The Art of Scandal(48)

“Womanist,” Rachel corrected.

Lyric snapped her fingers, and said, “Womanist is to feminist…” She trailed off, smiling at someone behind them.

A familiar deep voice finished the quote. “As purple is to lavender.”

Rachel spun around and locked eyes with Nathan. He stared for a charged and volatile beat before he turned to Matt and said, “Alice Walker. You should look her up.”

The glass Rachel was holding slipped and shattered. Matt watched in stunned silence as she crouched quickly and reached for a broken piece.

“Don’t!” Nathan grabbed her hand and moved it away from the glass shards. “You could hurt yourself.”

His touch made her light-headed, and she tightened her grip without thinking. His thumb grazed her palm, and she yanked her hand away.

Sofia cleared her throat. “I think she’s been sufficiently rescued, Nathaniel.”

Matt stared at Nathan. “I’m sorry, are you the manager or something?”

“No, he’s just obnoxious,” Joe said with a laugh. “This is my little brother, Nathan.”

“Well of course,” Lyric said with an airy chuckle. “Look at the three of you. It’s so obvious you’re related.”

Rachel’s body went numb, like she’d been doused in ice, as all her foolish assumptions rushed back at once. She could still hear his dismissive laugh. Isn’t everybody?





She looked happy to see him at first. Later he would rewind that part over and over in his mind, how she’d squeezed his hand and pulled him into those dark eyes. A second longer and he would have ignored everyone in the room, maybe said something stupid like, “I miss you.”

But Matt’s voice brought them back to reality: him wearing his good little Vasquez uniform, and her with that big diamond ring that hid most of her finger. He wanted to pull her aside and explain that this wasn’t what it looked like. He was never hiding who he was. He was hiding from it. That he’d been doing it for so long, that it never felt like a lie until today.

“I forgot you had two sons.” Matt smiled brightly at Sofia. “I met Joe before, but—” He studied Nathan. “Where have you been hiding yourself?”

Nathan couldn’t look at him. Instead, he focused on Rachel, trying to coax her into meeting his eyes so she could see that he was… what? Sorry? Hurt? That morning, he’d given up on ever speaking to her again. Now he was ready to walk out that door with her if she wanted.

“Nathan owns his own business,” Sofia said when it became clear to everyone that Nathan had no intention of responding. “It keeps him busy. We barely see him anymore.”

Matt whistled, and said “Impressive!” with raised eyebrows, like Sofia had revealed that Nathan had started SpaceX. “You’re pretty young for an entrepreneur. I would have guessed you were still in school. What are you, twenty-one, twenty-two?”

“I never went to college.” Nathan finally met Matt’s eyes. “I own a laundromat.”

“A laundromat?” Matt’s smile faltered. “You mean like a chain?”

“Nope. Just the one.”

“Oh. Well, good for you.”

“We were talking to Lyric about the gala,” Rachel said. “I’m looking forward to working with Circe as our artist. She has an impressive body of work.”

Sofia tensed. “Actually, Circe won’t be featured this year. It seems our efforts to fund art programs for at-risk children aren’t authentic enough for her public relations team.” Sofia’s tone was somber, like a eulogy, because she’d probably already ordered a hit on the woman’s career. “Unfortunately, that leaves us without a big name to bring in donations.”

Rachel looked stunned. “What does that mean for the gala?”

Lyric pushed her hair back over her shoulder. She had angled away from Sofia, which was probably a mistake. His mother was known for stabbing people in the back. “Don’t worry. I’ll find a replacement before I leave. We might be able to use one of the other artists we’ve already recruited,” she said. “They’re not flashy names, but there isn’t much time to commission anything else. And we need an artist of color to showcase.”

Joe looked up from his phone. “Wait, you need an artist? Nate can do it.”

“I can do what?” Nathan tried to catch his brother’s gaze, but Joe was staring at his phone again.

“His username is FireBird84.” Joe showed his screen to the group. “He’s got a ton of fans.”

Lyric eyed Nathan with an odd expression. “You’re FireBird?”

“Uh, yeah. I’m sorry, who are you?”

“Lyric Patterson,” she said, extending a hand. “I’m an independent curator. And also one of your biggest fans.”

“Cool. Thanks.” She didn’t look like the type who was into fandom, but he’d learned not to make assumptions about those things. One of Nathan’s oldest followers was a seventy-year-old retired teacher who had her art printed and framed in her living room.

“My friends will never believe this,” Lyric said. She was holding his hand in a firm grip. “I work with a group of niche gallery owners and art collectors across the country. We discuss your work all the time. We all read the books growing up, but your take is so fresh and subversive. You’re like our fan art Banksy.”