Page 164 of Secret Obsession
The woman slides a brochure toward me. “There’s a blurb about each artist featured tonight. Did you want to place a bid?”
I nod once, my jaw set. It’s going to charity, right? Fuck it. “Ten thousand dollars.”
Her eyes round. “Oh. Wow, okay.”
I slide a hundred-dollar bill toward her. “And you’ll notify me if I’m outbid.”
“I can’t take that,” she mumbles.
Her name tag readsElaine.
“Elaine.” I lean down on the table, putting my face level with hers. “This painting is speaking to me. And it’s for charity. You would want to get as much as you could for it, wouldn’t you?”
“O-of course,” she stammers.
Her fingers curl around the bill, and satisfaction rumbles through me. She gives me a form to fill out, which I do. My handwriting feels messier than usual, my block print at a slant and the letters crammed together. Once I’m done, I straighten and check my phone.
A few messages from Knox, asking if I’m okay. And what the fuck happened.
The horn blows, ending the first period. There wasn’t much time left when I was kicked off the ice, so there must’ve been more penalties. More clock stopping, dragging out the time. I tuck the brochure in my back pocket and hurry to the locker room to get yelled at more.
An excruciating amount of time later, when the team returns to the benches for the second period, I sit alone in the locker room and pull out the brochure.
Where there are photos of other artists, posing next to their art displayed on walls,M. Cameronhas nothing. Just a short blurb listing her other accomplishments. A few awards, a gallery in New York City that has more of her paintings.
Fuck.
I look up the gallery.
I feel insane, and maybe a little out of control.
“Thank you for calling Wild Oak Art, this is Shelby,” a warm voice says. “Can I help you?”
“Yes.” I clear my throat. “I’m wondering if you still have artwork by M. Cameron?”
“Melody?”
My heart slams to a halt. “That’s her,” I manage. “Is she local?”
“I’m afraid not. Her brother-in-law owns the gallery, though.”
Brother-in-law?
She’s married?
No, maybe she has a sister who’s married. A sister she’s never mentioned. Not that she mentioned much of her life…
I close my eyes and remind myself to breathe. “How many paintings?”
The woman is quiet for a moment. I’ve already forgotten her fucking name, not that it matters. My face hurts, but it’s nothing compared to the storm picking up intensity in my chest. It’s lightning and thunder and ice-cold rain, whipping into a hurricane that’s going to take me out.
“We have two portraits in mixed media. Oil and acrylic, sixty by forty inches. One oil painting, forty by sixty. Two charcoal drawings, twenty by twenty. So five total at the moment.”
“I’ll take them,” I blurt out.
Shocked silence. “Mr…”
“Rhodes,” I supply. “I’m a fan of Ms. Cameron’s work. I don’t care the cost, but I will need them shipped to my home in Colorado.”
