Page 1 of Tainted Truth

PROLOGUE

SPENCER, SEVEN YEARS AGO

My palms sweat as I watch the analog clock on the wall tick with each passing second. I’ve never done this before—put myself out there. Abuela said she was proud of me when I called to tell her one of my sculptures had been chosen to be in a gallery. But now, here I am on opening night, and I’m a damn train wreck.

There are only a few minutes until the doors open, and Mom walked away to find the bathroom. Hopefully she’ll be back soon because the butterflies in my stomach are out of control.

Mom and I bought a new dress for tonight, and while it’s beautiful, it’s too much for my taste. The deep red color compliments my skin, which is why Mom said we should buy it. The neckline is a deep V-cut, and the skirt hugs my ass and hips a little too much, but then falls away from my frame into an A-line skirt. Mom said it’s just my body becoming more of a woman’s body and less of a girl’s body, but the leers from random men on my way here made my skin crawl.

I can’t wait to get out of this annoying fabric when I go home tonight.

This gallery is known in Houston for discovering up-and-coming artists—many have gotten their big break here. All ittakes is for the right rich dude to walk in, like an artist’s work, pay an obscene amount of money for it, and tell all of their friends. Next thing you know you’re getting commissions left and right.

I’m surrounded by fellow artists as we watch each other display our souls for the world to critique. There’s everything from watercolor paintings to prints to ceramics.

When I arrived earlier, I noticed that we’re all women. It’s common for people to assume that art is a female-dominated industry, but the real artists know it’s run by men. And because of that, I assumed I would see more classmates of mine, particularly of the male variety, but there are none.

The gallery went all out for this opening. Several waiters line the room with trays of hors d’oeuvres and flutes of champagne, and light instrumental music floats in the air. I’m sure all of their openings are just as fancy, but seeing it in person feels different.

I watch the gallery owner use his keys to open the door and welcome the large crowd gathered outside.

Where is Mom? I thought she’d be back by now.

God, I hope I don’t fuck this up by being my usual awkward self.

As the room floods with people, I shrink back from the critical looks. I know I need to stand strong and be proud of what I created, but showcasing my work here is not the same as a presentation at school. When I’m there I’m being critiqued by my peers who have the same experience as me. Out here, in the real world, I’m talking to a prospective buyer. I need to be confident and sure of myself, but that level of surety is not a quality I have ever possessed.

Two middle-aged men in expensive black suits stand a few feet away from me and talk in hushed tones, but not so hushed I can’t hear them. Their presence sends a chill down my spine.

“My last purchase didn’t satisfy my needs like I thought she would.” The man on the right chortles at his own statement.

The man on the left responds, “What a tragedy.”

“I’m hoping the one I have my eye on tonight proves to be more useful.”

As the man swipes an hors d’oeuvre from a passing waiter, he looks in my direction and gives me a once over. Then he pulls out his phone, presses a few buttons and slides it back into his pocket.

He takes a step in my direction and my chest grows tight, but another man makes it to my side first. He’s older, and I swear he keeps trying to take a peep down the front of my dress. I try tugging on it in an attempt to hide my ample cleavage, but that doesn’t work, and crossing my arms only serves to push my boobs up higher.

His hairline is receding, and his skin looks leathery, as if he’s spent most of his time in the sun over the years. His suit is expensive and obviously tailored. He reminds me of the men Mom usually dates. The ones who take her to five-star restaurants, symphonies, and plays.

“What inspired you to create this . . .” He trails off as he waves to my sculpture of a minimalist, thin figure hunched over with its arms wrapped around its pathetic body. “. . . thing.”

He steps closer and places a meaty hand on my lower back. A chill runs up my spine and I take a step forward, evading his touch.

I glance over my shoulder in search of Mom. She’s usually good about running interference when a guy thinks I’m older than I am, but she’s nowhere in sight.

My God, these creeps make me feel like I need to take a shower.

My words stumble out as I answer him. “He . . . Umm . . . There was a homeless man I saw outside Bayou Music Center.”Clearing my throat, I sidestep him when he attempts to make contact again.

My eyes roam the room in search of Mom one more time when I spot her in the corner talking to a gentleman resembling the one at my side.

Shit.

Mom deserves her happiness. She’s a single mom and has provided for me my whole life. While my sperm donor’s child support helps, I know she does what she must so I can have an easier life. Art school isn’t cheap.

So, when I see her laugh and smile like that, I don’t interrupt.

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