Con Artist, page 13
There are no friends. No hushed conspiracies being discussed. No one, except Georgia, in a stunning black slip dress. She has her hair curled, and must be wearing contacts, because she doesn’t have her glasses. The unimpeded view of her eyes allows me to see her smokey eye shadow and long lashes.
“Hi,” she greets with a smile.
“Hi.” I do a full scan of the room, making sure I’m not missing anything. “What’s all this?” I nod at the counter in the kitchenette area that is covered with dishes.
“I know I’ve been quiet pretty much since we got back from our trip home, but I wanted to properly thank you.”
My stomach sinks. Not because she wants to thank me, but a combination of disappointment this isn’t the in I was hoping for and because she looks genuine. “Thank me for what?”
“Everything. Taking me home, helping me out with that whole fiasco, the eagles… and for what you said to me at The Art Institute. It all really means a lot to me.”
I think back to that morning last week and can’t recall saying anything noteworthy. “You don’t have to thank me… but I’m starving, so I won’t say no.”
She grabs my hand and tugs me through the doors, onto the terrace. “You might not consider it a thank you once you taste any of it, so don’t get your hopes up.”
There is a table set in the center with candles, two glasses, and a bottle of wine. This isn’t a business proposition; it’s a date. And like every other conflicting moment with Georgia, I’m a mixture of disappointment and excitement.
“Sit here. If you can open the wine, I’ll grab the food.” She looks at me, but quickly averts her eyes. The sky is dark, but the moon is bright and the lights inside illuminate her blushing face.
I place my thumb along her chin and tilt her face so she’s looking at me again. “Thank you for this.” As sad as it is, I’ve never felt so appreciated, but how she sees things and my actual intentions for them are very different.
“This is supposed to be my thank you. You can’t thank me for thanking you.” Her eyelids flutter and she tugs on her bottom lip with her teeth.
It takes incredible restraint not to kiss her. Something I’ve been wanting to do since the hockey game, but I certainly won’t with Sanders listening in on the evening. “I’ll get the wine,” I say, breaking the building tension.
Georgia walks inside, closing the door behind her. I mutter into the wire that there’s no one here and give Sanders permission to sign off. Since he can only hear me and can’t reply, he shoots me a text saying he takes his orders from Lancaster, so he’ll stick around. Do-gooder. I grab the corkscrew and open the bottle of red wine.
She returns wearing a shawl and kitten print oven mitts, carrying a ceramic dish, which she places on the table, still nibbling on her lip. “Lasagna.”
“Kittens?” I gesture to her oven mitts.
“Savannah picked them. She thought it would make me happy since I can’t have a cat.” She places the oven mitts down beside the dish and begins slicing the perfectly browned pasta.
“Probably because she couldn’t find ones with snakes and butterflies,” I reply.
Georgia chuckles but the moon is behind her, so I can’t see her expression well.
“That child will move mountains when she’s older. She’s so stubborn and determined, Michelle says she has to remind herself daily that those qualities will serve Sav well someday.”
“Determination is a good thing.”
She slaps a hardy helping of pasta onto my plate, scoops some Caesar salad into a second dish and slides them toward me. “It is, in some cases, but not when it comes to overruling bedtime.”
I laugh, trying to fill our wineglasses, while she dishes up her food. Then she finally takes a seat across from me. Now I can see her entire face, with the left side lit by moonlight and the right by the faint interior lights.
Over our meal, we maintain casual conversation. With my recent check-in with the chief, I have fresh details to share about my “job”. Georgia gives very vague details on her big project, just saying that she hopes it opens up new opportunities. As much as I press for specifics, she doesn’t give anything away. I try to work everyone in her life I’ve met to this point into conversation, asking about Michelle, Shawn, and Pierre specifically. It’s a difficult dance to probe for answers without coming across as suspicious.
If Georgia is hiding any information, she’s a very good actress. She seems to enjoy talking about her friends. Everything from their time in university to their more recent outings—which she claims flip-flop between paint nights and sporting events. No mention of forging famous works of art or break and enter.
For the duration of our meal, I drop subtle hints that I’m morally ambiguous and that I’d like to find a way to make extra cash to help my family out, but she doesn’t bite. Instead, she looks sympathetic.
It’s concerning. Not only because I’ve got my real-life brother wrapped up in this ever-growing lie, but I’ve stooped to guilt-tripping to build a case. I normally wouldn’t be concerned with what weighs on a criminal’s conscience, but it bothers me using this method with Georgia. She seemed to care about Nate, and exploiting that feels cheap. But I’ve got a case to solve by any means necessary.
Together, we clear the table, taking the dishes into the lounge kitchenette, and placing them in the sink. Georgia runs some hot water over them but abandons them to drag me back outside. The temperature is unseasonably warm, yet still chilly.
“The city is beautiful, isn’t it? I never thought it would warm on me because it’s a far cry from Utica, but it feels like home now. Like every time I’m back in the city limits, it wraps its arms around me and pulls me in, so I never want to leave again.”
I wish I had the same affection for Chicago. Being in my line of work, I see the dredges of society. Criminal underworld, shady businessmen, deceitful people who walk around with a smile that hides their true intentions. It takes a toll, and my escapes from the city often give me a moment to breathe. I can’t tell her that, though.
“It is.” I stare out beyond the railing, taking in the lights between us and Lake Michigan. During the day, this position is a nice view of the water, but right now it’s full of light pollution, making it impossible to see more than a few stars. That’s one thing I miss about Ottawa.
Georgia shivers beside me, which awakens my inner gentleman. I attempt to shrug off my jacket, pausing halfway, realizing I have a hidden wire in the breast pocket. I have two options. Leave it and hope she doesn’t notice, or yank it out and stuff it in my pants’ pocket. I opt for the latter, stealthily grabbing it and hiding it away.
I slip the jacket over Georgia’s shoulders, and she nuzzles into it with a quiet “Thank you.” The sight of her wearing my clothes again is surprisingly intimate. Attractive on a whole other level than her in this dress. It’s as if a primitive urge ripples through me, creating waves from my bones to my skin.
That reaction is squashed by the buzzing in my pocket. And another buzz. Several in quick succession tell me Sanders isn’t pleased the wire is dead. I have a sudden flash of him bursting in here, gun drawn, with Lancaster on the line, blowing this entire case to smithereens. That can’t happen.
I start with a faint cough, working up to an aggressive, hunched over, gasping for breath type. “Wa–water.”
Georgia spins in a hurry and darts inside with my jacket trailing behind her like a superhero cape. Or super villain. I’m not sure yet. I take the split second to pull out my phone.
Sanders: Wire is dead.
Check in.
Prewitt report.
Don’t make me come up there.
Great. He sounds like my mother.
Prewitt: All good. Stay put.
Georgia comes running back out a second after I slip my phone into my pocket and resume my coughing fit.
I take a healthy sip, add in a little throat clearing for effect, then set the cup on the railing. “Thank you. Not sure what happened.”
“Maybe it was the kittens,” she jokes, adding an irresistible smile.
And I don’t want to resist anymore.
Chapter twenty-two
Con Descending
Georgia
He’s kissing me. Our lips haven’t touched since the brief moment at the hockey game over three weeks ago, under the scrutiny of thousands of spectators. This is entirely different. This time, his hands are caressing my waist underneath his jacket. His tongue swipes the seam of my lips, and I’m powerless to resist letting him in. He doesn’t hesitate, leaving me struggling to stay upright. The buzz zipping through me is no longer on account of the three glasses of wine I drank to calm my nerves. Not only are his lips responsible for my buzz, but they’ve also shifted my body temperature from cool to inferno. I’m at risk of incinerating his blazer.
I’m not sure how much time passes before we break apart. The cool air fills the space between us, making me miss his body heat immediately.
For a moment, I want to bask in the contentment that follows, but when I open my eyes to look at Archie, all I feel is a flood of anxiety. One that mimics the feeling when the bus driver slams on their brakes and you aren’t sure if you’ll stop in time. That fear-fueled moment not knowing if you’re about to crash. His face is a mask of conflicting emotions. He blinks several times in succession, tugs the collar of his shirt, and avoids looking at me.
Guilt? Regret? Which one is unclear, but I know whatever he’s feeling isn’t good.
This was a mistake.
Instead of waiting for him to shoot me down, I act first. “I’m going to call it a night.”
He breathes out a long sigh, still looking over the edge of the terrace. “Georgia…”
“It’s fine. You don’t need to explain yourself. I didn’t knock your socks off or whatever. Message received.” I’m not one to jump to conclusions, but this situation calls for a little self-preservation. I don’t wait to hear his reply before I’m headed for the door.
Archie calls after me, but I don’t stop until I’m inside and toss his jacket on the back of the sectional. Then I spot the sink full of dishes I either have to wash here or carry them back downstairs. Staying here will only open the door for more awkwardness, though.
As I stack the dishes so they’ll be easier to carry, shoving what I can in a tote bag, Archie walks inside. He looks like he’s gone six rounds in a battle with his better judgment and lost.
He still avoids eye contact. Apparently, his shoes are extra interesting, because he can’t tear his focus from them. I kind of want to kill Rene right now. She’s the one who talked me into this, and I’m the fool who listened. Granted, she’s not familiar with my kissing skills, so she couldn’t have known I’d fumble the entire evening on that part.
“Georgia?” Archie finally turns to face me.
My cheeks burn hot under his gaze. A combination of being stupidly attracted to him and utterly embarrassed that he looks like he wants to vomit.
“Yes?” I ask on a sigh.
“Can I help with the dishes?”
Seriously? Is this guy serious right now? The dishes?
“It’s fine. I’m used to doing things alone. Perks of the job.” I mean every ounce of snark that escapes. It’s probably immature, but I don’t care.
“Georgia…” he says for the third time, each one being a unique expression of the same two syllables. Each one expressing a note of despair. “It’s not whatever you’re thinking.” He steps closer, rounding the counter covered in dishes.
My body tenses as he approaches. It almost feels like a warning. A subconscious alert telling me to guard my heart from his hot and cold behavior. But that same heart wants to hear him out.
“Then what is it, Archie? Why did you look like you were about to puke for five solid minutes? Hmm?” I shove the cooking utensils into the tote bag, and now I’m ready to take my leave. Yet, here I stand, waiting for an answer.
“I…” He pauses for a few seconds, and in that time, regains his composure, putting his mask back on. “I got burned by my last relationship. She wasn’t completely honest with me, and I get the impression you’re hiding something from me too.”
That’s rich, coming from the guy I can’t get a read on to save my life.
“Sounds like you have trust issues, Archie. I’m not the one who burned you and you can’t put that on me. So, if you’ll excuse me.” Without waiting for him to reply, I walk out the door and struggle down eleven flights of stairs so I can be sure to avoid ending up in the elevator with him.
Once I’m safe inside my condo, I change into pajamas, wash the dishes, and decide I’m angry my slight alcohol buzz was ruined. I open the freezer and pull out a bottle of vodka I was gifted from a distillery I made a painting for. I pour myself a drink, then pick up the phone to call my best friend, who may not be in possession of that title much longer.
“This can’t be good if you’re calling me this early,” she answers.
“I hate you right now.”
“What happened? Lay it on me.”
I proceed to tell Rene every detail of our dinner; including what I wore, a detailed description of our kiss, and Archie’s confession afterward.
“Do you want me to tell you what you want to hear or the truth?”
I should have known she’d have some wisdom to share that I might not like. Though, after this failed evening, her ‘wisdom’ is questionable. “Give it to me straight.”
“That’s my girl. You’re right that his issues aren’t on you. However”—she draws out the word, which makes her sound a bit like a Disney villain—“you aren’t exactly an open book, so you can’t blame him for hesitating if he’s been hurt in the past.”
“I don’t blame him for anything. If he has issues with not trusting people, that’s not my fault. Some things I can’t share, or others I don’t want to until the time is right. I shouldn’t have to compromise any of that to ease his insecurities. I barely know the guy.”
Rene fiddles with something in the background, then I hear SportsCenter come on her TV. “I get that. I’m just saying maybe be a little more patient with him. Don’t cut and run because he doesn’t accept everything at face value. You know everyone has a different learning style, and sometimes we have to adjust our teaching method.”
Of course, she’d turn my dating life into a teaching scenario. Like I want to have to teach a guy how to date me. At least it wasn’t a sports metaphor.
“I’m just not sure it’s worth my time. The whole hot and cold thing is exhausting. He sends more mixed signals than a drunken quarterback.” Well, now I’ve gone and done it. “You know what I mean.”
“Only you can make that decision. I think you should give Hunky McHunkerson another shot. But since you brought up football, let me talk to you about number eighty-eight real quick.”
Rene’s fairytale—or delusional—love story is a nice distraction. I drink far too much vodka as I listen to her gush over her latest crush and hear about every aspect of his life she found online. She’s flirting with stalker territory. Unlike her, I can’t bring myself to tell her to rein it in. I allow her to live in her fantasy world for a bit while I sink into a drunken one.
We finish our call a short time later, and I lie on the sofa until I doze off.
I awake to a pounding headache, a crick in my neck, and knocking at my door.
Only one person would be insane enough to disturb me at 7:30a.m. I debate answering or not, quickly allowing curiosity to win out.
Sure enough, I tug the door open a few inches to find Archie on the other side, wearing his CFD coat, holding a pair of takeout coffees.
“Hi.” He holds out one cup to me, which I reluctantly take.
I blink a few times, trying to clear the fogginess from my vision. How does he look so put together? He wasn’t drowning his sorrows in ninety proof alcohol last night; that’s obvious.
“Hi,” I finally respond.
“Do you have a minute?”
“Archie, you woke me up sixty seconds ago. The only thing on my schedule is going back to bed.”
He drops his eyes, but I’m not sure if it’s because he feels bad or he’s checking out my wardrobe choice. My avocado print shorts and T-shirt seem to amuse him.
“Can I come in?”
I turn back to examine the condition of my apartment. All of my art supplies are put away for the first time since I moved in, so it actually doesn’t look so bad. “Sure.”
He looks surprised by my agreement, but doesn’t hesitate walking through the door. We walk past my unmade bed, into the living area, and each take a seat on opposite ends of the couch.
I set my coffee beside the empty glass that contained vodka several hours ago. “Thanks for the coffee.”
Archie is busy scanning my space, like he’s cataloging every item. He won’t find much of interest. “Nice place. Did you make this?” He points to the colored graphite drawing of pedestrian and vehicle traffic on a busy downtown street. Everyone is slightly blurred to depict the hustle and bustle of city life.
“I did. That one is called Apathy.” It’s actually one of the pieces I plan to present to Smith Goldstein & Co., but I don’t tell him that. That is a major life event that is still undetermined, so I don’t want to share with anyone in the event it doesn’t work out. The only thing that would make it more disappointing is to have to share that failure with more people.
“That’s amazing. I should get you to make something for my house—my apartment.” His eyes bounce around the room again, landing on the only other piece of art I have hanging. “And this one?”
I sigh, looking at the drawing of a homeless mother and her child. “Yes. I call it Perseverance.”
Archie leans forward, elbows on his knees. “What made you draw such a depressing picture?”
“It’s not depressing at all. Yes, the reality of it is heartbreaking, but there’s also great beauty in what it represents. That day is forever imprinted in my mind. One of those moments that made me stop to appreciate everything I have.” I take a sip of my coffee, enjoying the warm liquid and hoping it helps dull my headache. “Health, passion, friends, opportunity. I was feeling down on myself that day because I had paid a fortune to attend an artist market as a vendor. I left with ninety-five percent of my inventory, and barely made enough to cover the vendor fee.”
