Page 6 of The B!tch is Bad

Pippa yelled, “Santiago Slayer said he’d buy it from Fox sight unseen!”

Who were these ultra-rich hipsters? My heart was now going maybe a hundred and thirty, enough to set off a heart attack. I can’t describe the relief when Pippa won the tug-of-war and we both clutched the painting to drag it down the hallway.

“Mother of God, shit, fuck,” Pippa muttered as we stumbled along.

Happy as I was to get away from that crowd, I still wasn’t sure if I was on the verge of a heart incident or an anxiety attack. When Pippa slammed shut the door to my office, I fell against it with my palm to my chest, panting.

Pippa leaned the painting against my desk and looked at me with a hundred questions. My shallow breaths made phosphenes swirl around my head.

I knew the jig was up. Pippa had asked questions before. I owed her something.

“Okay, Patience,” she said, her palms facing the floor. “There have been weird slip-ups before, but this is the final straw. How did you get to be in that painting? It’s obvious it’s you.”

My hand trembled.

Pippa sighed and lowered her shoulders. “Listen. I’m not really from San Francisco, like I told you. Like I tell everyone. I’m really from Texas. I didn’t really get a plant biology degree from UC Davis. That was made up to explain my expertise in cannabusiness. I was studying stem cells with the Coast Guard in Corpus Christi. But I can tell you’re really from Oklahoma, not St. Louis like you’ve been saying. I won’t tell a soul if you don’t.”

My mouth was so dry I could barely talk. I stamped like Frankenstein to my desk to grab my bottle of water, and I chugged with my back to Pippa.

I had to confide in someone. The stress of holding onto such a load of secrets would kill me. The question was…did I care if I died? Sometimes it just didn’t feel worth it. The living part was such a drag.

I gasped, “I’m from Edmond, Oklahoma. I stole the driver’s license of someone named Patience Bedford.”

“So that is you in the painting.”

I gave a slight nod. Someone was marching down the outside hallway, so Pippa talked faster.

“Just tell me now. You’re not running from some cartel like me, are you? I just don’t want you bringing down a blood feud that’ll give us too much exposure.”

“Oh, no!” I whispered with sincerity. “Nothing like that. I’m having an anxiety attack because I ran out of Cymbalta. Believe me. No one’s out to get me.”

Pippa put a hand on her hip and gave me the three-quarter side-eye. “How did you come to find us here at Smoky Mountain, then? Who did you know from before, from your old life?”

“No one! I did stay here once. I loved it so much I decided it’d be a good place to start over.”

It was true, and it seemed to satisfy Pippa. She had one last question, as the man in heels stomped back and forth outside our door. “Your resumé, showing your background in hospitality. Was that all true?”

I had to slap my chest rapidly, because now my heart was beating off-kilter. “No. I’ve only ever been a model my entire life. That’s all I’ve done. But I’ve stayed in a billion hotels, so I figured I could fake it.”

Pippa nodded. “Well. You’ve done a great job. Now you don’t mind if we sell this painting of you to Santiago Slayer?”

“That’s fine, as long as he doesn’t live nearby.”

Pippa raised her voice to a call. “Santiago? Is that you?”

The man’s elegant muffled voice sounded like he had his lips on the door. “It is indeed, Miss Pippa Hugh Lofting. Someone has told me my painting has a live model who looks identical. I must see for myself.” His voice had a royal, upright Latino bearing.

Pippa grabbed my wrists. “Don’t worry, he’s safe. One more thing. We have two nurse practitioners who are old ladies in the club. I’ll text them right now to call some Cymbalta into the Pure and Easy pharmacy.”

Pippa talked, texted, and opened the door all at the same time. In stepped an older, bright-eyed man with a perfectly formed nose. His cornflower blue eyes were so sincere he seemed about to cry. I instantly trusted him as he took my hands in his.

“Oh, my dear. They’re right. It is you. The second Fox told me about the painting, I had to have it.”

“But where do you currently live?” asked Pippa, thumbing her phone. “She doesn’t want it around here, doesn’t want people asking questions, if you know what I mean.”

“I certainly do,” Santiago moaned. “Oh, my dear, your hands are trembling. And wet.” My palm wetness finally put a dent in his enthusiasm. He dropped my hands and wiped his on his golfing pants, near his white belt. Oh, and the shoes he’d been tramping up and down with? They were white vinyl, with pointy toes.

Pippa went ahead and told him. “She’s out of Cymbalta. I’m texting Maddy and Gudrun to prescribe some for her.”