Piece of Work

by Staci Hart

  But everyone wanted something, and Lydia was no exception.

  The truth was that she wanted the name, the title, the place in society. The money. And it didn’t matter which Lyons gave it to her.

  They’d been sleeping together for months behind my back, and when he’d made her an offer, she hadn’t considered refusing. It didn’t matter that I’d had a ring of my own or an offer of my name. It didn’t matter that I’d loved her.

  She had never been mine.

  And my father? He cared about me in the way one cared about a Ming vase—insurance, by way of progeny. He wanted me to succeed only in the ways that related directly to him. And in his selfishness, he’d stolen everyone I’d ever loved for no other reason than that it suited him. First my mother with her life, then my stepmother with his infidelity, and then Lydia with his betrayal. And it wouldn’t happen again.

  It couldn’t.

  So I’d resurrected that wall and pushed everyone out. I was married to the museum, to the art. It was my legacy as much as it was my father’s, and I couldn’t walk away. He stayed in his corner, and I stayed in mine. We interacted when we had to and avoided each other at all costs. And no one in the office knew, except the three of us. Over the years, the rumors had faded to whispers and then to silence.

  I’d tried to protect Lydia from him, tried to save her. But she had been an instrument of deceit that cut so much deeper than my father could have ever hoped to.

  I’d seen my father coming from a mile away. But I’d never suspected her.

  I’d started planning the exhibition almost the moment she resigned, and it had become my obsession, the embodiment of my passion, the culmination of all I held sacred. And it was nearly here, so close, I could taste it. And I wouldn’t let it go, wouldn’t give up until I had David in my museum, by my hand.

  7

  Pick One

  Rin

  I stood in front of my closet in a towel the next morning, drying my hair with another, eyeing two outfits hanging on the door, one safe and one scary. The safe one—jeans and a blouse with flats—beckoned to me, whispering their familiarity (because how intense could jeans be? Answer: a big fat zero on the Richter scale). The scary one might as well have been heckling me as averse as I was to putting it on.

  “Don’t chicken out now.” The sleepy, stretched out words came from Val, who wandered in behind me, scratching at her stomach through her tank, her booty shorts hugging her curves. Her body was amazing, with swells and waves mine would never have, no matter how many squats I did. She hated her shape and hid it at every turn, except at home. At home, she worked those shorts and twerked in the kitchen like the goddess we all thought her to be.

  I sighed as she took a seat on my bed, folding her legs in lotus. “But the jeans would be so comfortable.”

  She gave me a look. “Jeans aren’t going to make Bianca’s head explode. Wear the other one.”

  I groaned. “But I have to wear heels with that. I might actually break an ankle.”

  “Put your flats on for the walk to the train. This is your chance to make an impression, Rin. Don’t waste it on jeans. Go in there like, Bang, bang into the room,” she sang.

  I wrinkled my nose.

  “Tell you what—I’ll give you until we get your makeup on to decide. Put your robe on.”

  Begrudgingly, I pulled on my fluffy robe and followed Val into the bathroom where she sat on the toilet lid and kept me company while I dried my hair, brushing it all the while until it was glossy and soft. Straight was its natural state, and it was long, a little scraggly on the ends since it had been nearly a year since I cut it. A brazen, shocking thought to crop it short crossed my mind—if not truly short, then at least shorter than the middle of my back—but the surge of bravado slipped away when Val pulled a tiny jar of black pigment and a small, angled brush out of my abandoned black-and-white-striped bag.

  “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” I asked, taking half a step back, fighting the urge to bolt.

  “I’ve watched about thirty tutorials on YouTube, so…no.” She laughed. It didn’t make me feel better. “Come here and sit,” she said as she moved to give me the seat. When I didn’t move right away, she added, “I have makeup wipes if it goes sideways. Come here, scaredy-cat.”

  I did as she’d bid, and Val flipped through her phone until she found a photo collage with steps for winged eyeliner, propping it up so she could see the screen while she worked.

  “So I was looking at tips for Asian eyes, and I found one look I want to try.”

  “Whatever you want. I have no idea, Val.”

  She heard my worry, her face softening, her big, dark eyes full of encouragement. “It’s only scary because it’s new. Once you know how to do it on your own and it’s a habit, it won’t be a big deal. I mean, that’s the word on the street at least.”

  “I just…I hate that I feel like I have to do this. Like I’m pretending to be someone I’m not.”

  She frowned, folding her arms across her chest. “You’re not pretending to be someone you’re not. You’re becoming who you want to be.”

  “Why can’t I just be happy with who I am?”

  “For the same reason that none of us are happy with who we are. I mean, we are happy, but we want to be more. Every single one of us. And there’s not a goddamn thing wrong with wanting more.”

  I sighed. “It feels like there is.”

  “Okay, I take it back. The only thing wrong with wanting more is being too afraid to go after it. Let me tell you something, Rin—when you walked out of that dressing room in that outfit yesterday, I have never seen you so happy and confident and sure of yourself. That is the person you are inside. That is the person you want to be. So let’s let her out. If a little eyeliner, some red lipstick, and a new outfit can do that, why wouldn’t you wear it?”

  Another sigh, this one lighter. “I’m really glad you believe in me because I am not feeling confident right now.”

  She smiled, her full lips stretched with knowing. “I’ll believe enough for the both of us.”

  Val got to work on my face, walking me through the steps as we went, though I got the feeling it was more for her self-assurance than for my education. Foundation and blush were applied and then eyeliner, which took her a few shots to get it straight. Mascara next. And then the lipstick.

  That one I did myself.

  Val had deduced from the myriad of videos she’d seen that I should put concealer on my lips first, then line them with a pencil, then apply the lipstick itself. This was supposedly to stop it from running all over my face, which seemed like far too many steps and a really precarious failure margin to be worth all the trouble.

  Until I had it all on.

  My lips looked like scarlet petals, thick and lush, the finish matte absorbing the light, drawing my eyes to their fullness and shape. They were so red, so dark on my pale face, and my heart tripped on a beat, stuttering in my chest.

  “You can do this,” Val said, and her certainty was nearly enough to make me believe it myself.

  She pulled me into my room and pointed at the scary outfit. “You have to wear that one. You cannot—cannot—waste that face on jeans.”

  My brows drew together.

  “Just try it on.” She was practically begging. “Can’t hurt just to try, right?”

  I gave her a look but reached for it anyway.

  My heart clanged as I slipped on the clothes, one silky piece at a time. One leg into the pants and then the other. My arms into the top, tucking it into the high waist of my pants before zipping them up in the back.

  And I put on those heels and looked in the mirror.

  A girl looked back at me, her face small and lips like cherries, eyes big and dark, her hair shining and draped over her shoulder, the contrast against the tailored white wraparound blouse striking.

  Me. That was me.

  The line of my body was such as I’d never seen before, like an illustration from a fashion
designer’s sketchbook. The high waist of the navy pants and their wide legs, drawing strong lines to the pointed toes of my nude heels where they peeked out of the hem, combined with the height of my heels gave the illusion that my legs might in fact be a mile long.

  “Your body is incredible,” Val breathed. “Look at you. I mean, look at you. You look like a supermodel. Look at your waist.” She hooked it in her hands to punctuate her surprise. “And I have never seen so much leg in my entire life.”

  I looked down at her, and she was so far away. I was over a foot taller than her—she came up to my armpits. Tears misted my eyes.

  “Val, I’m a giant.”

  Her gaze swung from the mirror to meet mine, her own eyes soft and velvety. “Oh no, honey. You are a queen. Look in the mirror.”

  I looked back, surprised when the girl there moved when I did.

  “That Rin is a boss bitch. That Rin is who you want to be. No, stop it,” she said, resting her hand on my back. “Stand up straight. Don’t be afraid. Be fearless.”

  “People are going to look at me,” I whispered.

  “People look at you anyway. Give them something to see.”

  Could I? Could I do this? Could I walk into the subway and into The Met? Could I bear all of those eyes on me? Could I withstand their scrutiny?

  “You can do this,” Val said, reading my mind or my face or both. “Just jump.”

  I pulled in a long breath through my nose and let it go slowly. “And I can take my flats in case my feet hurt?” Or I can’t handle the staring?

  “Absolutely. Put them in your backpack.”

  “Oh,” I gasped, realizing we’d forgotten one very important accessory. “My backpack.” The words were a curse.

  But Val lit up. “Don’t gimme that face. Hang on!”

  She bolted out of the room, and I turned to the mirror again, shifting to inspect my reflection, that elusive, mysterious girl who was some alternate version of me from another dimension.

  “Here,” she said as she came back in, looking proud of herself. In her hands was a beautiful, modern leather messenger bag the color of tobacco. “My abuelito gave me this for Christmas a few years ago to carry my sheet music in, but it’s too fancy for me. For you in that outfit though…”

  “I can’t use this, Val. It’s too much.”

  “Please. I’m not letting you mess up the lines of this outfit with your dirty old college backpack. At least it’ll get used.”

  The look on her face brooked no argument, so with shining eyes, I bent down for a hug. “Thank you. Thank you so much,” I whispered into her curly hair.

  “Don’t you cry—that mascara isn’t waterproof,” she said, the words thick with emotion. She leaned back. “I love you, Rin. Now, you get out there and slay your day like the boss bitch you are.”

  She popped me on the ass, eliciting a yelp and a giggle. I transferred my flats, my laptop, and the contents of my backpack into the gorgeous bag that smelled like a saddle and slung it on across my body—there was no way I was going to make it in those heels if my weight wasn’t evenly distributed. And with one last gripping hug from Val, I walked out of my room.

  I felt surprisingly steady in the shoes, if not a little slower than normal, passing by the pantry without taking a blessed cream pie for fear I’d ruin my face before I even got to the train. And a moment later, I was closing the door behind me as I stepped outside, conflicted by the duality of wanting everyone to see me and wanting no one to notice me.

  I gripped the stone rail as I descended the stairs to the sidewalk, my heart thumping like a speaker. And then I walked.

  The fascinating thing was in the way I walked. The height of the heels and the fit of my clothes brought my shoulders back, commanding posture and poise so subliminally that I obeyed without thinking. Really, the posture seemed to make it easier to walk, and with it came something I wasn’t accustomed to—pride. I felt good, strong. Like I could take the Roman Empire or Bianca Nixon or anything in between.

  But when I turned the corner onto Eighth, I froze.

  People were walking in hurried streams to and from the train station, every one of them with single-minded focus on themselves and where they were going. Maybe they wouldn’t see me. It was New York after all.

  I took a fortifying breath and stepped into the flow of bodies.

  In my heels, I was six-four, taller than anyone around me by at least a couple of inches, occasionally more than a foot, but no one turned or gawked, no one gaped. At first. Within a block, I noticed faces from the opposing foot traffic turning to me, and I could hear their thoughts, just like I always did. But this time they not only noted my height, but my appearance, their gaze hanging on my lips like I had when I’d looked in the mirror, the deep red even more of a beacon than my dark eyes. The difference in intention was blatant, as legible as a billboard.

  It wasn’t disdain or abject curiosity. It was admiration. And that admiration breathed optimism into me like I’d never experienced before.

  Once at the subway entrance, a man paused to let me go ahead of him, and I found myself smiling, thanking him without stammering or hanging my head, without muttering or shying away. When I passed the turnstile and walked into the tunnel, a couple of guys who were leaning against the tiled wall followed me with their eyes, and one of them whispered, Damn, girl, when I walked by. And once on the packed train, a handsome man in a business suit offered me his seat so I wouldn’t have to stand, which my feet were grateful for.

  I knew it shouldn’t have made me feel so good. I shouldn’t have enjoyed the attention so much, and I shouldn’t have wanted more of that attention. But as I opened my book and tried uselessly to read with my mind skittering, I realized something that shocked me to the core.

  I didn’t think I wanted to hide anymore.

  I wanted to be seen.

  8

  Bang, Bang

  Court

  I couldn’t find the goddamn intern.

  It had been my primary function for the better part of an hour, my idea rolling around in my thoughts, waiting to meet hers.

  The Medici article had sunk into my mind like a shovel into fresh earth, the kind that began writing itself as I ate, standing at my kitchen island last night, and when I ran my thoughts down on my treadmill. It was the best kind of idea, one that had been inspired by her, by her research and work, and I had more for her. If I could figure out where she was.

  I had already circled the office twice and trekked to the Lehman Library. I’d even ridden the elevator up and down twice, just in case I’d catch her there, as it seemed to be a fixed point for us. What was most ridiculous about my agitation was that I had no idea when she was supposed to come in, so I had nothing to gauge her truancy or my expectations by. And when I’d asked Bianca what time the intern usually came in, she’d looked at me like my forehead had opened up to expose a third eye.

  That damnable idea wouldn’t shut up, and I’d decided I would write the article with the intern’s help. I could reassign her, place her somewhere her work would be appreciated. Vainly, I’d mentioned Medici and some of my ramblings to Bianca in the hopes that she’d brainstorm with me, but she’d only listened politely while her gaze occasionally drifted to her computer screen and whatever was waiting for her there.

  But the intern would listen—if I could find her. And get her to sit still. If she’d fucking get here already.

  I glanced at my watch as I headed back to my office. Annoyance fired at the late hour and lost time, cursing her as if she were to blame for not being accessible exactly when and where I wanted her.

  When I looked up, my feet took root, stopping me mid-stride at the sight of the intern at the end of the hallway.

  It was as if I’d conjured her, as if she’d been placed there at my feet, by my order. And the vision drew the breath from my lungs in a moment that stretched out between us like a rubber band.

  She was tall—so exquisitely tall—her body a long, elegant line,
mostly comprised of legs. They were glorious legs, the longest legs I’d ever laid eyes on, moving her toward me with smooth grace. The narrow circle of her waist was accentuated by the waistband of midnight-blue pants, and her blouse hugged her breasts, the V-neck like an arrow, drawing my gaze down the everlasting length of her body.

  And then I met her eyes.

  They were confident and assured but touched at the corners with flickering uncertainty, lined with kohl and bigger, wider than I remembered. The creamy porcelain of her skin glowed luminescent, her jaw and chin so delicate, they might break in the wrong hands, in the wrong palms.

  But it was her lips that summoned me, commanded me without a word, a deep shade of crimson spotlighting their bewitching shape; narrow on her face but ample and alluring, her top lip was as thick and luscious as the bottom. I envisioned them parting to whisper my name.

  In that moment, I imagined those lips doing a great number of things.

  And then her lips did part, stretching into a small O, her eyes flashing open as she pitched forward.

  She was in my arms before she could make a sound, her warm, soft body pressed against my cold, hard one. Her hands gripped my biceps. Mine slipped around her slender waist and held fast.

  The intern—could it really be her?—looked up at me, her cheeks smudged with a rosy blush. Her eyes weren’t brown after all but a deep, steely shade of blue and green, the change in pigment so slight, they combined to form a sheet of color that reminded me of slate, a depth of blue-gray that defied logic.

  “I…” she breathed, her eyes lighting with fear and embarrassment.