Owned: A Mafia Menage Romance (30 page)

“It’s awesome,” I agreed, finishing my mug and sheepishly replacing it on the table cloth. Jackson refilled it without hesitation.

“And what do you do?” Declan asked politely.

“Me? I’m an artist.”

“Yes, Bridget told us that, of course. I mean what do you
do
. What kind? What interests you?”

“Ah… I’m a painter,” I began, drawing myself up and trying to seem at least passably confident. I felt myself wither under their light, wanting desperately to change the subject but knowing Bridget would kick my ass all the way to Baja if I let the moment slip away.

Make it good,
 I could hear her voice say.
It’s showtime.

“I’m a contemporary realist. I work in oils on linen, but with a more modern sensibility.”

That should do it.

Declan cut his eyes toward Jackson. Some silent communication passed between them and I wondered for a moment just how close they were. They looked a lot alike, and I assumed they could be no more than a year apart in age. Tall, fit and lithe, they probably played on the same sports teams growing up. Though Declan had slightly lighter hair than Jackson’s shiny, dark tousle, they both had the same sky-blue gaze that fluttered my heart each time they looked at me.

“OK, so what does that really mean,” Jackson persisted gently. “Without the artspeak. Just, you know… what are you trying to accomplish?”

I shook my head, feeling a little on the ropes. Most people would have taken the first answer and then gone off nodding as though I had said something profound.

“I’m trying to… uhm… Well I’m trying to fit into line.”

Declan squinted at me, intrigued. “What line?”

I struggled to find more words. Usually people were happy with a couple lines of artspeak that they could repeat to their friends. How I really felt about my work was something I didn’t have to cultivate into sentences, even to myself.

“The line that stretches back a couple thousand years, to the beginning. You know… um. I mean, I use the same materials and methods as every painter before me for hundreds of years, so I guess I feel like I’m trying to be worthy of that lineage.”

“All that history,” Jackson said, nodding.

“So, you don’t see the need to branch out? Find something new?” Declan said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.

I clenched my jaw. “New is overrated,” I said with an inadvertent snarl, then backed off slightly. “I mean, every kid wants to do something new before they even really understand what everyone who came before them was trying to say. They act like the last 600 years of art history was just a bunch of geezer idiots who should be discarded with prejudice. That strikes me as arrogant.”

“You have to know your roots,” Jackson agreed.

“Well, I personally appreciate the courage of striking out, really reaching for something no one has ever done before,” Declan shrugged.

“Ninety-nine percent of the time, that’s just marketing BS,” I shot back, wishing I could stop myself. “The artist isn’t doing anything that hasn’t been done a thousand times by teenagers at public colleges all across the country. It’s just their gallerist giving some collector a sales pitch.”

Declan sat back, smirking and apparently satisfied with my answer. “Yes, we can be notoriously easy to manipulate.”

I cringed, cursing myself for my big fat mouth and wishing Bridget was here.
There’s a reason you have a gallery,
 I reminded myself.
It’s so they never have to hear you talk.

“Oh, Dec, leave her alone,” Jackson chuckled, casting his eyes toward the coffee service. “He’s just egging you on, you know.”

I raised a hand in front of me and tried not to grimace. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean you… I mean, I didn’t mean… Ugh. Is there more coffee?”

“I think she can take it. You can take it, can’t you, Margot?”

“Actually, I think I’m still tired from my flight yesterday,”  I lied. “Usually I’m a little smoother with the art talk.”

Oh, another lie,
 I thought.
Good god, if Bridget gets wind of this conversation, I am dead.

Declan shrugged again as though something had been decided. “I think you’re fine,” he drawled. “It’s good to know you’re passionate.”

I nodded sheepishly and pushed my coffeecup toward Jackson for another refill. He tipped the pot, pouring the last of it in my mug and shot me a sympathetic look.

See that? He understands,
 I told myself.
Now calm down. Just try not to say anything else truly stupid.

“So how long is this flight?” I small-talked.

“We’ll get there in just another few minutes. It’s less than an hour in the Gulfstream.”

“That’s amazing,” I said, breathing across the surface of the coffee, luxuriating in the scent.

“It’s not nearly enough time to get to know you,” Declan said, startling me. What could he mean by that? He turned toward me from the small oval window and smiled.

“I think you need to pick now,” he said.

I looked back and forth between them for clues.

“Pick what?”

Declan waved his hand at himself, then Jackson. “Pick one of us,” he said simply.

“Pick one of you for…” I repeated vaguely.

Wait. Did he just say…

I met Jackson’s gentle, sky-blue stare and then glanced back at Declan. They both watched me expectantly.

“You don’t mean…”

“Of course I do,” Declan said matter-of-factly. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

My heart started to race. It was too much pressure. Besides, who does that sort of thing?

“Well, I can’t just--” I looked to Jackson for guidance. He seemed like a sweeter person compared to Declan’s brash assertiveness. But Jackson just looked at me plainly and I realized he wasn’t at all surprised by this turn of events.

“Look,” Declan said with an exaggerated sigh, “if you can’t pick, then we will pick for you.”

Jackson gave me a small nod. Did that mean he wanted me to pick him, or was he just confirming that they would choose for me?

The jet leaned downward, and I realized we were beginning our descent toward LA. Part of me wished we had more time together on the flight, but a stronger part of me was grateful I was almost out of minutes in which to embarrass myself.

“You guys are hilarious,” I drawled, I said, leaning back and trying to affect a nonchalant posture. “How could I possibly choose between two excellent suitors?”

“OK then,” Declan nodded. He looked at Jackson and shrugged. “Sounds good.”

I chuckled and downed the rest of my coffee. When I set the cup back on the table, Jackson was smiling at me too.

“Wait, what did I just agree to?” I laughed, hoping they would let me in on the joke.

“Two excellent suitors, by the sound of it,” Declan replied.

“Oh, right. Well, color me Cinderella,” I said lightly, trying to figure out what was really going on.

“As you wish,” Jackson cut in immediately, quoting The Princess Bride.

“Once Upon a Dream,” Declan nodded sagely, tossing in the theme from Sleeping Beauty.

“I see we’re all versed in princess plots,” I observed.

“I was always partial to Briar Rose,” Jackson added wryly.

“Oh, yeah,” Declan agreed. “She’s got the dwarves, right?”

“No that’s Arwen,” I shot back, pleased with my nerdy knowledge of The Hobbit.

“She’s right,” Jackson declared with a friendly grin, raising his eyebrows at Declan. Apparently I had won some kind of clever game of wordplay, or at least won their respect by the looks of it.

“Eh, you’re just trying to win her over,” Declan sneered. I glanced at Jackson shyly, my cheeks sore from grinning so hard. Who knew hanging out with the rich and mysterious could be so much fun?

Declan checked out the LA skyline as it tipped into view, still all draped in its morning blanket of ochre smog.

“Can we drop you somewhere?”

“No, I’d rather land first,” I chuckled.

“Wow, you really are quick,” Jackson muttered admiringly.

“I’m a legend in my own mind,” I nodded.

“Well how about a ride to the gallery?” Declan offered.

“Actually I have a ride waiting for me,” I said with an apologetic chuckle. “Rain check.”

“Sure,” Jackson responded. It was tough getting used to their tag-team technique of each answering the questions as though they were each equally likely to have been asked. Turning my head back and forth between them was its own kind of exercise.

***

After we landed, I beat a hasty retreat and dodged into the nearest ladies room to relieve myself of the gallon of coffee I had just consumed. As I sat, I texted Bridget with caffeinated, quaking fingers.

Come get me.

Fuck you,
 came her instant, charming response.

No srsly, please come get me.

Wat?? Take a cab!

Can’t.

OMG I hate u.

I know. Thank you.

I seemed to pee forever, but I was happy to have a good reason for hiding out in the ladies room besides waiting for the Burkes to find their limo or matching Lamborghinis or whatever and go do their thing.

Eventually I emerged, joining the flow of foot traffic out the front door into the bright glare of the LA morning. At least a half-dozen women and men dressed like women hung out on the curb in brightly colored last-night’s-party dresses, and I felt blessedly inconspicuous.

Bridget came roaring up in her seventh-hand BMW with the windows down and the stereo blasting Missy Elliott. She screeched to a halt in front of me and I yanked the door open and leapt in, knowing from experience that if I hesitated, she would start rolling again whether I had safely gotten my arms and legs inside or not.

“Thanks,” I singsonged happily, then checked out her jawline for signs that she was gearing up to yell at me. Though her hands gripped the wheel like she was trying to choke it to death, that knot of muscle in her temple stayed unclenched so I knew I was safe. She was probably distracted from the show.

“Why am I driving you?” she finally snarled.

“I don’t have any money,” I answered immediately.

“Why don’t you have any money?”

“Because the show doesn’t open until tonight.”

I saw her nostrils flare at my answer. Not good.

“Why don’t you have any money?” she asked again, jamming on the brakes for a red light.

“Ehhhhhhhh,” I groaned. “Because I spent it on a plane ticket, Ma!”

“You spent it on a plane ticket to--”

“Because I spent it on a plane ticket to San Francisco to hook up with Kevin!”

“Right,” she nodded. “And
did
 you hook up with Kevin?”

I sighed.

“What?” she persisted, weaving dangerously between electric cars that didn’t pick up fast enough when the light turned green.

“No I did not hook up with Kevin. Come on, Bridge. You already know this.”

“Well,
I
 know this,” she shot back irritably. “But you don’t seem to let it sink in.”

“Yeah well…”

“Well what?” she asked, narrowly missing a woman on a bicycle with a multi-colored baby trailer behind it.

“Jesus, Bridge, slow down.”

“I can’t slow down, because now we’re late. I had to go pick up one of my artists from the airport because she blew her last penny on some balding real estate agent who dumped her months ago.”

“Fuck,” I responded.

“Exactly.”

“You look like a hooker,” she sneered, cutting her eyes toward me and blowing off the next yellow light by flooring it.

“How can you tell?” I retorted, checking out her leopard-print miniskirt and wide leather belt. Her breasts swayed heavily in her burgundy bra, clearly visible beneath the black sheer top she had cinched inside the belt.

“Whatever, fuck you,” she snarled.

“Your snappy comebacks are leaving something to be desired,” I observed. “I really don’t feel like you’re giving me your best this morning.”

“Yeah,” she said, squinting against the glare as we turned another corner. “Well like I said, I have a lot of important things going on today. You may remember the opening? Tonight? At the gallery where you get those checks you squander on washed-up loser Romeos?”

“Oh that’s tonight?” I said innocently. Then I looked around, realizing we were not getting any closer to my house. “Hey, where are you taking me?”

“You’re hanging this show,” she said.

“No! Bridget, come on! Look at me… I can’t be out looking like this!”

“Yeah, well, maybe you shoulda thought of that.”

“No, seriously!” I bawled, somehow near to tears. Was there anything good that was going to happen today? “Look, my shoe is broken… I’m going to break an arm or something. Think of the insurance premiums!”