Page 134 of King of Pain
The phone rings twice before Liz picks up.
“McDonald.”
“Liz, it’s Chance Sullivan.”
“Chance!” Her tone shifts from business to warmth instantly. “My brother told me you’d be calling. Said you’re looking to get into the art world.”
I chuckle, rubbing the back of my neck. “Yeah, something like that. He mentioned you might have an internship opportunity?”
“For you? Of course. I don’t take just anyone under my tutelage, but given you’re practically family and Murph’s colorful insistence that you’restupidly fucking talented—his words exactly—I’d be happy to have you atMuse. I could use the help, honestly.”
Hearing her say that eases a little of the anxiety in my chest. “I really appreciate it.”
Liz hums on the other end. “So, when do I get to see your work?”
My stomach twists. Showing my work is…personal.It’s one thing to paint in solitude, another entirely to expose it to someone. Especially someone as respected as her.
Plus, Liz isn’t just a renowned gallery owner. She’sMurph’s sister.She’s been part of The Doves family for as long as I can remember. She was never a member, but was always looked after as one. It was The Doves that relocated her here to get her away from themonstershe was married to. I remember the night Murph got the call—how he went still, eyes dark withrage. Three days later, Liz was here, starting over with a new life, a new business, and her now ex-husband was in traction for several months recovering from two broken legs. Message received.
She’sfamily.
And now,I’m about to let her see the part of me I’ve never let anyone except Murph see.
“I, uh, have a shipment arriving this afternoon,” I finally say. “Most of my pieces from the past few years. Maybe once I get them unpacked, you could stop by?”
“Perfect,” she says without hesitation. “We’ll set something up after you get settled in here at the gallery.”
A knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts.
“That might be them now,” I tell her.
“Go take care of your art. We’ll talk soon.”
We hang up, and I pull the door open to find two delivery guys standing there, clipboard in hand.
“Got a shipment for a Chance Sullivan?”
“That’s me,” I confirm, stepping aside. “Come on in. You can stack them in this room.”
I lead them through the condo, pointing to the empty space I cleared in the second bedroom. They move carefully, setting down the canvases with practiced ease. Once they finish, I sign the paperwork and thank them before shutting the door behind them.
This is it.
Exhaling, I pour myself a glass of whiskey and step into the spare room, slowly unwrapping each canvas.
And there he is.
Anthony.
Every single painting is ofhim.
His eyes, hazel with flecks of green. The curve of his lips, the intensity of his gaze. The way his strong body looks in the light. Ipainted everything I could remember, trying to hold onto what I was afraid might slip away.
For three years, the only thing I could paint washim. Three years of pouring my memories onto canvas, trying to capture the way hefelt.How much Imissed him.
How much Ilove him.
Every brushstroke, every shadow, every highlight. It was all Ant. It was what kept me sane. It was what kept megoing.
