Page 3 of Tainted Truth

His question throws me off balance. Art is emotion—I know that—but usually that’s a question the viewer asks themselves, not the artist.

I attempt to ignore his proximity and turn to the sculpture. I dig deep and pull the feelings I felt when I saw that homeless man sitting in the cold. He looked as if he had given up.

My posture goes limp and my voice breaks. “Alone. Hopeless.”

A hand sweeps my hair away from my shoulder, exposing my skin there. I gasp and am pulled back to the moment. Anthony’s hand rests on my bare upper back as he pulls out his phone and begins to type. There’s a chime before he stores his phone away.

Mom rushes over from the corner and places a sticker on the label, indicating the artwork has sold. I eye the label beingdiscussed, and Mom shakes her head, indicating not to question it.

Mom puts on her best smile, and a light enters her face. “Congratulations, Mr. Cole. You’ve made a fine purchase.”

“Indeed, I have, Mariana.” His tone is smooth.

Where is the gallery owner?

My forehead scrunches, and Anthony smirks. It’s like he can read my mind. One deep stare and he knows me.

I choose to voice my question anyway. “Where?—”

Anthony interrupts me before I can finish. His eyes never leave mine, but his next comment is directed behind him. “Run along, Hugh. This one is mine.”

CHAPTER 1

SPENCER

Handcuffs are not fun. Zero out of ten do not recommend.

Maybe if Zane put me in them with the intent to do other activities . . .

But no.

I’m handcuffed to a fucking bed that I slept in, alone. They didn’t lock me in the room though—probably because the bed frame is solid. No matter how much I pull on my new steel jewelry, the headboard won’t budge. It’s like they nailed it into the wall.

It’s only your right hand.

That’s beside the point!

Fortunately, the room is comfortable. It has an urban look with an exposed brick accent wall, industrial pipes, dark wood used as shelves, and neutral linens. The bed is memory foam, and the temperature is cool enough at night that I actually need the blanket.

“Bathroom time, Mama,” Rio says as he enters the room.

I sigh dramatically. “Finally.”

Rio has come in a few times to let me pee, and thankfully, he lets me do that in private, unlike a certain friend of his.Zane brings me food—all my favorites—which only makes this situation more frustrating. I know none of the food they bring me is takeout because I can smell it cooking for an hour or so before it’s brought to me, which means Asher makes it, but he has yet to come in the room.

“You’ve barely touched your water.” Rio motions to the glass on the nightstand next to me, frowning at it.

“Yes, but now I get a break from staring at the wall.” Sarcasm leaks through my tone.

Rio smirks. “We gave you the remote. You could watch TV.”

“I don’t want to watch TV. I want to go home.”

“Which home would that be? The one in Chelsea, or the new one you were planning to make in California?”

Biting my lip, my eyes dart away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The sentence ends on a high pitch.

Rio reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a slip of paper, and reads, “Spencer Smith. Changing your name? It’s not very original.” He raises a brow at me then continues reading. “Departing Port Authority yesterday afternoon and arriving in Los Angeles, California tomorrow evening. Safe to say you missed your ride.”

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