Читать книгу Faking It / Forbidden Sins - Stefanie London - Страница 17

Owen

BY THE THIRD DAY of living at 21 Love Street, we’ve met a number of our neighbours in passing. Hannah ignored my suggestion to let them come to us, and I have to admit she’s playing the role of social butterfly well.

We’ve met a communications manager and her investment banker fiancé from level one. A quiet schoolteacher named Ava and her friend Emery, who live in the apartments next to Rowan and Dominic on level five. I’m thinking they could be a good source of information on the brothers’ activities. And Matt the chef lives on level three. We haven’t seen anyone on level six—I suspect the other penthouse might be owned by someone who travels a lot. There are also two young families on the first floor, and an older woman on level three who seems to keep to herself but gave a friendly wave in the mailroom as I pretended to inspect our mailbox.

Nothing suspicious yet. Based on what we have, I feel Dom, Rowan and Matt are worth looking into further. Which is why Hannah and I are waiting outside L’Arte Galleria in a line to have our tickets checked by a beefy guy in a black suit.

“This place is fancy,” Hannah whispers. She’s hanging on to my arm and has a black trench coat covering her new dress. That dress has been on my mind all day. “I bet they have Swarovski-encrusted toilets.”

I snort and make a poor attempt of covering it with a cough. We step forward in the line and she’s careful to keep her balance on a pair of pencil-thin stilettos that I bought to go with her dress. They have a mirror-like silver finish and they’re doing amazing things for her legs. Hannah had argued that they were impractical and that she wouldn’t be able to chase after anyone in them—but tonight we’re gathering information. No running required.

“Tickets?” The beefy guy has a nose that looks like it’s been on the losing side of a few fistfights and he’s built like a brick wall. Is that OTT for a gallery? I’m not sure.

Hannah hands our invite over and the beefcake scans a small barcode on the back of it. “Mr. and Mrs. Essex, welcome.”

Interesting. I don’t remember giving our surname to Dom when we spoke in front of the barbeque, but he obviously got it somehow. I press my hand to the small of Hannah’s back and we’re ushered into the cloakroom area. It’s chilly out tonight—rainy and damp in that typical Melbourne early spring way—and so we offload our outerwear. I try not to stare as Hannah shrugs out of her coat, revealing her long, lean legs and a scandalous triangle of chest. The bare skin contrasting with long sleeves looks edgy and sexy. She’s put on a little makeup and fluffed out her hair, so that it falls in shiny brown waves to her shoulders. I don’t quite understand why she made that comment about being a little girl playing dress-up yesterday, because she looks every bit the perfect Mrs. Hannah Essex to me.

“Shall we?” I hold my hand out to her, and she takes it. There’s that blush again, tinting her cheeks and neck and the tips of her ears.

“Stop looking at me like that.” The words are spoken low, for my ears only.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re a wolf who’s gone weeks without a fresh kill.” Her hand slips into mine. “And I’m a big, dumb deer who’s stumbled into your path.”

I pull her close to me as we weave through a large, modern archway which opens into the gallery’s main room. The exhibition is…not quite what I expected. Sculptures dot the room, abstract shapes that somehow manage to look erotic—like bodies entwined—without actually resembling anything at all.

The lighting is low, except for a few strategically placed red spotlights which give the room an almost club-like atmosphere. Electronic music plays over the speakers, but not so loud that it inhibits conversation. There are waiters circling the room, wearing blood-red tuxedo jackets and carrying trays of pink-tinted sparkling wine.

Hannah cocks her head. “This is different to what I thought it would be. Although, to be fair, my experience with galleries is limited to that one time I went to NGV on a high school excursion.”

“Same.”

Even living in New York hadn’t tempted me into the local pastime of spending hours staring at things my brain isn’t creative enough to process. I’m more of a hands-on guy. This is a bit…cerebral.

“They’re kind of sexy.” Hannah steps closer to the sculpture nearest us. She leans forward slightly, her eyes narrowed and a cute little wrinkle in her nose. “Is that weird?”

“It’s not weird at all.” A woman appears beside us, her dark hair shaved on one side and reaching down to her shoulders on the other. “This collection is about capturing the feeling of oneness that two people experience in love and lust.”

“This is your work?” Hannah straightens and puts on a smile.

“Yes, I’m Celina Yang.” She extends her hand and Hannah accepts it.

“Hannah Essex, nice to meet you. The pieces are very…thought-provoking.”

“Thank you.” Celina smiles. She’s a striking woman, barely more than five feet two and wearing flat shoes. She’s dressed in red to match the theme of the event—a dress that looks as avant-garde as her work. Two large diamonds glitter in her ears. “I take a lot of inspiration from my own relationships.”

“Looks like you have some good relationships,” Hannah comments. Then she looks up, as if the comment had slipped accidentally. “I mean…the sculptures are beautiful.”

That’s my Hannah. Smooth as sandpaper.

Celina laughs. “Being comfortable with one’s sexuality is a very pure thing, despite what society might lead you to believe. Sex is when we are at our truest and most vulnerable.”

I watch Hannah inspecting the sculpture. This one is two pieces of twisted material—a shiny black that’s so glossy it looks like there’s a fine layer of ice over it, and a matte, velvety black.

“You can touch it,” Celina says. “This is meant to be an interactive exhibit.”

For some reason Hannah’s eyes flick to mine as her hand comes slowly—hesitantly—down to the sculpture. At first she brushes her fingertips over the sweeping curve of the matte black material, but then—as if enjoying the feeling—she presses her palm flat over it and moves it along in one smooth but firm stroke.

This shouldn’t turn me on. It’s a sculpture that looks like nothing. An adult version of Play-Doh. But watching her hand move, growing bolder with Celina’s encouragement, has all the blood in my body rushing south. What the hell is wrong with me?

“Try it.” Hannah holds her hand out to me, tempting like the devil herself.

I step forward and allow Hannah to take my hand. The sculpture is strangely soft beneath my fingertips. As I glide my hands back and forth, it changes from smooth to rough.

“It feels so strange,” Hannah says.

“It shows the dual-edge of a toxic relationship,” Celina says. “The very thing that can feel good and comforting, can become painful when turned on us.”

I watch as her eyes drift across the room. There’s a man standing by himself, his long figure encased in a black suit. He’s fair-haired and when he turns, I recognise Matt instantly.

“Some people are no good for you, even if you want them to be.” Her hand toys with one of her earrings, the large clear stone looking almost pinkish from the red spotlight above. “But it looks as though you two don’t have that problem at all.”

“We have our ups and downs,” Hannah says, winking at me. “Right now, I’d say we’re up.”

Who is this woman? The Hannah I know is prickly and has a tongue that could slice bone. But now she’s soft and flirty. It’s part of her act, of course—Hannah Essex rather than Hannah Anderson.

“Well, you should think about getting one of the sculptures for your bedroom. Never helps to inject the room with more sensuality.” Celina smiles and her hand drops away from her earring. “If you’re interested, I can help you pick one that will be a good fit.”

“Thank you. We’ll definitely consider it,” I say.

Celina moves on to the next cluster of people. The room is moderately full, but there’s still plenty of space to move around. I notice more people interacting with the sculptures now—touching and getting close. Hannah sticks by my side as we drift on to the next piece—it’s a harder and more aggressive shape made of gold and silver. The two pieces of metal bow away from each other before coming back to twist into a small spire at the top.

This time Hannah doesn’t hesitate to reach out and touch it. “Do you think it’s true what she said?”

“About what?”

“That sex is when we are at our truest and most vulnerable?” Her eyes don’t meet mine and I wonder what game she’s playing—is this about our cover…or something more?

My memory drifts back to the night she propositioned me. We’d graduated from the academy and there was a huge house party—one last hurrah before we were all scattered across the state. Many new constables work in rural areas for a period of time, finding their feet and helping communities that don’t have much police coverage. Hannah had never been a big drinker, so the champagne had hit her hard. She’d been falling all over me, giggling with her cheeks and ears pink and hair mussed and eyes wild.

I’d never seen a more beautiful woman in all my life.

Don’t you want to kiss me? she’d asked. I’ve seen you look at me and I never knew if it meant anything but I hoped it did. I’m not supposed to like you because you’re dangerous for a girl like me…but I do.

Dangerous. The funniest thing about it was that if anyone was dangerous in that scenario, it was her. Because she was smart and beautiful and courageous and so kickass it made me want to burst. But I’d been with a girl like that before—where I’d loved as hard as my teenage heart knew how. The day I’d lost it all I’d broken into so many pieces no one knew how to put me back together.

“Owen?” Hannah cocked her head. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I guess it’s true.” I shrug. “I’m not sure I would say it’s a vulnerable thing, though.”

It never was for me…not after the first time. These days, sex is blowing off steam and scratching an itch. It’s fun and enjoyable, but it’s never about vulnerability. In fact, being vulnerable is the thing I avoid most in life. Because getting close to someone has never worked out well for me in the past—I’ve lost a mother and father and a brother and a grandfather and the girl I loved.

That’s a whole lot of loss for one heart to handle.

“Yeah, me either.” She looks as though she’s seriously considering Celina’s words. “Sometimes it’s just about fun, right?”