“Hey, I said we had art for sale, not the freakin’ building,” Milo says, a tell-tale tremble in his voice as I step closer toward him. “The answer is n-n-n-n-no.”
I can see that it’s only a matter of time before Milo sees sense and accepts my very generous offer to take this building, plus the other gallery he owns down the block off his hands.
“Like I said, I’d be more than happy to let you rent the gallery space,” I say. “Nothing would change on that front. And you’d be a few million dollars richer too. I’d develop the upstairs into apartments. We both win.”
“B-b-b-but,” Milo says, a mixture of frustration and fear in his voice. “I don’t need the money. I’ve got my own plans for these buildings.”
I place my hand on Milo’s shoulder and apply a hint of pressure.
“Plans change, my man,” I say. “I’ll arrange for my lawyer to contact yours first thing tomorrow. I assume by then you will be ready to accept my proposal.”
And with that, I turn and walk toward the exit.
As the leather of my sole’s clip on the smooth polished concrete floor, I suddenly become aware of someone else in the gallery. I flash my eyes over toward the far reaches of the ground floor and spot a figure darting behind a pillar.
Who the hell was that.
Fuck it.
Probably some damn intern…
But as unimportant as it is, my curiosity is piqued. Even as I exit the building and shut the door behind me, I can’t help but feel like I need to know who that was, hiding in the shadows, clearly determined that I didn’t see them.
“Let it go,” I grumble to myself, checking both sides to make sure that there’s no one tailing me.
Call it old habits, but every time I leave a building, there’s always a sense that I might be in trouble… cops, assassins, whoever. Most of the time, I’ve got security with me, but today I came alone. I don’t ever want to get to a stage where I’m not able to move alone, to walk the streets like I used to. And if people see me alone, then good. I want them to.
I might be pakhan, but the world needs to know that I’m not too big to walk amongst them. And in my eyes, that makes me more dangerous than even the most notorious crime lords around.
But right now I’ve got something else on my mind.
Whisky… and plenty of it.
Chapter 3
Eddie
“Ahhh, this is the place to be,” I say, happy and content. “Good call, Robbie. Good call.”
“Hey, you know me,” Robbie giggles. “I’m never wrong. LOL. Well, maybe not never…”
The Happy Giraffe smells like vanilla cookies and fresh crayons, and the second Robbie and I stepped through the door, the knot in my tummy loosened just a little. And now we’ve settled down into ourselves, I’m sensing that Little Space isn’t too far away either.
We’re both in matching pastel rompers—Robbie’s lavender with tiny white stars, mine mint-green with little yellow ducks—because tonight is about being small and silly and safe. My sippy cup is already filled with strawberry milk, the lid snapped on tight so I don’t spill when I get too excited. Robbie has apple juice, because he says it makes him feel like he’s drinking sunshine.
Robbie might be full of sass and spark in day to day life, but when it comes to Little time, he’s as Little as anyone I’ve ever met. And I’m all there for it.
We drop our backpacks by the cubby wall, Goldie’s golden mane poking out the top of mine like he’s making sure I don’t forget him for even a second. And after grabbing our stuffies we pad straight to the big soft carpet in the corner where the low table is already covered in coloring books and every pencil color you could dream of.
I flop onto my tummy first, stretching out like a starfish. Robbie mirrors me, our legs kicking gently behind us. Our stuffies are with us too and it all feels so right.
“Which picture are you doing?” Robbie asks, already reaching for the pack of metallic pencils.
“The unicorn castle,” I mumble around the spout of my sippy. “The one with the rainbow moat.”
He giggles. “Classic Eddie. Always going for the sparkliest.Yaysparkles!”
I take a long sip, letting the cold sweetness settle my nerves, then pick up a silver pencil and start shading the unicorn’s horn. For a few minutes it’s just the scratch-scratch of color on paper, the soft music playing overhead, and the occasional squeal from the Littles zooming around the racetrack on the other side of the room.
