Brooklyn Flame (A Bridge & Tunnel Romance #1)

by Mira Gibson

  “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

  Lifting her big, brown eyes, she glared at him. “Not a good time.”

  “I’m Hunter Black.”

  “I know who you are,” she said sharply. “Greer’s been blowing up my phone for the last five minutes so you’ll have to excuse me if I don’t seem thrilled to meet you.”

  Shit, he thought, as he barreled through his explanation. “That wasn’t what it looked like.”

  “Never is, right?” She challenged with sarcasm.

  Hunter eased into the room and shut the door, which caused Tasha to pitch her brows up as if to say, have you lost your damn mind?

  “You know Aidan Marks?”

  Quickly, she said, “Never heard of him.”

  “Troy Motley?”

  “What’s this got to do with me?”

  “Those are the guys who trashed Greer’s studio.”

  Immediately, her expression changed, shifting from annoyed to interested.

  Good, he had her attention.

  “You might have heard I had something to do with it, but I didn’t.”

  “I don’t follow the rumor mill,” she said easily.

  “I think I can take him down, but I need your help.”

  “I don’t narc,” she stated.

  “We don’t have to go to the police.”

  Her mouth tightened, giving him the impression she wasn’t following, but when she said, “I’m listening,” he knew she was on board.

  Chapter Eleven

  It was a long afternoon with Jennifer.

  They had drinks at her Queen’s apartment, Jenn using every trick in the book to lift her spirits, Greer trying to claw her way up from the abyss of disappointment she found herself in. When the time came, Jennifer dragged her off the couch and they rode the subway into Brooklyn.

  Greer was supposed to feel excited for the Phoenix. But she had let her spirits soar too high. Discovering Hunter’s many betrayals, she had fallen too far. And it seemed nothing would pull her out of the black hole that was only sucking her down deeper.

  The Phoenix Juried Art Competition was held in the Thornstein Gallery at the corner of Bedford and Division Avenue. Jennifer held the glass door open for Greer and they joined the many contestants, who were rushing about, meeting with the curator, and directing their movers to stage their artwork accordingly.

  Parting with Jennifer, Greer found her sculpture where it sat six feet shy of the very center of the gallery. The Dawson movers, or Brandon as the case might have been, did a great job, she observed, circling Hunter’s likeness and inspecting for any chinks or dents. There were none.

  Behind her, she heard a woman say, “Ms. Langley,” and turned, facing the curator, who looked polished in her Chanel suit, her blond hair slicked back in a low bun, her manicured nails pressing into the back of the clipboard she was holding. “Melinda Perkins,” she said, offering her hand.

  After shaking it and thanking her for accepting Old Flame, she answered a few of Melinda's questions.

  The curator lowered the clipboard, meeting her gaze, and said, “I truly love this piece.” She glanced at the sculpture again, remarking, “You’ve done a superb job capturing his longing. I wouldn’t be surprised if it sold.”

  “Buyers are coming?”

  “Which is why I need a price from you,” she added, pressing the tip of her pen to the sheet on her clipboard.

  Greer wasn’t sure she could part with it, considering it was the closest thing to Hunter she had left.

  “If you’re uncertain, I can suggest a price,” she offered.

  Greer smirked, accepting, and Melinda jotted a figure down.

  “Truly stunning,” she remarked. “And I love the story it tells with Black’s piece.”

  “Huh?”

  Greer tracked where Melinda was looking and noticed a nude replica of herself directly across the room. Milky white, the woman was perched on a stool. Her expression indicated a sense of desire, sexual but also innocent, and there was no question Melinda had angled the sculpture so that it appeared to be locking eyes with Greer's.

  Greer and Hunter, clay beings, frozen in a time she would never get back.

  If that wasn’t irony, she didn’t know what was.

  Together, the sculptures made a strong statement, one she couldn’t deny. It was moving.

  “Smart of you two to get together,” Melinda added, causing Greer to widen her eyes until she realized Melinda was referring to collaboration and not fornication.

  “We didn’t, actually.”

  “Then it must be kismet,” she concluded. “Excuse me.”

  As Melinda joined a concerned looking artist who had been struggling to hang her painting straight, Greer approached Hunter’s sculpture. It was flawless and captured her image so exactly that she felt suddenly bashful. Everyone would know what she looked like naked.

  “Damn,” said Jennifer, nearing her and examining the sculpture. “He nailed you.”

  Yes, in more ways than one.

  “Where the hell is Tasha?” Jennifer asked.

  “I haven’t heard from her.”

  Greer scanned the room and noticed a bundled set of photographs, at least they looked like they could be photographs, matted and fit in frames.

  “Wouldn’t be the first time I covered her ass,” said Jenn, padding off towards Melinda, to get Tasha's artwork squared away, presumably.

  As she did, Greer unwrapped the bundle and discovered in fact it did belong to her friend.

  “Hey, Greer!” Jennifer called out. “Supplies are in the back.”

  Not missing a beat, she started off. As long as she could find a level and a hammer, she could hang Tasha’s pieces, while Jennifer checked their friend's artwork in with the curator.

  The far side of the gallery narrowed into a corridor, at the back of which was an Exit and to the left, a storage closed. As she neared it, she heard a man’s voice. It sounded like he was talking on his cell phone, but that wasn't what set her teeth on edge.

  His timbre, the urban cadence laced in his tone suddenly caused anxiety to ratchet up her spine.

  She knew that voice.

  This isn’t your world, bitch. Go back to New Hampshire.

  It was the man who had attacked her.

  As she froze in the corridor, scrambling for what to do, the guy appeared, rounding out of the storage room, but he barely noticed her. Instead, his gaze was locked on the screwdriver in his hand.

  She might not know what to do, but she wasn’t going to let him get away with it.

  Stepping in his path, she asserted, “I know who you are.” As soon as she got the words out, her heart leapt in her throat and adrenaline rushed through her veins so hard she felt shaky.

  Without so much as glancing at her, he said, “Yeah? I’m signing autographs later,” as he motioned to veer around her, but she sidestepped, blocking him.

  “No,” she asserted. “I know you.” She was trembling but told herself to stay strong. “You attacked me in my building.”

  Locking eyes with her, his easy air hardened and he snorted a laugh, but she didn’t stop.

  “You grabbed me and slammed me into the wall.”

  He smiled as if this was making his day. “Yeah? And you did nothing about it.” Stepping around her, he clipped her shoulder hard with his and left her quaking.

  But she wouldn’t give up. “Why me?”

  Turning, he glared at her then advanced so quickly she thought he would hit her.

  “What do you think is going to happen right now?” He challenged, getting in her face. “I already pistol-whipped your little boyfriend.”

  “Hunter?” She asked, as she mentally locked onto the term, pistol...

  “He wasn’t my best errand boy.” He let the implication hang between them then added, “You should’ve stayed down. You’ll wish you had.”

  When he left the corridor, she didn’t try to stop him. Confusion was taking hold. Had Hunter plotted against
her? Or had he been tangled up in something he couldn’t control?

  Jennifer rushed towards her, demanding, “Nails, hammer, Christ, let’s go.”

  “That was him,” she said, rattled.

  “Who?” But Greer didn’t have to clarify. She'd already told Jenn the story earlier that day in her apartment. Jennifer whipped her head around scanning the crowd and her eyes widened with shock. “Aidan Marks? He’s a big deal.”

  “Meaning?”

  “A big deal at our level,” she clarified.

  “He’s been going around town, sabotaging his competitors?”

  “I told you: we need to tell the police.”

  “Today? Now?” She demanded.

  Jennifer sighed having no way to argue.

  They rounded through the gallery to Tasha’s photographs, but just as Greer was about to lift the first, she saw Hunter in the corner of her eye. Turning, she barely got the sense he looked ill before she noticed Tasha stepping through the door behind him with two police officers.

  Under her breath, Jennifer said, “What the shit is going down,” as the scene unfolded - Tasha directing the officers towards Aidan, Hunter easing in with a similar gesture, Aidan jumping back and immediately groveling.

  Greer flicked her gaze at Hunter and realized why he looked out of sorts. He had a black eye and his lip was split.

  As soon as one of the officers tried to take Aidan by the arm, he jerked away with force. The action had been strong, but faulty, and he tripped backwards, spilling onto the ground, and the second he made contact, landing awkwardly on his side, a gun slid across the floor.

  The artists gasped and exclaimed, shuffling backwards and falling into concerned murmuring, as one of the officers retrieved the weapon and the other cuffed Aidan, dragging him out of the gallery.

  “Everyone stay calm!” Melinda shouted over the rising voices, before weaving her way towards the second officer, as he passed through the glass door, presumably to arrest Aidan Marks.

  Tasha squeezed through the crowd, working her way towards Greer and Jennifer.

  “What the hell?” Asked Jennifer, wrapping her arm around Tasha and guiding her over to the wall. “The cops found out it was Aidan?”

  “Not exactly,” she said, meeting Greer’s gaze. “Hunter’s a good guy.”

  Again, but with an excited jump, Jennifer asked, “What happened?”

  “Hunter showed up at the photo lab and had a plan to expose Aidan,” she began, “which went south so fast... like he thought he could threaten Aidan into turning himself in. Then we went with Plan B.”

  By the looks of Hunter skulking around his sculpture, Greer guessed Plan B hadn’t gone so well either.

  “Which was?” Asked Greer.

  “Get him to beat the crap out of Hunter and have him arrested for assault, me as the witness.”

  “He volunteered for that?” She asked, alarmed and also touched.

  “Volunteered is a strong word,” she said with a sly grin. “But I told him if he didn’t do it, I’d beat him myself, which inspired him.”

  Breaking away from her friends after giving Tasha a quick squeeze, Greer eased towards Hunter, who had just finished speaking with Melinda.

  “Hey,” she said softly, as they neared each other. “You might want to put a frozen steak on that thing.”

  He smirked, but his eyes rounded in a way that told her the chasm between them might be too wide to cross.

  In a low tone, he said, “What you saw... that other girl, she’s not in my life.”

  “She’s not?”

  After shaking his head a moment, tension rising between them, which felt more sexual than confrontational, he said, “Not since I met you.”

  “And you let that guy beat you up?”

  “I took your gun,” he said as if the two wrongs somehow made a right.

  “I know,” she said softly. “I won’t be needing it, so...”

  A deep, breathy laugh escaped him, which quickly slipped away, his eyes brightening, his expression turning serious, gaze falling to her lips.

  “I could’ve done so many things differently,” he said, abashed.

  “You got Tasha’s seal of approval.” She inched closer, finding his hand and lacing their fingers. “That’s good enough for me.”

  As the lights dimmed and the music rose, announcing the gallery would be opening its doors to the public, Greer leaned in, lifting on her tiptoes, and kissed him.

  Later that night when the winners were announced, Greer and Hunter didn’t even place in the top three. But neither cared. Both knew they had already won.

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  AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY

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  Mira Gibson is a playwright, screenwriter, and novelist. After majoring in Playwriting at Bard College, Mira was accepted into Youngblood, the playwrights group at Ensemble Studio Theatre (NYC). There, Mira's plays received developmental readings and workshops. Most notably: Daddy Soda (2009), Old Flame (2012), and Diamond in the House of Thieves (2012). Her one-act play The Red White and Blue Process received a commission from The Sloan Foundation. And her one-act play Old Flame won the Samuel French Playwriting Competition and is available for licensing via Samuel French Play Publishers. In 2012 Mira's first screenplay, Warfield was produced by Summer Smoke Productions. It is available on Amazon Direct. She lives in Los Angeles, CA. Story is her life.

  www.mira-gibson.com

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  Copyright © 2016

  Published by: Mira Gibson

  All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  For questions and comments about this book, please contact http://www.mira-gibson.com

  Cover photo image credit: Shutterstock.com