Page 128 of You Make Me Feel
I let out a low breath. “I’m not an idiot.”
“Yeah, well you were idiotic enough to underestimate me,” Darien says.
And to date him. I don’t add that though.
It takes me longer than it should to unwrap the painting. Mostly because I don’t have a knife to cut through the string. Instead I have to undo the knots and my fingers are way too shaky to do it easily. Darien lets out a huff and I try to speed up.
And when it’s finally loose I pull off the brown paper, revealing the woman standing there, still looking out at the sea. Still waiting.
“There. You can take it now,” I tell him. “Just leave. I won’t tell anybody where you’ve gone.”
Darien looks at me like I’ve just told him to swim backto the mainland. “I don’t need the damn painting,” he tells me.
I blink, confused. “What do you mean you don’t want it? Then why did you bring me here?”
“Take the backing off,” he says, ignoring my question. He gestures the gun at me and I turn the painting around, pulling at the rectangle of paper stapled on the back, ripping it off so it reveals the rear side of the painted canvas.
And that’s when I see numbers written on it. In what looks like pencil.
I stare at them, trying to figure out what they mean. “Did you write these?” I ask him.
But he’s too busy getting his phone out with one hand, still holding the gun with the other. “Take a photo of it for me.”
“You want this number?” I say. “Is this what you wanted all along? Why didn’t you say so?”
“Because you would have erased the motherfucker out. Now take the damn photo, Sadie.”
I snap it, then pass the phone back to him. He looks at it, nodding grimly. “Now erase it.”
“Huh?”
“Erase the number. I want it gone. Come on.”
“With an eraser?” I clarify.
“Yep.”
“I don’t have one.”
“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters. “Just use some spit.”
“You want me to spit on a painting?”
“On the back of it, yes.” He points the gun at me again. So I do it. I spit on my finger, rub it along the back of the canvas, and the whole number turns into a gray smudge.
“If you want a job done,” he mutters, walking forward and rubbing at it with his free hand.
“What is it?” I ask, way too nosy for my own good. “A bank account number?”
“Swiss,” he says, looking stupidly proud of himself. “With more money in it than you can ever dream of.”
For about two milliseconds I think about trying to grab the gun from his other hand. But then there’s a loud bang on the shop door.
“Darien Calvin,” a loud voice shouts out.
“Fuck,” Darien spits out. He starts rubbing the number harder.
“We know you’re in there.”
