His Gift 1(4)

“That’s totally makeup.”

“Sit.”

I sat.

“I swear, Lacey,” she said, “If you put half the amount of effort into painting your face as you put into painting graffiti—”

“It’s called street art,” I interrupted her.

“Street art. Right. Like that one big vagina flower you painted on one of the A-line cars.”

“That was inspired by Georgia O’Keefe!” I cried.

“Did you have to paint it on a subway car?”

“If you want to buy me a ten by thirty foot canvas, by all means,” I said.

“Ten by thirty?” Steph whistled. “That’s bigger than my apartment.”

“See? How am I supposed to do art here? I can’t afford it! Now, when I have a gallery to put my art in—”

“Sure, okay, okay,” Steph said, poising a brush just over my nose. I looked at it cross-eyed. “Hold still. This won’t hurt a bit.”

“I don’t believe you. You’ll torture me.”

“It’s not torture, it’s art. You do your art on subway cars, I’ll do mine on cakes and faces,” Steph said. “Okay?”

I would have nodded, but she was already dabbing something onto my face with a cotton pad and I was afraid to move.

There were so many powders and brushes flying across my face that I lost track of whether I was supposed to be closing my eyes or pressing my lips together. She lined my eyes and then she lined my lips. When I asked if she wanted to line anything else, she pursed her lips in disapproval. By the time the cake timer went off downstairs, we were both running out of patience with each other.

“I guess that’ll have to do,” Steph said, eyeing me critically.

“That’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“Oh, go deliver a cake, why don’t you?”

I smirked and made a mock curtsey.

“My pleasure.”

She blew me a kiss, and I blew one right back. I was feeling like a hundred bucks.

Sure, I was in a dress so tight it made my butt look like J-Lo’s. Sure, I was inch-deep in skin foundation and mascara. And sure, I’d have to get out of all of it before going to my second job.

But this was going to be the easiest hundred bucks I’d ever make.





Chapter Three



Tottering down Seventh Avenue with a two-thousand dollar cake perched precariously in my hands, I grimaced at yet another catcall. The chilly air didn’t bother me half as much as the idiot men who couldn’t stop yelling at me.

This was why I never wore dresses.

“Hey baby, looking tight!”

“Wanna come back to my place?”

I scowled, looking away from the guys who were calling after me. Most of the time, I wore a sweatshirt and baggy jeans to go out. Steph called it my “hoodlum chic” but I called it peace and quiet. Also, you can’t hide paint markers in skinny jeans.

Up ahead, two teenage boys whistled at me.

“Yo fatso, who’d you eat?”

“Your mom. She loved it,” I said, raising my eyebrows as I strutted past the one who’d called out. His friend burst out laughing and punched him in the shoulder. He sputtered angrily.

If it had been any other day, I would have welcomed a brawl with a scrawny teenager. I knew self-defense as well as any girl, and my punches had some power behind them. But tonight was different.

Tonight I was delivering a cake. The fanciest cake in the world.

Not wanting to risk squishing the cake, I spent most of the walk on the curb, dodging the groups of pedestrians that threatened to surround me. Finally I turned onto the street Steph had sent me to.

Craning my neck, I looked down at the directions. Then back up. Then back down.

This was a scene. In front of the building, a line of cars waited to be valet parked. Each one was more expensive than the other. I saw a Ferrari, two Maseratis, one of the new super Teslas, and a car I thought I recognized from the latest Batman movie. It was incredible.

I stopped for a moment, gathering my senses and trying to figure out the easiest way to get into the building without being crushed by the mob of people gawking outside the door. Elevators whooshed up and down the outside of the upscale highrise.

A woman jostled my elbow and I instinctively pulled back, cradling Steph’s cake.

“Hey, watch it!” I said.

“Excuse me?” A six-foot tall blonde stick figure stared down at me contemptuously. Her eyes swept over my figure. “It looks like you should be the one watching out.”

I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry.

Obnoxious guys I could handle. They were just like a more annoying version of my brothers. Tease me, and I’d tease them right back. It was the same with my art buddies who tagged alongside me, occasionally helping me throw up some of my bigger pieces. They poked at me without pushing any of my buttons.