“Log on, fill out the form, and make your deposit online.”
“That’s it?”
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He shrugged noncommittally. “You want more?”
For someone playing fast and loose with the rules, he sure was a prick. Still, Aster just shot him another bright grin and made for the door. She’d just passed the painting hanging in the entry when the thought hit her.
H. D. Harrison was Layla Harrison’s dad.
EIGHTEEN
PAINT IT BLACK
“Where you headed?”
Tommy froze in his tracks and stared longingly at the door. He’d been so close—just a handful of steps from freedom—only to get caught checking out early. He waited a beat, sucked in a breath, then turned to face Ira.
“Uh, I’ve got a meeting, so . . .” He jabbed a thumb toward the door as though Ira hadn’t realized that was his intended destination. As though his sole purpose for interrupting him hadn’t been to stop him from leaving.
Ira eased around the bar and came to stand before him. Between the expensive designer clothes he wore like armor, and his usual unreadable expression, he was intimidating as hell, and pretty much the last person Tommy wanted to displease. Though he guessed it was too late for that.
“And this meeting of yours—does it happen to be work related?”
Not really, Tommy thought. What he said was, “Of course.”
Ira looked him over. “VIP room’s shaping up nicely,” he finally said. “You been up there lately?”
Tommy shook his head. Though Ira’s tone seemed friendly enough, it was never a good idea to relax around him. Like any fierce predator, it was impossible to tell when he might strike.
“Don’t you think you should take a look? Seeing as it’s your job to promote it.”
Tommy shrugged, raked a hand through his hair. “Just trying to give the artist some privacy. Besides, pretty sure the room will promote itself once it’s ready.”
“So what am I paying you for?” Ira’s features sharpened.
Tommy stood before him, doing his best not to cringe or display any visible signs of weakness. There was something so primal about dealing with Ira—it was all about survival of the most cunning and fittest, though unfortunately, Tommy had just unwittingly rolled onto his back and displayed his soft white belly.
Still, it was a good question—one that Tommy often wondered himself. While he hadn’t exactly hesitated to take the job, the last few days he’d found himself with so little to do while the room was being readied he figured he might as well work on promoting his music career. Though sharing that with Ira was the quickest route to getting canned.
“Not sure how you want me to answer,” Tommy said, realizing immediately after that it was the absolute worst thing he could’ve said. Still, Ira had a way of wearing him down with little to no effort on his part.
“Pretty sure I warned you a long time ago about ever trying to second-guess me, or tell me what you assume I want to hear, because I guarantee you will always be wrong. In the future, when I ask you a question, do yourself a favor and answer honestly, regardless of how you think I’ll respond.”
Tommy nodded. There, he’d been properly chastised, maybe now Ira would allow him to leave. Unfortunately, Ira’s challenging gaze told him a quick escape was out of the question.
“So . . . you’re telling me I should ignore the sign on the door and go take a look?”
“How can you possibly promote something you’ve never seen?” Ira asked, allowing no time for Tommy to respond before he turned on his heel and started walking away. It was a moment before Tommy realized Ira expected him to follow.
After climbing the narrow set of stairs, Ira unceremoniously threw open the door and impatiently motioned Tommy inside, all the while studying him for his reaction. But the sight had rendered Tommy gobsmacked.
On the surface, the room was a mess of paint-spattered floor coverings and shrouded furniture piled high and shoved against walls, while the speakers blared an old Rolling Stones song Tommy hadn’t heard in a while, but that he instantly vowed to add to his playlist. The walls featured a riot of color that was impossible to take in at one glance, and at the center of it all stood Layla’s dad. Paintbrush in hand, he seemed totally unaware of their presence as he created a mural that was so vibrant, so full of life, so massively impressive, it was impossible to define.
Tommy let out a low whistle—the sound giving voice to the words he was unable to speak.
“He doesn’t come cheap, but he’s worth every penny.” Ira nodded toward the masterpiece in the making. “Do you know how much money these walls will be worth when it’s finished? And it will only increase from there.”