The door slams harder than I mean it to—that's the point.
27
"Hey, baby." Lucy presses a pouty kiss on my mouth and her eyes sweep me from head to toe.
White pants, white open blazer, my silver bra underneath catching light the light.
I'm praying the pants don't become the highlight.
"You absolutely don't match my artistry, but I love the audacity," she says.
She's dripping green—nails, heels, attitude—standing in front of walls that are basically a riot of fire as always.
"I changed about three times," I admit.
"Let me guess—you spent forty-five minutes debating whether cleavage is appropriate for feminist art or if that makes you a paradox."
"That—plus period."
"Oh," she coos and gives me another once-over. "Then you're perfect."
Not surprised she'd say that. Lu's the kind of artist who would sign your purchase with her blood if you asked her, or even if you didn't.
Sometimes I think she'd immolate herself if it meant better light.
I guess it pays off because the gallery—three big rooms, white walls stretching endlessly—is packed with artists, friends, and press.
"Are you still having a mental breakdown?" I ask bluntly, because with her I can.
"Nah... too tipsy for that." Lucy lifts a flute of black champagne, making the inky bubbles catch the spotlight. "Don't you love it? My idea. Makes every tongue black as sin."
"Did you custom-design it for me?" I stick my tongue out to check it just as she sneaks a look at the girl across the room she's been hovering around all night.
I catch it and nudge her lightly with my shoulder. "You didn't introduce me."
She waves me off but her eyes don't follow, still locked on the petite blonde who looks like she walked straight out of a paperback romance. Sweet face, big round glasses, but you can see the wildness simmering under her skin.
She's already holding court with someone, head bent in deep conversation.
"Wait, she's talking to Micah?" I ask, surprised.
With his impossible height, rich brown skin, hair dyed as white as the walls, and that coat collar popped like he's on permanent standby for a Vogue spread, Micah is a spotlight you can't dim.
Always made me wonder how he and my pint-sized Lucy did it. Anyway...
"What's he even doing here? Didn't he piss you off?"
"Self-invited?" She shrugs, squinting at him. "Or I might've invited him between two orgasms. Fuzzy on the details. The past few weeks have been a blur."
I choke on a laugh while eyeing him. "I can practically lip-read his seduction. Don't you mind he's into your girl?"
She pulls a humorless face. "Micah's a slut for carbon dioxide. If it breathes, he'll flirt with it. And Sophia isn't my girl," she says, not very convincingly. "She's been posing for me. Wants to learn how to paint."
"So she's the one who posed for you that day when we called? Not Micah?"
Lu grins devilishly. "Actually, I had both of them in there."
"Oh." My brows shoot up, impressed.
