by Sonia Hartl
* * *
I left Margo’s office no better off. Somehow she’d once again gotten me to agree she had our best interests in mind—I even walked to the elevator believing it—but as soon as I stepped outside, that unsettled mood hovered over me again. As if I’d just been maneuvered out of my own thoughts and feelings.
A walk through River North’s gallery district always cleared my head. I took in bright abstract art displayed on white brick walls, black-and-white photography of natural wonders, intricate beadwork hanging from thin wire rods. This was where I belonged.
I grabbed a latte at the Other Chicago Bean, a kitschy little coffee shop that smelled like incense, sold local art, and had polka-dot tables and chairs. It also shared a wall with the space I’d been eyeing for a few months.
At only fifteen hundred square feet, the space was a bit small for most businesses, which was likely why it hadn’t been snapped up yet. It was on the corner, so windows walled three sides, and its wide-planked honey oak floors gleamed in the afternoon sun. I suspected the space might’ve been a bookstore before it was vacated, as the exposed brick wall it shared with the coffee shop was lined with built-in shelves with enough room to display tall children’s books. It wasn’t huge, but the openness made the space feel larger.
“You going to stand out here all day staring at this place again?” Ava asked. She had a short cap of vibrant pink hair, three nose rings, and a tattoo of a phoenix rising out of her generous cleavage. She’d been a year ahead of me in the MFA program and was making a splash in the art world with her metalwork. “Been waiting for you to make a move on it.”
This was my third trip to this location in two weeks. I should’ve known it wouldn’t go unnoticed. “I’m still in the planning stage.”
I’d been in the planning stage for two years now.
“That line got old eighteen months ago.” Raised by parents who’d followed the Dead until the passing of Jerry Garcia, Ava had been born and bred into nonconformity. The exact opposite of my own building blocks, but we’d somehow become friends. The only one I had left from my Northwestern days. “This space isn’t going to stay available forever.”
“It’s not big enough.” Lie. It was perfect.
Already I could envision pottery and glasswork from local artists lining the shelves. Large canvases could be set up with displays all around the windows, drawing people’s eyes as they passed by on the street. Cases featuring beadwork and stands with metal sculptures could be dotted all around the open floor plan. Everything I wanted and had been working toward came alive in my mind. I could see myself there, carving out a name in River North.
Panic clawed at my throat. Not yet. I needed more time. I wasn’t ready for the kind of commitment it would take to run a business.
“One day you’ll have to let go of your fear. If you don’t, your art will suffer. You will suffer.” Ava squeezed my shoulder before she went back to her studio across the street.
Every time I told myself today would be the day I’d take that next step toward my dream, self-doubt shoved me two full steps back. I wanted a place in this neighborhood. I wanted to prove I could do more than break hearts for a living. I wanted to bare my soul in colors and textures and light and be told my work was worthy and important.
A pretty young woman with silver hair smiled at me as she balanced an armload of easels while she pushed open the door to a glass and pottery studio with her back. I didn’t know her, which depressed me more than the idea of failing at my nonexistent business. I used to be a fixture in this community. There had been a time when I’d spent every free moment down here connecting with other artists, sharing in the joy of creating, and looking toward the future.
That was years ago. Now I’d become comfortable working for Margo. I relied on H4H to be an outlet for whatever I couldn’t put down on a canvas. I’d gotten stuck in a cycle of resentment and revenge.
And I didn’t know how to find my way out again.
CHAPTER 12
Friday morning, Emma cornered me in my office. She took the chair that would soon be occupied by one Markus Cavanaugh and kicked her feet up on his glass desk. On her way into work, she’d taken the trouble to walk through the dog park and now tapped her heels until flecks of poo landed on the glossy surface. She lacked prudence that way.
“Do you think he’s going to show?” Emma spun Mark’s chair from side to side.
“Yes.” Of course he’d show. He’d made it pretty clear how far he was willing to go to keep this job. “But I can’t think about him right now. I just got a new assignment on Wednesday that I’m scheduled to launch tonight.”
“I got one too.” Emma’s lip curled. Since her assignments lasted much longer than mine, she needed a full week to gather intel. I only needed a day or two for the simple ones, enough time to capture their interest without needing to hold it. “A pilot who used his dick to secure a job at a larger airline, then anonymously leaked nudes of the upper-management lady he was banging so she’d quit before he had to admit he’d been playing her.”
“Jesus.” I didn’t envy Emma’s job in Players, but it was cathartic for her to bring assholes like that down. “Let me guess, his kink is stewardesses?”
She tapped her nose. “They are predictable. And who will you be playing tonight?”
“Food critic for a chef.” We didn’t refer to targets by name with each other, only occupations. Though none of us would admit it, we didn’t always enjoy hurting them. Dehumanizing our targets was a coping mechanism Margo had taught us. It made the reality of breaking a human being for pay an easier pill to swallow. Even if they deserved it. “The restaurant staff is tired of being his verbal punching bag. I did the meet-cute last night. Scored an invite to an exclusive event tonight.”
“Nice work.” Emma gave me a fist bump.
“Margo wants me to start training Mark by bringing him along to observe so he can see me in action.”
“He’s seen you in action.” Emma wiggled her eyebrows.
I shoved her chair with my foot, so it went rolling back against the glass wall. “And you’re the only one who knows that. What are you going to do with Nick?”
“Ditch him, I guess. Since you all vetoed murder.” She took out the sanding file she carried in her small wristlet and sharpened her nails into points. “Margo wants me to train him by getting him involved in my setup so he gets accustomed to acting without a script. She wants him to play my friend, thinking it will drive the pilot crazy, questioning what kind of friends we are, how close we are, and whatnot.”
If the pilot was an insecure jerk, and he definitely sounded like it, that would actually be a brilliant way to both speed up declarations of exclusivity with the pilot and train Nick. I didn’t say so to Emma though. I still firmly believed Emma could handle Players on her own. She was so smart and beautiful and witty, she had Players eating out of her hand inside a month. If only she could see herself the way the rest of the world did, then maybe she wouldn’t need this job anymore.
Emma left to get started on the in-depth research she’d need to win over the pilot enough to have him confessing his sins. I tucked my thin folder of material on the chef into my to-do box and headed over to Margo’s office. As soon as I pushed open the door, Mark turned his head. I froze. I was supposed to have another hour to prepare for his inevitable arrival. He wore a different tweed jacket than the one he had on the day I saw him at Northwestern, because of course he had multiple tweed jackets. He probably had a dozen of them.
“I thought the men wouldn’t be arriving until later today,” I said.
“I called Markus in early.” Margo poured us both a cup of tea. “Since you’re launching your new assignment tonight, the timing is actually quite perfect.”
“I was just finishing up my research.” Didn’t Mark still have his day job? There had to be someone else at UoC or in the Chicago area he could terrorize for an afternoon.
Margo waved a hand. “I already looked through
your latest update. It’ll be brilliant. And I’m not just saying that because you don’t like me interfering in your assignments. Now, off you go. Please show Markus to your joint office.”
The cheeriness in her tone did nothing to alleviate my sour mood. I stepped into the hall, and the heat of Mark’s body as he walked behind me made the hairs at the back of my neck stand up. With every one of his footfalls, my shoulders scrunched just a bit more. By the time we got to our office, all my nerves were tightly wound.
He moved to sit down, and I had to hide my smile as he paused at the brown crusts on his desk. Taking a tissue, he swept them into the trash. “Classy.”
“A little welcome-to-the-team present.” I turned my back on him and fired up my computer. “You can just meet me at the restaurant at seven.”
“Which one? Shouldn’t I know something about tonight?”
“Anchor Grill. The place with all the shiplap.” I didn’t dare look at him. The air already snapped and sizzled the moment we got near each other. I had a feeling if I faced him, he’d see the truth written under the deception. But I’d promised the girls I’d do my part.
The chef did own Anchor Grill, but he wouldn’t be there. He’d just opened a new place in Lincoln Park called the Butterfly Lounge, and he’d invited every food critic in the city for a special tasting tonight, including—under a pseudonym and the lie that I’d be the new critic for the Sun-Times—myself.
“Is that Jethro Felango’s place?”
“Friend of yours?” I peeked over my shoulder and smirked. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Not a friend.” Mark leaned back in his chair as he gave me that look I so often saw from my mom. The look that suggested I was a simpleton who couldn’t possibly appreciate the finer things in life. “I just make it a point to familiarize myself with up-and-coming restaurants in the area. They’re a good place to network.”
I rolled my eyes. “You must be the poster child for academic ass-kissers at UoC. Aside from your impressive sweater-vest and tweed jacket collection, you’ve also managed to perfect that snotty air of pretension without even trying. Well done.”
Mark steepled his fingers. “Some of us have goals in life. We don’t all live for figuring out which outfit is most likely to ruin some poor sucker in a bar.”
“Go ahead and take your cheap swipes at me.” I lifted my nose. “I don’t need or want your approval. I know exactly who I am and what I’m capable of.”
“Do you though?” He gave me a meaningful look as he rubbed his bottom lip.
Without another word, I grabbed my folder with all the info about where I’d actually be meeting the chef. I walked out the door and didn’t feel an ounce of guilt over sabotaging Mark’s chances with H4H before he could even get started.
* * *
The Butterfly Lounge was the kind of place built for tall champagne flutes and short cocktail dresses. The walls and ceiling were composed of large arching glass panels that encased a greenhouse full of butterflies of all species. The only tables belonged to the booths that ran along either side of the space. The center had been left open for socializing, and waiters carrying trays of wine, champagne, and exclusive appetizers encouraged a networking atmosphere. Its first week open it had become a hit with stockbrokers, lawyers, and respected professors. Jethro Felango had created a mingling ground for wealthy professionals.
I’d contoured my eyes to look bigger, my nose narrower, my lips thinner. I’d donned a shoulder-length black wig with fringed bangs, a tight white top, and sleek black pants with built-in butt pads. My look had changed enough that the target wouldn’t be able to recognize me if he passed me on the street later on. According to Jethro’s staff, our chef had quite the ugly temper when criticized. He kept it under wraps with the food critics though, and was considered something of a darling in the Chicago restaurant scene. Since I fully intended to push his buttons, this promised to be a quick evening.
Inside the restaurant, I grabbed a glass of wine and popped a lobster toast hors d’oeuvre into my mouth. Might as well take advantage of the fine dining before I ripped it to shreds. After a reasonable amount of time spent pretending to mingle—where I just stood in various circles and laughed in all the right places—I ducked into the coatroom to call Margo.
“Mark didn’t show,” I said as soon as she answered. “I gave him the address and have been here by myself for the last hour.”
“That’s funny, because—”
Before I could hear the rest of her response, my phone was plucked out of my grip. I spun around, and Mark’s steely gaze settled on me. His cold expression was completely at odds with his bleached-blond wig, which looked as though it had been pieced together by dozens of discarded Barbies. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep it together.
“Everything is fine here. Turns out going to the wrong restaurant was my mistake,” he said. He hung up and tossed my phone back to me. I fumbled to keep from dropping it. “You almost had me there.”
“Is this your idea of a disguise? Was the clown shop having a discount on plastic hair?”
“I saw you at the entrance and figured I needed to go incognito too, so I slipped into Walgreens across the street and grabbed a Halloween wig. It was the best I could do on short notice without any help from you.”
“How did you know it was me?” I thought I’d done a pretty good job of masking my identity, and it was an insult to my art and makeup skills that he’d recognized me so easily.
“I could pick out the way you move from a mile away.”
Hmph. I crossed my arms. “How did you even get in?”
“Told the doorman I was your date. You’ll have to do a lot better than lying to me about your location if you really want to shove me out of this job.” He took my arm, hooking it through his. “Now, let’s go work the room.”
“I’m not working anything with you.” I pulled out of his grip and stormed away.
His laughter at my back had me cursing him as I wound my way through all the major food critics in the city. I took my seat and the lights dimmed, illuminating the tiny fiber bulbs embedded in the greenhouse plants, giving the entire room the vibe of a bioluminescent rain forest. Mark slid into the spot across from me.
“Can you at least lose the wig?” I whispered. “You look ridiculous.”
“I’m sorry, were you talking to me?” Mark looked around with mock surprise. “I thought we were still doing that thing where you pretend I don’t exist.”
“Never mind.” It was like dealing with a child. “Just sit there and don’t say anything. This should be over soon.”
He mimed zipping his lips and tossing the key over his shoulder, which was just corny enough to be almost adorable. The corner of my mouth threatened to tug upward, but I kept a stern frown on my face as the first course arrived.
I took one bite of the risotto and shook my head, pushing the plate forward until it clinked against my water glass, drawing the attention of the other diners. “Bitter. Trying too hard.”
The food critics sitting closest to me eyed each other, and a few others whispered to one another before jotting down notes. Years of playing the academic game had taught me some finite rules about human nature and self-proclaimed experts. Everyone in the room was afraid of being exposed as an impostor. The more vocal I became in my disdain, the more the other critics would follow my opinion or risk the accusation of an unsophisticated palate.
Mark’s eyes gleamed in the luminous light as he quietly ate his risotto without a word.
Next when the roasted lamb and mint sauce came out, I repeated the one-bite process, but this time I sent the plate back with the waiter. “Tell your chef this is unacceptable. Overcooked.” As soon as the waiter hustled away, I turned to the critic next to me, a short man with a turtle head and round glasses. “What a boring, uninspired menu. No new flavors here.”
He dabbed at his lips with his napkin. “I quite agree.”
“Looks like people are paying for
the ambience, because they certainly aren’t shelling out three hundred a plate for the food.” I tapped my foot and checked my watch. Any moment now.
The critics began murmuring with one another, and above the din, a crash rang out from the kitchen. There it was. I’d been starting to get worried he wouldn’t respond.
Jethro marched out of the kitchen. His angelic face, which had turned an impressive shade of purple, contorted with rage as he pointed a finger at me. “How dare you.”
The other critics had begun to shift uncomfortably in their seats. I didn’t bat an eyelash and kept a bored expression on my face. Mark rose from his seat, blue and purple light dancing off his sad excuse for a wig, as Jethro towered over me, spewing obscenities.
The moment Jethro got in my face, Mark pushed him back a full foot and stood between us. “I wouldn’t come any closer if I were you. The lady is entitled to an opinion.”
The threat on my behalf, while considerate, was hard to take seriously when he looked like he was auditioning for the circus.
Jethro wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “She is here on my invitation and she disrespects me in my place of business.”
I patted Mark on the shoulder. “It doesn’t matter. My work here is done.”
With that, we both walked out of the restaurant. Jethro couldn’t see past his own anger. If he had, he might’ve noticed his Darling of Chicago façade crumbling around him. Critics might be an insecure group, but they stuck up for their own and wouldn’t tolerate abuse from a chef. By this time tomorrow, Jethro’s professional image would be in tatters.
I supposed I should’ve felt good about that, but for some reason I just felt empty.
CHAPTER 13
