“No photos.” She points to a sign a few feet away. “Please show me your phone. I need to see you delete the photo you took.”
I watch in anger and frustration, holding my tongue until she’s done.
“How much?” I ask as soon as the guy walks off.
“Excuse me?” She turns to me with a polite smile, but her eyes gleam avariciously behind her rimless glasses. “For Lo, you mean?”
“For the photo, yeah.”
“It’s only been in the gallery two days,” she says. “And we’ve had so many inquiries about it already. It fetches quite a price. It’s—”
“Not for sale,” a man’s voice, semi-familiar, says from behind me.
When I turn and Chase is standing there, I almost lunge for his neck. He and I stare at each other, dislike shimmering in the air like heatwaves rising off asphalt.
“How much is that one?” I point to the photo to the left of Lo.
“Six thousand,” he replies with a smirk.
“And that one?” I point to the photo on the right.
“Oh, that one’s a steal at fifty-five hundred,” he says.
“And that one?” I point to the wall behind me, not even looking at what’s back there.
“Whichever one you mean,” he says, his eyes gleaming with malice, “they all have price tags, except this one.”
“Seven thousand,” I offer, leveling my tone, controlling my anger.
“No,” he says, his jaw set at an obstinate angle.
“Ten thousand.”
“I said no.”
“Fifteen thousand,” I snap, the little patience I’ve ever had for this motherfucker completely gone.
“Kenan,” my sister whispers. “Let’s go.”
“Twenty thousand dollars,” I offer, my eyes trained on Chase.
“I told you, she’s mine.” His smile taunts. “You can see why I wouldn’t want to give her up.”
“Ahem,” the gallery attendant clears her throat. “Mr. Montclair, surely we could—”
“Nope,” he cuts her off, not looking away from me. “Mine.”
I don’t even realize I’ve taken the three steps that separate us until I’m right in his face, looming over him, and Kenya pulls me back by my shoulder.
“We understand,” she says with a stiff smile. “My brother is a . . . collector, and has been looking for something like this. Goodbye.”
She drags me out of the gallery, and I draw in a huge lungful of fresh air, clearing some of the red haze from my vision.
“Have you lost your fucking mind?” Kenya demands once we’re a few feet beyond the gallery.
“That’s . . .” I flounder, fury pumping through my blood. “He has her up there for everyone to see. He shouldn’t . . . He has no right.”
“She must have signed off on it, Kenan,” she says. “She must want it to be seen. It wasn’t that bad. You only see her breast.”