Page 127 of Powerhouse: Boxed Set
“He’s in business with my dad,” she continued to explain as we tromped up the stairs and got in line to buy tickets. “He, uh, he’s a family friend. A good one.”
Elias rolled his eyes at her obvious crush, but his smile was only kind. “You’re into old men, Gabs, it’s cool.”
“Hey, even you said he was hot!” she protested.
Elias went very still for less than a heartbeat, then chuckled, the sound a little forced. He avoided my eyes as he stepped up to buy his ticket and I wondered if he was hiding his sexuality or if he was just embarrassed to have said something like that.
My phone buzzed in my pocket as I paid for my ticket from the wad of hundred-dollar bills Tiernan had passed me at breakfast that morning.
Tiernan:Why aren’t you home?
I rolled my eyes as I followed Gabriella and Elias up the stairs to the second floor, fingers flying.
Bianca:I wasn’t aware I had to check in with you every hour. I’m out with friends.
There was a slight pause.
Tiernan:Boys?
Bianca:Yes. The entire Sacred Heart soccer team. They invited me to play with them… ;)
I laughed at myself as I put the phone back in my bag and skipped up to Elias and Gabriella, threading my arms through both of theirs.
“What do you want to see first?” Elias asked. “The family donated a Picasso years ago. I think it’s just around the corner here. Are you into Picasso?”
My heart stopped.
A Picasso?
Dad had always talked about his art collection. It was something he’d first started accruing because wealthy people had expensive art, but when I got old enough to find a passion for it, he started to buy paintings I loved. He’d always said one day, they’d be mine.
Instead, he’d died in an inexplicable accident and left Aida, Brando, and me a sum total of nothing.
“Yeah, I like Picasso,” I whispered, letting Elias lead us blindly through the corridors until we entered a large white room filled with cool light and warm, brightly colored paintings.
My eyes fell on it immediately.
The painting Dad had bought for my twelfth birthday, just a few months before he died.
Child with a Dovewas one of Picasso’s early Blue Stage paintings depicting a young girl in a blue dress cradling a dove to her chest. Dad said he would hang it in his office at the Constantine Compound so I’d always be with him even when I was far away in Texas.
My feet took me to the painting without conscious direction from my brain, Gabriella and Elias trailing behind me.
Beneath the ornate frame a small gold plaque read “Donated by Lane Constantine.”
My fingers twitched as I lifted them to the cold metal, as if touching his name might connect me to him for just a brief moment.
“Is he your favorite?” Elias asked, tugging on a lock of my hair playfully. “You look awestruck.”
I jerked away, hand falling to my side, breath short in my lungs. “Yeah, you could say that. My, uh, my dad used to call me his dove.”
“That’s really sweet.” Gabriella stepped closer, squeezed my shoulder in sympathy. “You do kind of have that energy.”
I grinned, trying to shake off the melancholy that shrouded me. “Only until you piss me off.”
They laughed, distracted for a moment that I used to take a photo of the painting on my phone. I could have stood there for hours staring at the painting that connected me to my dad as much as my stolen locket had, but my new friends wanted to move on. It was clear neither of them cared about art much, but they humored me as we drifted around the museum.
My phone buzzed in my bag, but I ignored it for the rest of the hour. Tiernan may have been my guardian, but he wasn’t my goddamn keeper.
