with a guy stating the name of the photo lab, he blurted out, “Tasha Buckley around?”
“Dude, you do not want Tasha right now,” he said, as a woman in the background yelled, where the fuck are the matting boards? in a raspy voice that sounded a hell of a lot like the person he was calling for. “She’s on the warpath.”
“Can you keep her there? I’m on my way.”
He was met with silence.
“Two minutes?” He pressed, but the guy seemed hesitant to commit.
Finally, he offered, “If you’re here in two minutes, I doubt you’ll miss her. Yo’ dude?”
“Yeah?”
“Gird your loins. All I’m saying.”
After hanging up, Hunter cut through a few alleys where icy wind lapped at him sideways, and made it to Muse in no time.
Stepping inside, he spotted Tasha in the back of the anteroom, muscling a stack of matting boards under her arm and edging around a corner into a room marked Private.
He hadn’t exactly formulated his plea so when he neared the doorway, catching her place a large photo over one of the boards, he said the first thing that came to mind.
