Owned: A Mafia Menage Romance(94)

“Kind of makes you wonder if the real piece of art is the title, doesn’t it?” I mused.

“Whatever, haha. Snicker all you want: that stuff moved a half mil last night. What did you do again?”

My jaw gaped open.

“It did not!”

I heard her huff as though heaving herself off the bed.

“It did, and you should thank them for keeping your sorry ass on the walls. They paid the rent and then some.”

Cringing, I shook my head. Being still on the walls was not something I was willing to thank anyone for. My paintings hadn’t sold, they had just been reserved. All of them.

Apparently Bridget remembered at the same time. “You need to close that sale today,” she said.

“God, Bridget, I still can’t believe you did that,” I whined. The memory of my elation when I saw the red dots galloped through me, followed closely by the crushing disappointment of “Reserved,” scribbled in pencil on each one.

“And, hey... why am I closing this deal?” I continued. “What do I even have you for if not to, you know, close the deals?”

She made some noise that I was sure came with a shrug, and a scuffling sound meant she was probably half naked by now.

“Am I making commission on this?” I asked sarcastically.

She sighed for an impossibly long time. “Fine.”

“What? Seriously? I was kidding but that would be great.”

“Yeah, whatever, fine,” she said irritably. We had gone way past her ADHD attention span a few minutes ago. I wondered if she would even remember this, but it was a start.

“I’ll give you standard associate commission of twenty percent on top of your fifty.”

“What? Is that what your assistants make?”

I heard the cough-sigh of Done Talking With You.

“I mean I’m just asking,” I said, backing off immediately. “That’s good. It just seems like maybe they would stick around longer with that kind of money.”

“Yeah, well, it’s only money when the deals close, Margot. So get in there and sell your paintings and oh my god what is that noise?”

“What, the noise?” I repeated and sat up, my head cocked like a dog. “Oh that… that’s my doorbell, I guess.”

“Well Jesus, go answer it.”

“Yeah, OK,” I mumbled, kicking my way out of the sheets and looking for a robe.

“I didn’t know you had a doorbell.”

“Well, nobody ever uses it because they come through the studio door except you, and you always just come right in like you own the place.”

Rrrrrinnggggg.

“It’s hideous,” she informed me as I padded down the hallway where it echoed crazily off the slate tiles.

“Yeah, I know… It’s just what came with the… Hi can I help you?” I said, flinging the big door open and staring at the small, crumpled man in the entryway.

“Margot Trask?”

“Who’s there?” Bridget asked in a tinny, receding voice as the phone slid away from my ear.

“Yes, I’m Mar--”

The man shoved a cream colored envelope at me and gave me a little salute, then got back in his Escort while I tore through the seal.

“Who is it? Who’s there?”

“Bridget…”

“Margot?”

I held the letter in front of me, skimming it over and over, assembling a few more words each time into a pattern that made some sort of sense.

“I gotta go, Bridge,” I muttered.

“Who’s at the fucking door?!”

I shook my head and then… shook my head some more.

“It was a process server, Bridge,” I said in a clear, steady voice. “Looks like my house is being foreclosed.”





CHAPTER 2


TRAFFIC DOWNTOWN WAS BRUTAL as always, and I cursed the heat as I sweltered at red lights, wishing I had left the top down on the way there, at least. I recalculated the probable cost of running the AC six times and talked myself out of it over and over. Every penny counted from now on.

It’s a relief in some ways, I reminded myself. I knew this was coming, and now it’s finally here. At least I don’t have to wonder anymore.

Panic rose like bile in my throat, over and over, threatening to overtake me as I drove. Gripping the wheel of my old Saab 900, I forced myself to concentrate on not sweating through my top and grimly focused on my task list.

I tried to corral my panic into productivity, and it turned into something like an old fashioned school teacher pacing the perimeter of a small, glaringly lit prison cell, muttering to herself.

Get the paintings.

Get the address.

Dazzle the fuck out of my buyer.

Ask for cash? Nobody keeps that kind of cash around, dummy. Well, at least get a check. A check deposited today will be available by Monday afternoon, Tuesday morning at the latest. That will be just in time.