Wicked Steps Read Free

curtained. We also posted a disclaimer so our patrons wouldn’t be shocked or scandalized when they chose to view the art in that room.
    I walked toward my office and grabbed the garment bag hanging on the back of the door.
    “You’re not going home to get dressed?” I heard Coco shout.
    “No, I brought my outfit. The traffic is too crazy on a Friday night. Instead of a forty-five-minute drive, it may take hours. I didn’t want to chance it. I thought this might be easier for me. You know how driving frays my nerves.”
    “That’s what copious quantities of alcohol are for,” I heard her say as I closed the door to the bathroom.
    I quickly dressed in a dark-navy eyelet design by Versace. The knit material covered everything but clung to every curve of my body. It was sexy but conservative. One of us had to be. God knows Coco would probably be wearing something that required a stripper pole as an accessory. I’d always been the grown-up in our friendship.
    Tonight’s showing was what everything had been for. I almost wished briefly that Hartman were here to see it finally come together. But this way was better. Not that I was publically overjoyed he was dead. Even if I were, I had to keep that to myself. But it had finally ended. I felt a sense of relief now—closure. I’d been suffocated for five years. It was punishment for my actions. I could complain all I wanted, but the fact was I sold myself for money. He was gone now, and I could finally exhale. Regardless of the bastard he’d been, he had warned me in the beginning, but I signed up anyway.
    I wasn’t a traditional gold-digger, but my arrangement with Hartman might have painted me as one. I’d never even told Coco all the seedy details. She’d always been suspicious, but what I’d done was for both of us. Even though we’d been friends, forever, and I trusted her. I knew she’d never want me to give up my self-worth and my soul. But when I looked at our gallery now and what my future held, I was sure it had been worth it.
    I started working at Wick Global when I was twenty-eight. I was a financial advisor at the main headquarters in New York. I met Hartman one night at a company party at his home in Scarsdale. As my eyes traveled the walls of his estate, I felt overwhelmed. Rembrandt, Picasso, Monet—they were all present and tastefully displayed. I was caught between being breathless and straight hyperventilation. I’d only seen these paintings in magazines. To see them up close and in person, I was overcome with emotion.
    Art had been my major, honestly in all aspects of my life. I couldn’t draw worth shit, but I loved the way an artist’s portrayal made me feel. It conveyed to me sometimes sadness and despair but mostly happiness and beauty. I became obsessed with every era and daydreamed of a time I could visit the Louvre in Paris. Having my own gallery was my life’s ambition.
    I shared my love of great art with my best friend Coco. Unlike me, she could draw and had a knack for buying pieces that were unique and fresh. She had an acute awareness of artistic possibility before it was recognized by the ones who mattered most: the critics.
    But being surrounded by beauty and acquiring my life’s ambition wasn’t meant to be. My best friend was closer to it than I would ever be. She found work as a buyer at one of the finest galleries in New York. On the other hand, my gift was numbers. Among all the art classes I’d taken in college, I also studied business. When it became painfully obvious I would never have my own gallery and it was nothing but a delusion, I secured a position at Wick Global. The opportunity was incredible and so was the money. Maybe if I saved every penny for the next thirty-plus years, I could open my own gallery by the time I retired.
    Somehow, I found myself strolling into what looked to be a large, lavish library. Shelves crammed with books towered from ceiling to floor. And like the rest of the decor in the house,