“I took another look at your painting,” I say, deciding my focus is important. And she’s distracting the fuck out of me.
“And?” she asks, sounding almost hopeful.
“And what, Faith?”
“What do you think? If you hate it—”
“You dreamt about Macom and now you’re painting about Macom.”
She blanches. “What? No. That isnot at allthe case.”
“It seems pretty damn clear.”
“Then it’s you who doesn’t trust me, Nick. You who don’t trust us. Because I told you about the dream and I told you that dream was about us. And I did what I told you I was going to do. I’m getting Macom the hell out of our relationship. I’m facing the past. I’m owning it. And I own things by painting them.”
“Is that painting going in the show? Is it to get his attention?”
“Oh my God. Did you hear anything I just said to you?”
“Answer the questions,” I bite out.
“You’re being a complete asshole right now, Nick Rogers. That painting is for me. For us. It’s not meant for any other eyes.”
I stare at her several beats, and she stares right back at me, not a blink. And I believe her. “I’m an asshole,” I say.
“Yes, Nick Rogers, you are. Youreallyare.”
“Because you make me crazy.”
“So, it’s my fault that you’re an asshole? Considering you were an asshole the night I met you, I’m pretty sure you mastered that skill long before I met you.”
“I’m apparently practicing that skill right now. How am I doing?”
“Exceptionally well.”
“I might end up in jail when I meet this guy.”
“At least you’ll have Abel to represent you.”
I laugh, never a step ahead of this woman. “Indeed. At least I do. Will you visit me in jail?”
“I’d prefer to just keep you out of jail.” Her mood shifts, darkens. “He’s not worth it.”
“But you are.”
“Is that your way of apologizing for being an asshole?”
“If I want to apologize, I’ll apologize,” I counter.
“So, you don’t want to apologize?”
My cellphone starts ringing and I grimace. “And so Monday begins.” I grab my phone from my pocket and glance at the caller ID, then at Faith. “A client that never uses my cell,” I say, answering the line. “Devon.”
“Holy hell, Nick. The Feds want to talk to me. I have a deal that went sour. I’m scared man. I need help.” When a hedge fund billionaire sounds like he might just start crying like a baby, you know he’s in trouble.
“What the fuck did you do, Devon?” I demand, and then quickly say, “Don’t answer that on the phone. Meet me in my office in twenty minutes.” I end the call and dial Abel. “Heads up. Devon Stein. He’s getting a visit from the Feds. I need you to consult.”
“When?” Able asks.