Three Dirty Secrets (Blindfold Club 4)

Tara’s words echoed back to me, that she’d be solo at the wedding. Oh my God, Tara. I hadn’t seen her since our night together. I didn’t have any regret about what we’d done, but what if she wanted more? If I brought Silas that would send a clear message. “I . . . let me figure out what the fuck is going on and call you back.”

Silas didn’t answer my call. I hung up without leaving a message and sent him a text to call me ASAP. I put my groceries away and my gym clothes in the laundry basket, and the longer I waited for him to return my call, the more annoyed I became.

Twenty minutes passed. Thirty. I scrolled through my texts and looked up the gallery’s number from when Payton had given it to me. It was quarter to six and should still be open.

“SG Gallery.” The male voice wasn’t Silas.

“Can I speak with Silas?”

“He’s not available, is there something I can help you with?”

I paced my living room. “Andre? This is Regan, I was at last week’s showing. Any chance you can tell me how to get a hold of him? He’s not answering his phone.”

“He’s in the studio working. I don’t interrupt unless it’s urgent.”

The statement hung as Andre waited for me to clarify whether or not this was an emergency. It wasn’t, but I was pissed. “It’s not urgent,” I said. “But if you see him, tell him I’m on my way.”

The weather had turned cold, and I pinched the front of my coat tighter as I hustled up the steps of the underground CTA stop. When I hit the street, I was battered with the nighttime wind and tucked my head down. I’d yo-yoed back and forth about what he’d done the whole way here. Part of me wanted to say no to the wedding date just on principle, but the other part desired it. Any excuse to be with him.

The sign on the gallery said it was closed, but I could see Andre sitting behind the desk, and he rose when he spotted me through the front glass. He unlocked the door and held it open, smiling warmly as I came in.

But he exited, pulling his own coat tight. “Can you lock this behind me? I’ve gotta run.”

“Did you stay because of me?” Now I felt bad. “You didn’t have to.”

“It’s fine. Have a good night.” He pulled the door closed and stood in the wind, waiting for me to turn the lock. He was gone as soon as it was done.

The gallery was dark except for the security lights in the back. The paintings and photographs in the empty space looked forbidding, yet sexier, like this. I felt a blush heat my face when looking at the red painting, the one I’d told Silas reminded me of two people fucking. How in the world had his painting of implied sex gotten me to blush?

Music thumped from the back, and I went down the narrow hall to his studio.

It was much too loud in here. The music was a driving rap song, all bass and hook. It made sense, I supposed. The repetitive song was a pattern. Silas had his back to me, hunched over the table, his hands blackened with charcoal dust. His jeans looked well-worn and the black t-shirt complimented the tattoo curling down his left arm.

“Silas.”

He couldn’t hear me. I slipped off my coat and hung it on the back of his desk chair, pausing when I saw the picture on the printer. It was an extreme close-up of pale skin. The freckles across my chest, as I recognized the pattern instantly. No one else would know it was me. He’d been right. Up close like this, the image was pretty.

Stop thinking like that. You’re pissed, remember?

I went to the side of the table and glared up at him, my hands on my hips. I said it harsh and loud. “Silas.”

The music blared from the set of speakers on the table where his phone rested, but I grabbed his attention. He did a double take when he saw me. The first glance was annoyance and the second was pleasant surprise.

“Shit,” he said over the music. “I thought you were Andre. What are you doing here?”

I leaned over and clicked the volume down. “You weren’t answering your phone and we need to talk.”

Like a perfectly trained man, he went on alert at this phrase. His eyes drifted up and to the left as he searched his brain for what he’d done to bring those words into play.

“You stole a wedding invitation and sent it back.”

A guilty look washed over him, but it was fleeting, and replaced with amusement. “Yeah, I did.”

“What the fuck?”

He set down the thick black pencil and rubbed his forehead with the back of his wrist. His fingertips were filthy. “I’m available, and I thought it’d be fun.”

Was he messing with me? “You can’t just decide that without talking to me.”