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That motherfucker.
I hardly ever swore, but it seemed appropriate in this moment. Anger swirled hot through my body, tensing my muscles into thick cords, and movement became impossible. All I could do was stand beside my artwork and stare at the shipping manifest, letting the recipient’s name sear into my brain.
Alec Rafferty.
This was the first real work I’d done since the darkest point in my life, and it was stunning. A masterpiece that had taken years to conceive and months to create. Yes, it had been bought and paid for, and I was desperate for the money, but I would not let Rafferty bastardize my sculpture.
No one had accused him outright in the industry, but we all knew what he was doing. Like a cuckoo bird who lays its eggs in another bird’s nest—brood parasitism, it’s called. My sculpture would not be his nest. Alec Rafferty stood on the shoulders of others, pushing them into the ground so no one could see who was really buried at the base. He stole everything from other artists. Concept. Materials. And worst of all, credit.
I uncurled my balled fists, barely noticing the sting that lingered from how hard I’d driven my nails into my palms. I’d had everything taken from me as I fought against it, clutching fiercely until my hands were bloody, and I’d lost.
It wasn’t going to happen again.
“Is there a problem?” Maritza asked when she noticed my rigid state, or perhaps that I was awash in fury.
“There’s a very big problem. You’ll need to cancel this sale immediately.”
Maritza’s expression turned sour like she was going to be ill. “This is about the buyer?”
“Yes.”
The gallery owner shook her head, sending shimmering waves down through her dark hair. “It’s too late. Mr. Rafferty requires third-party sales, probably to avoid the purchase from being stopped. I didn’t know it was him until this morning, and the truck is on its way.”
Panic fluttered in my veins, bubbling in my system. I’d already packaged it and closed the crate. Did I have enough time to pry the nails out of the wood? And if so, could I really destroy the most beautiful work I’d ever created . . . just to save it?
“I need a crowbar.” My voice was ice, even though I was sweating. It was hot inside the back room of the gallery, like most of the air conditioner was saved for the customers up front.
“A crowbar? For what?” Maritza’s expression filled with horror when she realized what I intended. “No, Jessica. You can’t.”
My hands were clammy, so when I seized the hammer I nearly dropped it. My grip tightened on the handle while I evaluated the best point of attack. The top left corner wasn’t perfectly flush, so I’d start there. I sank the claw into the seam and jerked. The wood groaned under the force.
“Stop it!” Maritza clasped my arm and tugged me back. The hammer clattered to the ground as she threw her body between me and the crate, her arms flung out to the sides. Five and a half feet of Latina would not stop me from what I had to do. I’d be the mother who ate her baby to save it from a worse fate. No other thought was in my mind.
I ducked under her arm and barreled forward. My shoulder slammed into the wall of wood, but I kept going, ignoring the pain radiating through my body. I forced my feet to move, hardly getting any traction on the bare floor and my flats, but the initial impact was enough to pitch the crate backward. One final shove would send it toppling.
“Jessica, no!”
The wood creaked as it tipped, and then the six-foot box landed on its side with a thunderous crash, breaking my heart and hopefully my sculpture inside.