Gunner took the outside seat, arm slung over the backrest, exuding a calm that felt more like the stillness before a tornado. I slid in next to him, with Lysander opposite. He immediately started fussing with the menu, then set it down with a sigh. “You know what? I’ll just ask them to bringwhatever the chef recommends. That’s the only way to truly experience the local cuisine.”
He flagged down the waitress, who, to her credit, did not roll her eyes, and ordered enough appetizers to feed a football team: besides the chips and salsa, which were already on the table; he ordered three kinds of queso, and “as much guacamole as you can legally serve.” He added, “and a pitcher of the house margarita—unless you boys can’t handle your tequila?”
Gunner’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll stick to beer. Got work in the morning.”
“A man of responsibility,” Lysander purred, nodding with mock solemnity. “I admire that.”
The chips were light, salty, and crispy. Lysander dipped a chip, crunched it, and closed his eyes in theatrical ecstasy. “Heaven. Actual heaven. I’ve been in Texas a couple of weeks, and I’m already addicted to this stuff. No wonder you people all look like you could wrestle a bear.”
“I’ve wrestled worse,” Gunner said, voice low.
“Now, now, let’s not flex at the dinner table,” I said, nudging Gunner’s thigh under the table.
Lysander grinned, flicked his gaze to me, and then, as if he’d just remembered why we were here, produced a folder from his slim bag and slid it across. “First things first, business. I’ve made a schedule for the install and previewed the press packet. You’re going to die when you see the Amarillo Reporter’s write-up. I think they called you a ‘provocateur.’ Are you prepared for local stardom, Brie?”
“Am I prepared?” I spread my hands. “I’ve had years of being ignored and/or mocked. Stardom would be a nice change of pace.”
He poured some salsa into a little bowl, then said, “They really do adore you. Inez is terrified, by the way. She thinks you’ll outshine her at her own show.”
I cracked up. “Inez is my new painting idol. She could outshine the sun.”
Gunner tapped the folder, then opened it, flipping through the pages. “You got numbers for head count? The lot behind the gallery’s not big, but I can get us overflow at the pharmacy.”
Lysander’s eyebrow shot up. “See? This is why you’re the brains of the operation. I’d forgotten about parking. Maybe a valet?”
“Probably better to block off the street, if the city’ll let us.” Gunner looked to me. “You want me to call the Chief?”
I nodded, surprised he’d even think of that. “Yes, please. If we have anyone important coming, the last thing we need is a parking war outside.”
“I got prospects who can valet for you.” Gunner told us.
Lysander’s eyes got as big as saucers. He’d never seen Gunner in his cut. “You’re in a motorcycle gang?”
Gunner rolled his eyes. “It’s actually a club, not a gang. You don’t wanna catch anybody in that club hearing you call us a gang either. You might get your pretty teeth rearranged.”
Lysander swallowed hard. “Of course, sir. I’d not want to offend anyone.”
“Anyway. Whoever we’d use to valet would be dressed in appropriate attire for a high-toned event like Brie’s gallery opening.”
Lysander nodded. Then he leaned in, and for a second his entire persona sharpened. “You have no idea how much I appreciate your logistical genius, Finn. Most of my clients just throw me to the wolves.” He giggled. He had no idea how close hewasto wolves.
Gunner didn’t laugh, but he didn’t growl, either. Progress.
The queso arrived. Lysander dunked a chip and held it up. “If I gain ten pounds this week, I’ll die happy.” He turned to me. “You know, you could easily be doing this in Houston, or Santa Fe. Why stay here?”
I didn’t want to look at Gunner when I answered. “Because this is my home.”
Lysander smiled. “That’s the best answer. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve already set up a call with a couple of buyers. One is coming from Santa Fe, actually, just for your opening.”
I choked on a chip. “What? Why didn’t you…”
He raised a hand. “Surprise! It’s more fun this way. And if you sell out opening night, you’ll have to start painting more things for me to sell!”
The waitress arrived with our entrees—enchiladas swimming in red sauce, a carne asada plate, and a salad for Lysander “because I’m civilized, darling.” She refilled our drinks and vanished before Gunner could object to the pile of peppers he hadn’t ordered.
We ate in relative silence for a while, except for Lysander, who never stopped talking. He told stories about art school in Berlin (“It was like being in a cult, but everyone was prettier”), about his mother’s insane collection of Italian glassware, about how he once met Damien Hirst and found him “shockingly dull, like a tax accountant who got lost on his way to the Tate Modern.” I laughed at every one, because it was impossible not to. Gunner only smiled when directly addressed, and even then it looked like the effort might break his jaw in half.
Eventually, Lysander turned to me and said, “So, are you ready for the big night? Do you have an outfit? A statement piece?”
