Since she's dead now.
She was local to Jackson Hole—worked in a shop on Cache Street that catered to wealthy clients who wanted art, not flash. Her work was distinctive, recognizable even from across a room.
She had this particular shading technique, a way of layering grey wash that created depth and dimension most artists couldn't replicate.
It gave her pieces an almost three-dimensional quality, like the images were trying to crawl off the skin. Collectors knew her style instantly. Other artists tried to copy it, and failed.
When you saw one of Posie's pieces, youknewit was hers.
And everything about the art on Ryan's body saysPosie was here.
Since she's dead, I couldn't just go in and ask her about the work. But the shop on Cache Street wasn't hers. And it's still open. Stella Six Feathers owns that shop. Local. 24 now. Grew up on the Wind River Indian Reservation. Bought the parlor on Cache Street when she was nineteen after doing four consecutive consensual-non-consents in one year for the auction house.
Stella was one of the first girls to come through and I wanted to make sure she was OK after she 'retired', so I went into the shop two years later to check up on her.
Anonymously, obviously. She didn't know who I was. Didn't know I ran the auction house.
But I like to make sure the girls are getting on well, especially after CNC's, and was delighted to find that Stella had turned her year of rape fantasies into a very lucrative business. She had five other artists working for her.
Posie Little was one of them.
While I was there, I fell in love with Posie's work and booked my first appointment.
This morning, I went back into that shop and started asking questions. Stella, who didn't know me from Adam, but recognized Posie's work when I privately showed her the tattooPosie did, got immediately chatty about the 'psychopath with the bird tattoos.'
She told me…a lot.
And now… I'm starting to think Ryan Adamson might need his scales balanced.
Chapter 11
Scarletta
"What is this?"
Ryan's grin shifts into something easier. Genuine, almost. "The future." He gestures toward the TRX rig. "This is my prototype. A full-body suspension training program. But not the basic crap you see in other gyms. This is advanced shit, ya know? A personal training program developed by me."
I stare at the modified table with stirrups. The restraint points. The cameras positioned at angles that would capture everything.
He really thinks I'm going to buy that?
Training?
To be fair, Scarletta, you bought the idea of being sold at a sex auction.
Then signed up for a hunt in a maze.
Touché.
"See, I've got this vision," Ryan continues, walking toward the rig with the confidence of someone who's practiced this pitch enough times it sounds genuine. "I'm gonna convert thiswhole space into a suspension studio. Group classes. Advanced programs. Something no one else in Idaho Falls is offering."
He turns back to me, and his smile is the kind of easy that probably works on most women. Warm. Excited. Like he's letting me in on a secret.
"I've got a big-deal investor meeting tomorrow at noon. Massive money ask. The kind that could make this happen. But they want proof of concept before they commit to the buildout. They need to see it in action."
Of course, they do.
"That's where you come in, button." He winks at me. Actually winks at me. "I need a model. And… like I said when I took you on for training, you're my only client at the moment."
