Page 52 of My Big Fat Fake Alien

CHAPTER 24

KARC

The gallery is all glass and sharp angles, the kind of place where the art feels secondary to the way the light bounces off the polished floors. I’m in my Kirk Stevens disguise, standing in front of one of Raven’s pieces, a riot of colors and abstract shapes that somehow still feels grounded, like it’s pulling at something primal. The kind of thing that makes you stop and stare, even if you’re only here to schmooze.

A man in a too-tight suit sidles up next to me, adjusting his glasses like they’re a shield against the world. He’s got that look—the kind of guy who thinks the more he talks, the smarter he sounds.

“Kirk Stevens,” he says, extending a hand like he’s handing me a gift. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Are you familiar with the artist’s work?”

I shake his hand, my grip firm enough to make him wince. “A little bit, yeah.”

He launches into it like he’s been waiting for an audience. “This piece,” he says, gesturing to the canvas with the kind of flourish that makes me think he practices in the mirror, “is a masterful juxtaposition of modern man’s inability to reconcilehis tortured past. It’s a commentary on the existential dread of our time, don’t you think?”

I tilt my head, letting my grin spread slow and easy. “Actually, it represents rampant consumerism and the need for empathy.”

He freezes, glasses slipping down his nose. “Oh? And how can you be so sure you know what’s in the artist’s head?”

I lean in, just enough to make him squirm. “Because I’m married to her.”

The look on his face is worth every second of this conversation—a mix of shock, embarrassment, and the sudden realization that maybe he’s been talking out of his ass this whole time. He stammers something about needing to find the restroom and practically bolts.

I chuckle under my breath, turning back to the painting. It’s one of my favorites of Raven’s work, partly because it’s soher—bold, unapologetic, and layered with meaning. The colors seem to shift as I look at it, like they’re alive.

“Do you always scare off the critics, or is that just a special talent of yours?”

I turn to see Raven walking toward me, her heels clicking against the floor. She’s wearing a dress that hugs her curves, black with a slit up the side that makes it impossible not to stare. Her hair’s down, falling in soft waves over her shoulders, and her lips curve into that wicked smile she saves for when she’s about to tease me.

“Depends on the critic,” I say, catching her hand and pulling her close. “Some of them deserve it.”

She laughs, the sound warm and low, and leans into me. “You’re terrible.”

“Terribly charming, you mean.”

Raven’s fingers intertwine with mine as we stroll through the gallery, her hand warm and familiar in mine. The place isbuzzing—art snobs, critics, and her fans all crammed into this sleek, white-walled space. They’re staring at her work like it’s some kind of alien artifact. To be fair, they’re not entirely wrong. Her artisotherworldly.

“They’re all so… into it,” I murmur softly, nodding toward a woman in oversized glasses who’s practically pressed her nose against one of Raven’s canvases.

Raven chuckles, her free hand brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah, it’s weird. I’m used to people ignoring my stuff or calling it vandalism. This is… a lot.”

I squeeze her hand. “You deserve it. Every bit of it.”

She looks up at me, her dark eyes soft but a little uncertain. “I mean, I wouldn’t have been able to pull this off without you. You pushed me to do this. You believed in me when I didn’t even believe in myself.”

I wave her off, my grin widening. “Don’t give me too much credit. I just threw money at the problem.You’rethe one who made it happen. Nothing’s too good for my jalshagar.”

Her cheeks flush, and she looks away, but not before I catch the smile tugging at her lips. “You’re such a sap, you know that?”

“Only for you,” I say, brushing a kiss against her temple.

We’re interrupted by the sound of Sandy’s unmistakable laugh. I turn to see her and Terry approaching, Sandy in her ever-present straw hat and Terry looking somehow both proud and awkward in a suit that’s a size too big.

“Hey, you two!” Sandy beams, pulling Raven into a hug that looks more like a bone-crushing wrestling move. “This place is amazing! Your art’s got peopletalking, girl. Even I had to ask Terry what some of it meant.”

“And I had no clue,” Terry adds with a smirk, clapping me on the shoulder. “But it looks fancy, so that’s all that matters, right?”

Raven rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “Thanks, Dad. Real supportive.”

Terry chuckles, then turns to me. “So, where’s your old man? I was looking forward to seeing him again. He’s a hoot.”

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