Page 2 of Brenna, Brat

I had to agree, but I was supposed to sell this crap. “It isn’t for everyone,” I stated blandly.

“No, my sister wouldn’t like it at all. That’s who I’m shopping for today. Her birthday is coming up.”

“That’s nice,” I said, just as bland.

“It bites for her to have it so soon after the holidays,” he said, shrugging. “Everyone’s just done with Christmas and celebrating the new year, and then there’s her birthday. January’s pretty bleak anyway, right?”

I nodded. Were we talking about an adult? “It sounds absolutely terrible.”

He looked away from the sculpture of two squirrels humping (that gum originated in Montreal) to eye me, instead. His expression was kind of questioning and it could have signified that I hadn’t hidden my sarcasm as much as I’d meant to. So I covered it by smiling and just like that, he smiled back, totally appeased.

“My mother usually throws a big party for her,” he reassured me, as if I was worried, and I nodded. Why would I have cared about any of this?

“They’re having one again this year and I need to bring a present that she can unwrap in front of the guests,” he explained.

Was there a huge gap in their ages? I guessed that he was in his mid to late twenties but it sounded like his sister was six years old. I didn’t bother to answer.

“I usually buy her something that’s not wrap-able, like lessons with a private chef, or a car, or…” He continued to name uber-expensive, super-amazing presents and if I were ever lucky enough to receive even one of those things, I would have keeled over in happiness. But he shook his head as he described her reactions to the jewelry, the trips, and the rest of the stuff he’d gifted to her in the past. His sister hadn’t liked anything he’d ever chosen, for various reasons that sounded ridiculous to me. Like, she thought that the lessons with the chef were a waste of her time because no one used kitchens anymore, the trip to the Côte d'Azur was a terrible idea because it too crowded there, and she didn’t like the diamond and platinum necklace because everyone knew she only wore rose gold that year.

“Carrington is picky,” he explained. “She’s hard to shop for.”

Picky? How about spoiled, overindulged, and undeserving? “So you’re thinking you’ll give her gum art,” I said. It seemed to be a reasonable consequence after turning up your nose at a trip to the south of France: you would now receive something that strangers had spat onto the sidewalk. “Did you see the one of the man regurgitating the half-digested hamburger? The materials were harvested in Bruges.”

“That’s a guy throwing up a burger? I thought this was all conceptual.” He looked at me and raised his eyebrows before he grinned again. “I’m going to have to say no, anyway. I want her to like the gift, not want to puke herself.”

I didn’t know why he’d care. From my short introduction to his sister, I didn’t even think that she deserved the gum…but, of course, part of my job in the gallery was to sell the art and I decided to do that. “Let me show you some other pieces.”

Sales weren’t what I spent most of my time doing here because we hardly made any. I had other responsibilities, like everything else that it took to keep a business going. Besides my boss, Alecta, there was one other employee, the moron Dion who was her nephew. During the two years that I’d worked at the Alecta Alberne Gallery, there had been a few other hires that had come and gone. They’d flitted around and tried to use big words about art movements that they didn’t understand before quitting, mostly without giving notice. Anyway, someone had to make sure that the bills were paid so that the lights stayed on and the furnace could keep struggling, and someone had to talk down the temperamental people who displayed their work here.Someone had to make sure that they (and the normal, well-adjusted ones, too) got paid appropriately.

“How about this?” I suggested to the guy. He stared at the sculpture I’d indicated, a three-dimensional wall-hanging constructed of polished steel and shards of mirror that made it reflective from every angle. It was calledEgoand from what I’d heard of his snotty sibling, it seemed perfect for her. I talked about it for a while, giving some background on the artist and my own thoughts on the piece. I referenced the other works and movements that had influenced it, too, but I didn’t share my thoughts about his sister.

He studied the sculpture as he listened. “This is amazing,” he said as I finished.

I nodded, because it was by far our best offering. The only reason that it was here was because the owner of this gallery sold drugs to the sculptor, andEgowas part of their payment plan.

“Think how difficult it was to attach all these tiny pieces of glass,” he mentioned, leaning forward and frowning slightly. “It must have taken so much time.”

“This artist is known for her meticulous work.” She was also known to me for setting a garbage can on fire in the alley behind the gallery when Alecta had been late with a drug delivery. I had put out the fire with a hose and told her to be on her way before I called the police, a message which hadn’t gone over well.

“I love it,” he said. “I think Carrington will, too.”

It was the second time he’d said ‘Carrington’ and somehow, it was niggling at me. I felt like…did I know that girl? “What’syour last name?” I asked, and he told me it was Bates. No, “Carrington Bates” wasn’t ringing any additional bells.

“Would you like to know my first name?” he asked me. He tilted his head and got a little smile, and I saw that he was an old hand at the flirting game. Well, it made sense. He was good-looking in that preppy, “I play squash with friends and drink single malt” way, and he was also tall, and also more muscular than what I would have credited to an average squash player. Not that I’d ever met one, but I had an imagination. He had nice brown eyes, which I did enjoy, and he had nice brown hair, too, thick, shiny, and lighter than those eyes. More of a chestnut color, I decided. His suit—I had to give it to him, it was incredible. If it wasn’t bespoke, I would have been very surprised. He wore it well, but he looked like he would have been more comfortable in a shooting jacket and field boots.

“Ok,” he told me when I didn’t respond, “I can see that you’re dying to know, so—”

I held up my hand. “I bet I could guess,” I said, and his brown eyes widened.

“Go at it,” he encouraged.

I was bored, so why not play a game? “Is your car parked at the curb?” I asked.

“Yes, but please don’t open the door to see it,” he said. “I don’t want to hear that scream again.”

I looked out the window instead and spotted a sleek import, German and very new. It was one of the big, nice models and not a down-market version that had the name and the logo, butused an engine they’d taken from their motorcycle line. “Hm,” I mused. “Where did you grow up?”

“Bloomfield Hills,” he answered. His eyebrows raised. “Is that going to help you guess?”

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