But I’d be lying if I said a lot of the installations weren’t beautiful.
More importantly, it’s Simone’s wonder that enthralls me most.
She seems to really be enjoying herself—her eyes wide, her lips parted, completely absorbed in the art.
I enjoy the way she clings to me and how she takes in little breaths when she sees a display she likes.
We murmur to each other about what we like about each piece. She’s thoughtful but interesting as she comments on various aspects, and I find myself responding.
Not being the broody, sarcastic asshole I usually am. But actually holding the conversation with her. Actually keeping it going and engaging by adding my own thoughts.
We spend three hours inside the gallery, some of the last guests to leave before it closes. The staff is starting to turn off lights and usher people toward the exit as we finally step back out into the frigid night.
We walk across the promenade together, our breath fogging in the air. Simone gestures up to the Christmas lights the city has started putting up—strands of white lights draped across lampposts and trees, glowing against the dark sky.
“I’ve lost count how many lights we’ve seen tonight,” she quips.
“I didn’t think I’d be into light displays like that,” I admit. “But it was cool seeing all the different setups.”
She laughs, the sound warm and genuine. “Just wait ’til I get you to take me to Chantal’s gallery.”
“When’s the next event?” I ask.
“She’s in the process of putting it together for later this month,” she explains. “But there’re a couple issues that might cause a delay. The new artist she wants to feature is from London, and he’s very obnoxious, with some prima donna demands?—”
I look up as Simone’s speaking and notice a sports bike barreling down the side of the street. The bike aggressively cuts through traffic, weaving between cars, the engine roaring.
The rider is hunched low over the handlebars, face hidden behind a dark, shiny helmet. Everything about the way he’s moving sets off alarms in my head.
Then his hand reaches into his jacket.
Time slows to a sluggish pace. I process the glint of metal and the unmistakable shape of what’s in his hand. I put two and two together at the last possible second, my heart lurching inside my chest as I realize what he’s doing and who he’s aiming for.
“Simone!” I roar.
My shoulder connects with hers as I send her tumbling to the ground as the rider points his micro Uzi and opens fire.
SIXTEEN
Simone
I’m almost bucklingunder Ronan’s weight as I help him through the laundromat doors. His arm is slung over my shoulder, his body pressing into mine with each labored step we take.
The laundromat itself is dark and eerie as we move past rows of washing machines and dryers and head toward the back like Ronan’s directed.
In the light of day, it’s your standard run-of-the-mill laundromat where customers come by to wash their clothes. There’s a machine for breaking dollars into change and hard plastic chairs in mismatched colors lined against the front window. The entire space smells like detergent and fabric softener with a slight staleness in the air.
But considering the situation, everything about the business feels as threatening and unsafe as what just happened to us on the promenade outside.
I had wanted to call 911 immediately after the assassin rode through and shot at us.
Ronan insisted otherwise, demanding through clenched teeth that I take him a block over to the laundromat his family owns. Apparently, it’s one of a chain of laundromats scattered throughout the city.
Just another business the Callahans operate under the guise of legality.
We make it to the back of the laundromat with Ronan directing me to the door on the left. I’m still so shellshocked from what happened on the street that I obey without question.
Minutes ago, somebody tried tokillus. We were walking and chatting, for once things going well between us, and then the motorcycle appeared out of nowhere.