by Stacy Gail
“Oh, I think people would notice,” Scout said, grimacing, and that had Mads looking to her with growing alarm.
“What do you mean?”
Scout blew out a breath. “Didn’t you hear me when I said you have a loyal clientele and a waiting list that’s miles long?”
Mads frowned, bewildered. “Yes, of course I heard you. But that’s for tattoos, not the auction.”
Scout sighed. “Mads, I check the auction website several times a day, just to make sure the buzz for the auction is either maintaining or increasing in its clicks. Long story short, according the stats dashboard, you’ve had several dozen clicks from all around the world. Coupled with that, we’ve also received a ton of emails mentioning you by name, from people who want to get a preview of what you’ve created. Being the newest tattooist here doesn’t mean you’re not known. Far from it. Considering the highly publicized story of how Payne paid off your last employer with a Maserati, the whole world wants to see what’s so special about you.”
“Oh, my God.” Panic ate its way through the rage, and all at once Mads forgot how to breathe. “I have to get that painting back.”
“Breathe, baby.” Sage rubbed her back, and though she hated herself for it, the tension drained out of her for a few blissful moments. “Just breathe.”
“Sage, stop.” Forcing herself to go rigid in his arms when all she wanted to do was melt, she gave him a look that felt as cold as ice. “It’s like Payne said—you’re only as good as your reputation. I’ve got to get that painting back, now, or my reputation’s shot before I’ve even had a chance to get out of the gate. Let me go, now.”
“No problem.” Sage stood and pulled her up with him, his hand shackled around one of her wrists. “Guess that means we’d better get going. We’ve got a painting to recover.”
Chapter Nineteen
Sage couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this furious. Maybe when his mother had been on death’s door and her useless shit of a pimp boyfriend refused to get her the medical attention she needed, but even that felt like a distant fire compared to the white-hot rage consuming him now.
Fletcher Daniels had a helluva lot to answer for. Getting Mads’s painting back was going to be just the beginning.
The end, of course, was making sure Mads knew that he wasn’t her enemy.
No doubt dealing with Fletcher would be a snap compared to getting back in her good graces.
The post-war, single-story brick bungalow Mads directed him to had a stark, snow-covered front yard, and the peeling paint on the dilapidated porch gave the property a general air of neglect. Sage stopped the Jeep at the curb with a jerk, then tried to burn off some excess rage by slamming the driver’s side door and rounding at a fast clip to Mads’s side before she could get too far from him. One look at her ashen, devastated face cranked up the heat boiling inside him until his temples pulsed. The sheer fucking selfishness of what her father had done—whether it was a prank or an attempt to sabotage Payne or his own daughter—deserved retribution.
Oh, yeah. That was exactly what ol’ Fletch would get.
But to put that look on Mads’s face was straight-up unforgivable. Fletcher Daniels had one helluva lot to pay for, and Sage wouldn’t leave until he was satisfied the old man had settled this bill in full.
“Are you still not talking to me?” he wanted to know as he matched her stride for stride. “Kinda hard to talk shit out when you won’t say boo to me. Again.”
“This time of day, my father’s probably around back in his shop.” Instead of heading up the porch steps to the house, Mads marched around the side, past some bushes that looked like giant-sized, leafless tumbleweeds, before following a trampled pathway through the snow. “I doubt he has anyone with him, but it won’t matter if he does. Nothing will stop me. You should leave. This doesn’t concern you.”
“Everything about you concerns me.”
“Why would you care about someone you think would scheme to torpedo Payne? I thought you hated liars. That must mean you hate me, so go away.”
“Stop.” He snagged her by the arm and ignored her when she tried to shake him loose. “I’ll admit, I was pretty fucking stunned when I saw that painting, all right? No excuses, it totally flummoxed me. But I know you didn’t have anything to do with it, Mads. I know it.”
“Don’t call me Mads. It freaks me out.” She tried turning away to resume her march, then sighed noisily when he refused to let her arm go. “What?”
“Whether I call you Daniels, or Skittish, or Mads, it all boils down to one thing. I’m calling out to you, and no one else. I’m calling out to you because you are mine.”
“No—”
“You’re mine,” he repeated grimly. “And I’m yours.”
Her eyes were as stormy as the darkest part in Darkness, Vanquished. “I don’t want a man who doesn’t believe in me.” With that, she yanked her arm from his and continued on. He kept pace with her, just in case she decided to actually go through her wild-eyed threats of murder.
If anyone was going to kill Fletcher, it’d be him.
Mads’s misery was all that sonofabitch’s fault.
And whether he was ready to admit it or not, it was his fault, as well.
Shit.
Mads made a beeline for a flat-roofed detached garage that opened up to a narrow alleyway out back. Sage was lucky the trampled snow had gotten just slick enough to slow her down—enough, anyway, that he was able to reach the simple wood and glass door to Fletch’s shop first. With a force that was thoroughly satisfying, he shoved it open and watched the man inside jump halfway out of his skin when it banged against the wall.
“You don’t mind that we let ourselves in, do you, Fletch?” Sage asked, keeping his eyes trained on the older man while also taking note that Mads had come to a screeching halt just inside the doorway. “I mean, this is your tattoo studio, right? Open to the public, yeah?” He looked around at the space filled with not just a tattooing table and chair, but also a bunch of half-finished canvases stacked here and there, and a precious few completed works leaning against the wall nearest him. “Not that anyone’s here, of course. Can’t imagine too many clients would be interested in coming here to get their ink done. Don’t you ever fucking clean in here?”
“Get out,” Fletch snarled, his posture as aggressive as his tone. But Sage was looking hard for something else, and he was pretty damn sure he saw it there in the depths of the old man’s eyes.
Guilt.
Oh, yeah.
He knew why they were there.
Bastard.
“Where is it?” Mads’s voice sounded rusty, like she’d dragged the words out by using every ounce of strength she had left, and all at once Sage knew the anger that had carried her right up to the door had died. All that seemed to remain was the crushing, crippling wound of betrayal. “Where’s my painting?”
Fletch’s face seemed to lose several shades of color. Not a good sign. “Painting? What makes you think—”
“Cut the bullshit, old man.” Sage moved deeper into the converted garage while the volcanic rage inside burned all the hotter. The pain threading through Mads’s voice nearly drove him over the edge. “Today’s the day all the donated paintings came back from the framer’s, and guess the fuck what? Mads’s painting of the bird in the cage wasn’t there. In its place was a laughable piece of shit that was so bad it almost made my eyes bleed. You really think no one would notice how god-awful that dumbass skull painting was, Fletch? Really?”
“I don’t give a damn about his stupid painting, Sage, or how he managed to switch out mine for his.” Mads sounded worse than ever, shaky and breathless, and he glanced back at her just in time to see her lean against the doorjamb. Tears shimmered in her eyes, but she didn’t seem to notice them as she poured everything she had into the killing glare she sent her father’s way. “I just want my goddamn painting, and then I never want to see this prick again. Other than getting my painting back, I want noth
ing to do with him.”
“Good to hear, baby,” he approved gently, even as he caught Fletcher’s flinch out of the corner of his eyes. With a savage smile that had nothing to do with humor, Sage turned his full attention back to the older man. “You sorry sonofabitch. Mads was so loyal to you, did you know that? She practically drowned herself in guilt because she was chosen to work a House Of Payne, while you were cut from the team when she was just a kid. She wouldn’t even talk to anyone or decorate her booth, because it felt like a disloyalty to you if she made herself at home in a place where she knew you weren’t wanted. That’s how loyal this amazing woman was to you, asshole, and guess what? You just threw that all away. Fuck me, I don’t know what makes me angrier—you boosting her painting, or you throwing away all her love and loyalty like it meant fucking nothing to you.”
“Loyalty?” Fletcher spat the word out like an obscenity. “She doesn’t know the meaning of the word. Rubbing my nose in every last thing she does, from being picked to work at the House, to making it sound like she’s so special that only she and the other House Of Payne tattooists get to take part in that fucking auction—”
“I didn’t make the rules, Dad,” Mads all but screeched, and the raw pain threading through it hurt Sage’s heart. “Look, enough, all right? Enough. Just give me back my painting and you’ll never have to deal with me again, since apparently you think everything about my life is something I want to taunt you with.”
“That’s how failures are, Skittish,” Sage couldn’t help but point out, more than happy to dig the knife in deeper. “Instead of looking to themselves for the shitty lives they have, they blame the successful people around them instead. It’s part of what makes them failures. Don’t take it personally.”
“Go fuck yourself,” Fletcher bellowed at him.
Mads was right. Enough was enough. “I’m just going to cut to the goddamn chase here, Fletch. Cough up Mads’s painting now, and you have my word I won’t fuck this place up, then bring the Board of Health down on your ass for good measure, just to make sure your life is completely ruined. Sound like a plan?”
At that, Fletcher’s eyes fairly bugged out of his head. “You wouldn’t.”
“Oh, no? If you don’t give Mads her painting in the next five minutes, I swear to Christ I’m going to make it my mission in life to make whatever time you have left on this earth an absolute goddamn misery. Do not doubt me on this.”
“Mads, you have to believe I didn’t plan on touching your painting.” Mads’s father turned to her abruptly, like his spine worked on a spring. “I swear to Christ, I just started out thinking that all I wanted to do was talk to you again about taking one of my paintings to Payne, so it could be in the auction, too.”
She shook her head, not in denial, but in a disbelief so bitter Sage could almost taste it. “You’re lying.”
“No—”
“I’d already told you how this auction worked—that no outside artists were allowed to participate in the auction. There was no point in talking to me about it, again, when I have no control over that sort of thing. And besides, you hate Payne, so it’s hard for me to believe you wanted to take part in an auction he’s spearheading.”
“She’s got a point, Fletch,” Sage remarked, balling his gloved hands into fists. “What do you have to say about that?”
Fletch’s thin upper lip curled back in an ugly sneer. “I may have my problems with Payne, but he’s famous, all right? I thought it might be nice to get a little of that spotlight for myself. I saw a chance for that now that Mads works at House Of Payne.”
“And that’s why you did what you did.” Sage nodded, pleased her father was so stupid he openly admitted to screwing things up for Mads all for the sake of his selfish ambition. At least Sage didn’t have to beat a confession out of him. “All the evidence says you deliberately snuck into your daughter’s house to pull a classic switcheroo on her.”
“No, that—”
“You broke into her place,” Sage overrode him in a voice that boomed around the room, before he picked up one of the few finished paintings Fletch had leaning against the wall. It could have been a twin of the one he’d switched out for Mads’s painting, and he shook his head. That painting had been bad enough, but to see it virtually replicated—as if it were the only image Fletcher Daniels was capable of creating—was too pathetic for words. “You broke in with a piece-of-shit painting just like this, and you switched it out with the painting she’d intended to donate. You then stole her painting because you wanted her to mistake your painting for hers when it was time for her to turn it in. Last but not least, you’ve chosen to keep Mads’s painting from her, because you’re a petty, selfish little bitch who can’t stand that his daughter is light years ahead of him when it comes to talent. Did I miss anything?”
“You don’t know shit,” Fletcher all but shouted. “I went to my daughter’s house to leave that painting as a birthday present, all right? It was a fucking gift. Now put that painting down, it’s one of my best.”
Sage gave him a pitying look. “This is your best? Really?”
“Why did you take my painting?” Mads demanded, while her fingers bit into the doorjamb as if she were holding on for dear life. “You don’t give a present and then take something in exchange. That’s not how presents work.”
“Look, Mads—”
“Enough, Dad. Admit you did this to hurt me, and give me back my fucking painting.”
She screamed the last words with so much force it nearly folded her in two. Still holding Fletch’s painting, Sage moved to rest his hand on her shoulder. A shock went through him when he felt the violent tremors racking her body, and that’s when the truth of the situation hit him.
This sonofabitch hadn’t just hurt her feelings.
He’d taken a cleaver to her emotions and fucking butchered her.
“Okay, we’re done here.” More worried about her than he wanted to let on, Sage sent a ferocious glare Fletch’s way, even as Mads violently shrugged his hand away. Damn it. “No more talk. Where’s the painting, asshole? Cough it up now.”
“I don’t have it.”
“Fine. Where is it? In the house? In your car? Just tell me where it is, and I will guaran-damn-tee you that we will never cross your shitty path again.” No way would he allow this drop of poison back into Mads’s life.
“You have to understand that I didn’t mean to do anything wrong when I decided to drop off your present, Mads,” Fletch began. The panic in the other man’s voice, as much as the words themselves, set off alarm bells in Sage’s head. “I mean, sure, I was kind of hoping you might be moved enough to show it to Payne, and maybe you could talk him into allowing me, your father and one of his first-ever tattooists, to take part in the auction. Getting that kind of publicity could really boost traffic through here, you know? So I figured, what the hell?”
“A gift with an ulterior motive,” she gritted out. “That’s why you suddenly remembered I had a birthday. Why am I not surprised?”
“No one gives a shit about that, old man, or about what your intentions were,” Sage added, while dread began to eat away at his insides. “Where’s her painting? And don’t you fucking tell me again that it’s not here. Where. Is. It?”
“Swear to God, I didn’t mean to do what… what I did.” Fletch’s voice quavered, but it wasn’t enough to cover Mads’s jagged gasp or sudden stiffening, as if bracing for impact. “I let myself in with the key Serena gave me. I swear I had every intention of setting my painting up on the sofa, so it’d be the first thing you saw when you walked in. But then I noticed the wrapped canvas you had right next to the door, and… and I got curious. I figured it had to be your art piece for the auction and I just wanted to see it. I should have left it alone. I know that now. But I just wanted to see what you’d done.”
“What did you do to my painting?” Mads whispered, yet to Sage’s ears it was as loud as a shriek.
“I’d seen that painting before,�
� he said instead of answering as he moved to a worktable to fiddle nervously with a couple inkpots. If Sage hadn’t needed to be there for Mads, he would’ve happily launched himself at the other man so he could shake the fucking truth out of him. “It was so beautiful. So perfect. I didn’t know perfection like that could be created by a human hand. The first time I saw it, it struck me so hard I forgot how to move, and all I could think was that it couldn’t possibly be real. I remember I had to reach out and touch it to convince myself it wasn’t some perfect dream. You could never have created something like that. But of course you did. I know you were the one who created it because it was your style. But it was just… so much.”
“So much?” Sage repeated on an ominous growl. “What the fuck does that even mean? You mean it was so much greater than that piece of shit you replaced it with?”
“Yes, motherfucker, that’s exactly what I mean.” This time it was Fletcher’s turn to scream at the top of his lungs, and Sage saw a startled jolt go through Mads. “At least when it was hanging in her fucking foyer, it was private, you understand? No one would see…” He seemed to suddenly run out of gas, and he dropped his face into his hands. “No one would see she was so much better than I would ever be.”
“You jealous little bitch,” Sage shot at him, not even bothering to hide his disgust. “None of what Mads does is about you. You’re not even a consideration in her head. How the hell do you have the goddamn balls to make what she does about you?”
“You destroyed, it, didn’t you?” All at once Mads straightened, pushing away from the doorjamb, and he glanced at her in surprise. It was as if every emotion had been drained out of her, and she was now a lifeless doll. “That’s what this pointless story-time is all about, isn’t it? You’re stalling, trying to spin things to cast yourself in the best possible light so that we can better understand poor little you. But the truth is you destroyed my work. Didn’t you?”