Eversea: Forever, Jack Part 5

"I'm afraid that is the one piece that won't be for sale. I wish the artist would change her mind." Her voice is filled with disappointment. I'm disappointed too, and of course, satisfied she's not selling it. The idea that someone else could potentially own this doesn't sit right. I wonder ...

I turn to look at her. "Just out of interest, would you mind calling the artist and asking if there was a hypothetical price tag on it, what it would be?"

I can tell my question surprises her, but she also looks intrigued. Not greedy, but she is a businesswoman, and it looks like she just realized I am the real deal despite my wrinkled shirt, unshaven jaw, and probably blood-shot eyes. Oh, and ... there it is, she just realized who she's talking to. Her eyes widen fractionally, and she flushes a deep crimson, her breath coming out in a small gasp.

"Oh, um. Y-Yes, sure." She's fl.u.s.tered. I wish I could put her at ease, but it's always this way. I just have to keep talking and wait it out.

"I mean, everyone has a price, right?" I say quietly, weighing the words. "So you'll call her?"

She nods.

"Now?" I raise my eyebrows expectantly, and she snaps into focus.

"Y-Yes, of course. I'm sure if the artist knew who-"

"No!" Christ, I didn't think of that. s.h.i.t. "Sorry, but, and this is important, you can't reveal to anyone who I am or that I'm here. Not even the artist. Are you able to do the purchase anonymously if she'll sell?"

She furrows her brow. She's disappointed. I can tell she thinks that my name would be good publicity for her gallery, not to mention going a long way toward making Keri Ann amenable to selling. Little does she know it would probably do the exact opposite.

"Yes, it can be anonymous. It happens quite a lot in the art world. Although, I can safely say that if it happens here at my little gallery, it will be the first time in my history." She seems to have recovered. Her tone is amused.

"Well, let's just see if there's a price, shall we? And make sure you have her agree if that price is met, you can go ahead and make the sale. And just so you know, if the issue comes up, it can stay in the exhibition."

"Well, yes, it would have to be contingent on that."

"And also any future exhibitions, until the artist is ready to let it go." I'm skating on dangerous ground here, risking more questions.

Her eyes are appraising.

I fumble for an answer. "I'm going to be traveling a lot for the next six to twelve months, and well, I have nowhere to put it. Yet." It's true. I put my house in California back on the market yesterday. Even though I'd designed its renovation myself, I am beyond relieved to be getting rid of it. The soul has been gone from it for a while, since long before all the s.h.i.t went down with Audrey. In fact, ever since I became disillusioned with the entire business I'm in. But I'm not a fool, I know I can't walk away from what I know, my job. I just need to find a way to not have it define me. A way to live it, without it living me.

Things seemed to clear out and smooth out in my head the last time I was in Butler Cove. Being around someone so anch.o.r.ed to her own soul could do that to you, I guess. Obstacles just didn't seem so big. Or at least she made me want to hurdle them like they were anthills, and not mountainous threats to everything I'd worked so hard for and all the comprises I'd made clawing myself up. A climb where the void dogged me at every step, ready to suck me back to the wastrel I'd been at seventeen. Let's face it, with the amount of times I've been tempted to dull my insecurities and sacrifice my integrity, I could just as easily be dead right now.

It's kind of fitting that the wave is spitting the red sea gla.s.s up and out of its belly with all the other detritus of the sh.o.r.eline.

"I'm not sure the artist will go for keeping it if she agrees to sell," the curator says as she goes around her desk toward the phone. "It'll cost her money to move it properly each time and keep it undamaged. You'll probably want to insure it."

"Well, I'll pay for that, too, if she sells. You can make that sound like your idea, as part of the deal you negotiated for her."

She narrows her eyes at me. "Do you know the artist?"

"No," I say easily, the lie tripping off my tongue, as I slide my eyes back to the sculpture. She is dialing the number, Keri Ann's number, and I am as nervous as if I'm the one about to hear her voice.

Will she sell it? She obviously doesn't want to. Maybe the curator put a recommended price on it that was too low for her to want to part with it. I want the answer to be no, she won't sell. Or the price to be so high I'll laugh. I'll pay it, of course. Although it will invite way too many questions.

I close my eyes and listen.

"Hi, Keri Ann?"

My pulse hammers.

"Hi, this is Mira. Yes, I'm fine ... thank you. No, No, it's fine. It looks great. Listen, I know you said it wasn't for sale ... What? ... Yes, I know. But I was just thinking it would be good for me to know perhaps a ballpark, like a reserve, perhaps, not that I would share it with anyone, just for me to know, in case ... I mean, if someone were to offer something you thought fitting, I'd like to be able to know whether to even call you. Uh huh ... yes, yes, of course." She pauses. A long time.

I glance over to the curator, Mira, to see her pursing her lips and drumming her pencil. Then her eyes widen fractionally, and she gets a bemused look on her face. She scratches out something with her pencil on the paper next to the phone. My heart thuds heavily. Did Keri Ann give a price?

Mira turns and winks, then nods at me.

Dammit, I want to hurt something. Disappointment that Keri Ann will sell it makes my stomach curdle, perhaps something to do with my slight hangover, too. I'm also relieved I can own it so no one else can.

She still hasn't hung up. "Wait so, yes, I should just add the gallery commission and tax on there, add it to that amount, and that will be the specific price? Like specifically that?" Mira's brow cinches up, seemingly confused by the conversation she's having. "Okay, hang on." She fumbles around, grabs a calculator, and punches in numbers. "Okay. Yes, I understand. Specifically. Yes, I promise."

I feel worse as the reality of the situation sets in.

This is bad. It was one thing driving here, nervous as s.h.i.t about seeing Keri Ann again and not knowing her reaction. But now that it's being laid out to me that she will excise me fully from her life for a high enough price, I am gutted. I blow a harsh breath out and glance around for a place to sit. My legs feel weak. I listen to them wrap up their conversation, and then Mira approaches.

"So good news and bad news-although slightly odd."

I look bleakly up at her. If she notices that I suddenly appear like I might vomit, she doesn't say anything. Definitely a hangover. That's all. I really need to stop drinking so much. I tell myself that every day. But honestly, I want to get this done and go drown myself again as quickly as possible.

"She will sell." Mira c.o.c.ks her head. "But only for a specific amount. And when I say specific, I mean ... specific. Then eight percent South Carolina sales tax and twenty percent gallery commission will be added on top of that price, rather than from it. Her idea, not mine."

"Okaaaay. So what is the artist asking for?"

She shifts slightly. "I can only confirm or deny the amount. And when I say specific, I really mean down to the penny. No more. No less." She hunches her shoulders up and shakes her head in bewilderment that mirrors my own. "So unless you're a mind reader, we're both s.h.i.t outta luck."

Her phrase startles me. She doesn't seem like a curser, but then again, she is having a bizarre day. I am absolutely confounded. And relieved. Thank G.o.d. At least no one else will be buying it either. She's not selling it, not really. But why the cryptic pricing? Why not just say no? It's weird as h.e.l.l. "And I don't suppose you would betray her confidence by telling me anyway?" I ask.

"No, I'm sorry. She has some other pieces-"

I shake my head. I'd glanced around at her other stuff. They were beautiful, and I'd buy them all if I wouldn't be casting Keri Ann in a strange light by doing so.

"No, I didn't think so."

She walks over to her desk and grabs two business cards. "Here, write who I can contact if anything changes, and here's my card in case you need anything else or ..." She c.o.c.ks an eyebrow. "Suddenly, magically, you know the secret number." She snorts with disbelief.

I concur. I can tell she's disappointed, but I'm quite impressed she'll keep it to herself. Although it must be such a bizarre amount that it would only be traced back to Mira herself.

I take the cards and her offered pen and scrawl Katie's number on the back. "That's my a.s.sistant in California, she always knows how to get me. And seriously, call me if anything changes," I say, shaking my head. "Please don't tell the artist who was asking."

I take one last look at the extraordinary piece of artwork before heading to the door. There's something so raw and primal and ... painful about it.

"What is it called?" I ask before I leave. I don't even know where I'm going. I wanted to go and see Keri Ann and face up to all my s.h.i.t, but now I'm not so sure.

Mira walks around the other side of it and looks down at the card. "Just want to make sure I get the words in the right order. Oh! Oh, how funny." She looks up, and then the quizzical smile on her face flattens out, and she looks nonplussed as she glances back down.

Oh s.h.i.t. What?

"It's called Ever Broken Sea."

Jesus H. Christ.

Outside the gallery containing the bold evidence of my badly handled relationship with Keri Ann, I fold my body back into the compact rental car and drum my fingers on the steering wheel. What the h.e.l.l was I thinking coming here? I'm the last person Keri Ann wants to see, but I start the car anyway, and before long, I am almost at Butler Cove.

I haven't even told Devon I'm finally coming. He's at his beach house taking some time off before hitting the road to get investments for the Dread Pirate Roberts project. Peak Entertainment, the people who fashioned the leash I'm attached to, are going to be a part of it. Of course, that is as long as I keep playing by their rules.

My phone buzzes again. Expecting it to be Duane from Peak, I grab it, thinking I may as well get it over with. It's not Duane. It's Sheila, my publicist. Well, she's on my callback list, too.

"Yeah?"

There's a long silence on the other end of the phone.

"Sheila?"

"Yeah, I'm here. Sorry, I'm sc.r.a.ping my jaw off the industrial carpet with the heel of my Leboutin." Her voice carries the husk of late nights and too many cigarettes. "You answered the f.u.c.king phone. Are you kidding me? You don't call me back all week, and you answer "yeah?" I was getting ready to leave you a speech dumping your a.s.s. I have it written out, typed up, beta'd and everything. I've been rehearsing. You've got some kind of luck, boy. One more trip to voicemail and I was done."

The great thing about Sheila is she can talk the hind leg off a donkey, so I usually only have to nod, smile, or on the phone, grunt in the affirmative. It's a good relationship. I do my part.

She goes on. "Imagine? No agent and no publicist. What a world, how would you cope? Now, seriously, the s.h.i.t is. .h.i.tting the fan. How did I never know what a f.u.c.k-face Audrey is? s.h.i.t, that b.i.t.c.h is eee-ville-town. How did you manage to tap that so long? To think I even wanted to schtupp her once. Oi vey! So have you seen the picture?"

"What picture?"

"The one of you and that waitress chick all Romeo and Juliet-style on a balcony."

My blood freezes in my veins. "What? What the h.e.l.l are you talking about?"

"Well, if you'd answered your f.u.c.king phone or listened to any of my seventeen thousand and two messages, you would know Audrey gave you until today to get in a room with her and Peak to, as she said, "save her reputation," or she'd take yours down. When she found you before, she had a P.I. track you down at Devon's. The P.I. hung out having a nice beach holiday and taking lots of gooey pictures. How the h.e.l.l she got him to not sell the pictures himself is beyond me. That broad is one capable c-"

"All right, already." My hand is trembling with barely controlled shock and rage. I feel like I ... "Hang on." I've managed to drive almost to Devon's so I pull into a small parking area near a beach access path. I get the door open and gulp a breath of cool Carolina air.

On a balcony?

Son of a b.i.t.c.h.

I know exactly when that was, the morning after we ... the day Audrey showed up. Keri Ann had been standing at the open French doors of the bedroom, looking out to the ocean. I remember coming out of the bathroom and seeing her there, re-clothed in the s.e.xy little dress I'd pulled off her body the night before. The morning sun spilled around her, and the ocean breeze was sifting through her hair.

She'd spotted a sea turtle nest and was pointing it out and all I could think about was wrapping her back up in my arms and working out ways to persuade her to spend the whole day in bed with me. I loved the surprise and wonder in her eyes, mingled with her knowing smile that told me she knew what she could do to me, even while she looked unsure. And I loved her gasps and moans and how she suddenly became an expert at taking me from zero to sixty so I had to perform mental gymnastics just to keep from exploding into a hurricane of frantic want.

Instead, I'd wrapped my arms around her and tucked her small body against my bare chest, settling for asking her to come to California. Planting a seed for a future. I could get though the next phase of my life knowing Keri Ann would be at the end of it.

And some a.s.shole had taken that private moment and turned it ugly. And Audrey had seen it, too.

"Anyway, Sunshine," Sheila rasps from the phone I've pulled away from my ear. "You better get your a.s.s over to my office so we can get a statement together before she presses the b.u.t.ton on this. She's going to say she lost the baby from grief over you having an affair, and that's why she sought comfort from her director. She has a tag on your toe, buddy. The timing of it all is irrelevant, she'll say those pictures were taken whenever it suits her story, although I'm a.s.suming they were taken the last time you went off the grid and drove me mental."

Sheila never pauses for breath.

I head down to the beach so I can think and breathe.

She goes on, "She also has footage of you a.s.saulting some guy in a nightclub. Says she's afraid of you. I've told Duane it's bulls.h.i.t, it's not even you in the video, but as you know that's also kind of irrelevant at this point. Where are you, anyway?"

I make it out onto the sand, it's almost high tide. I close my eyes for a second. "It is me in that video. And I'm in South Carolina."

"f.u.c.k me sideways. Can you make my day any worse?"

I snort. "Probably, just give me time."

"How about after I navigate this mess with the least amount of dings to your persona, we re-negotiate our contract?"

"Fine."

"I'll take that as written in blood. Now, how soon can you get back here?"

I think about everything Audrey is threatening. It's bad. It doesn't take a genius to figure that out. The public loves a good scandal. The more convoluted the better. And in the end she is threatening Keri Ann, too. Her privacy. Her reputation. Everything.

I conjure the image of what I've just seen at the gallery in my mind's eye. This is the first of many great things to come for Keri Ann Butler. As long as I don't ruin it. If I do, she'll no longer be Keri Ann Butler, Artist ... she'll be my latest conquest and tabloid fodder. The saying there's no such thing as bad publicity is a crock. For her, there would be. Forevermore, people would a.s.sume she became well-known due to her a.s.sociation with me. She'd be stuck in whatever seedy story Audrey spun for eternity. I can't honestly think of anything worse. For anyone.

"Give me a second." I waffle between heading back immediately and doing an amended version of what I came here for. Seeing her. But, I can't go and face Keri Ann's disappointment in me, and at the same time risk blowing up her entire life. I can't be that selfish. It's one thing if I'm going down in flames, but how can I take someone else with me? How can I take her with me? Who knows what story would be spun, what lies would be seeded? I wouldn't put anything past Audrey. It still stuns me how little I know her.

I take a deep lungful of cool ocean air and open my eyes to the beach. It's midafternoon and warm for December. I'd love to just run right now and clear my head. Feel the rough sand and surf on the soles of my feet. Then when I was done, I'd head to Keri Ann's, like that first day when I jogged to her house and she opened the door all sleepy, irritated, and dressed in the tiniest but most innocent looking pajamas I'd ever seen. I'd lost my balance trying to get the door closed and fallen practically on top of her, getting a mainline hit of strawberry shampoo and warm bedroom skin.

I turn and look the other way-down the beach-and my chest thuds. Someone, a girl, is jogging. It's her. I know it, although she's way too far away to see clearly. I back up a few steps.

This is her world, her life, and I just keep crashing it.

I understand what I need to do. It might mean I lose her in the end, but it's the only way to go forward. The only way I even have a shot at making this work. It also occurs to me I'm being a coward, but I swallow that thought quickly.

"Sheila, I'm headed back right now. Can you stall Audrey, or do you need me to call her?"

I turn around and head back along the beach path, and I don't look back. I start the d.a.m.n car, turn around, and head back the way I came.

Sheila barks out a hacking cough that has me wincing. "You should probably be the one to call Audrey. Just tell her to wait. Tell her you'll hear what she has to say. Try not to say anything else like where you are." She punctuates each word, in case I don't get it. I do. "Audrey is seriously unhinged right now."

"Fine," I tell her. "It'll be late when I get back ... call you first thing."

"I'll be on the edge of my seat."

"I'm sure." In my mind's eye I see Sheila rolling her eyes. "Thank you, Sheila. Thank you for helping with this."

"Yeah, well. I know it doesn't always seem like it, but I'm on your side. As long as you do me the courtesy of taking my calls, I'll earn my wage and make you look as good as possible."

"Will do."

She grunts and hangs up.

Of course, I still plan to come back and see Keri Ann. At some point. Explain. Something. I just don't know how long it will be. I pause at a stop sign and punch in Katie's number. "Katie, it's Jack. I just got to Hilton Head, but I need to head back to L.A. Can you make sure the jet doesn't leave again. I'll be back at the airfield in thirty minutes."

I'd smile, but I feel too d.a.m.n grim. I'm standing at the window on the twenty-second floor of an office building in Century City, looking out over the smoggy haze of downtown L.A.

Sitting around the table behind me is Sheila, Audrey, her agent and her publicist, Duane and two other guys from Peak Entertainment as well as a member of Peak's legal counsel, a reasonable looking guy named Andrew. The cavalry. Their cavalry.