Skullduggery {sapphic thriller}

CHAPTER FIVE

I slipped the painting back with the others in its lot as Desirae pulled me into a narrow space in the corner, tucking us between wrapped canvases and cardboard. Two large-scale paintings leaned together, tenting over us as we slid deeper into their shadow. With our bodies pressed together, our breathing fell in sync as a set of keys jingled at the door. My heart hammered in my chest, but I couldn't separate my own beats from hers.

Shelves rattled as the door swung open and a high-pitched voice whined with flirtation. "Now you want to help? Where have you been?"

Lips smacked as feet shuffled along the floor and a strong floral perfume wafted through the air. I squinted hard at the dim reflection in a glass cabinet across the room, unable to make out much except two bodies stumbling in our direction.

I looked back up at Desirae, feeling her fingers firm against my hips. I hadn't even noticed my own wrapped around her arms. Her muscles tensed as I loosened my grip.

"Maybe they'll think we had the same idea," she whispered.

"It'd be better to not leave them with any doubt."

Her eyes shifted away from the opening and fell over me. The corner of her mouth twitched with a smirk. As my fingers slid up her shoulder to the back of her neck, she leaned closer.

Beyond us, papers shuffled and something hit the floor with a soft thud as the table creaked.

"Artie is so gonna haunt your ass for that," the woman laughed again.

My ears pricked, hearing the distinction of her nickname and I expected the glassy, hollow voice of Landon to reply. Instead, it was raspy and slurring with a Sicilian accent. "Minchia, she already is. I can't stop seeing her everywhere."

"That's Rafael," I whispered, tilting my head to hear better. The woman's voice sounded extremely familiar, but without a face, I couldn't picture her.

"Rafael Cassini? That's interesting..." Desirae hummed. "I believe that's the curator who he's screwing around with."

"It's not even finished," Rafael's tone shifted. Without seeing him, he almost sounded like his father. "You know she wouldn't want that."

"Artie wouldn't? Or are you still hung up on—"

"Basta."

As Rafael's heavy feet thudded past us, I tucked closer into Desirae. The French doors slammed shut, shaking the canvases against us. Through a crack between the paintings, I saw a head of silvery blonde hair reaching down to pick up Sunday Morning from the floor where it had apparently fallen. Deliberately, it seemed on Rafael's part. He was always looking out for me and I certainly didn't deserve his loyalty.

The woman's heels clicked across the floor going away towards the stage. Desirae and I both exhaled at the same time. I'd forgotten my arms were still around her. Dropping them to my sides, I took a step back.

"Think we're good?"

Desirae peeked around the corner of the canvases. I strained to hear the heels tapping against the stairs, fading beyond the stage. Another door shut in the distance. She nodded, but instead of leaving our canvas shelter, she turned back to me.

"Were they talking about you?"

But that faint chemical odor crept through the room and made my nose twitch, tugging my attention towards the stage. Each inhale made the hair on my arms bristle. "Do you smell that?"

"All I can smell is paint and varnish."

My eyes wandered back to Artie's in Sunday Morning. Something about them sealing our unfinished painting broke my soul.