2. Becca

2

BECCA

A nother group passed by me, seeking out the trio of large canvases on the far wall. The gallery was packed, and that was good news. This opening-night showing was a success, but I couldn’t claim the majority of it.

I sighed, smiling at the guests and wishing they’d meander toward the back. My Impressionist-style paintings hung back there, but only a few of them stood out within this multi-artist display.

Morgan was the focal point of the show, and while I was happy for my friend, I couldn’t tamp down this stubborn sadness that lurked within my heart.

If I could have an inkling of her success, a small smidgen of all this fanfare and fame…

“Oh, excuse me,” a woman said, interrupting my morose mood as she tried to squeeze through the crowd. Then she stopped, doing a double-take on me. “Wait. Aren’t you…?”

I beamed, elated that she’d recognize me. All six of us participating artists had tiny thumbnail photos on the back of the pamphlet. Of course, Morgan took up a full half-page, her image in color and a paragraph of a biography rather than a one-liner about who she was. But this woman. She recognized me !

“Oh, wait. No.” She flipped her paper over and smiled. “Sorry. I was looking for the painter of that landscape over there.”

I kept my polite smile plastered on my face as she pointed at Morgan’s face on the glossy pamphlet this woman picked up at the entrance. “Oh. Um, no, that’s not me. Morgan is up there.” Aiming my finger at the excited crowd that surrounded Morgan toward the front of the gallery, I fought the rising burn of envy.

Jealousy wasn’t becoming. I knew that. I didn’t usually sink to that lowness. And I tried my damnedest to squash it all. I wasn’t jealous . I couldn’t call myself a real artist if I envied another painter’s style. My style was my own, and I’d never change it.

Still, I struggled with the challenge of this envy of my friend’s success.

Stop. You’ll have your moment someday. I turned away, gripping the clay pendant on my necklace for comfort. My grandmother crafted this smooth shape, and every time I rubbed it between my thumb and finger, I felt connected to her. That my grandma’s artistic inspiration couldn’t fail me forever. That nothing lasted forever, the good or the bad, and I’d been dealt a fair share of badness in my twenty-five years on this earth.

I walked back toward my pieces, eyeing the selection of small sculptures arranged under bright lights. Paintings were easier to get credit for, but the gallery owner had rudely insisted on “quantity over quality,” making a case for showing several of my sculptures since they didn’t take up too much space in the rooms. A variety of art media was preferred, and I spent more concentration on my sculptures than my paintings.

Hey, I’ll take it. Even though none of my artwork was getting much attention here, it was here, and that was something to be proud of.

If my life were more like Morgan’s, I bet I’d be able to go further with my art. As a single mother of a ten-month-old, working a crappy job for a courier company, and without any family or support, I was limited in how much time and effort I could dedicate to my passion. Morgan was single, childless, and from a wealthy family with connections. It was no wonder she’d gotten far.

The only connection I had was my scummy, lying father.

And Dom.

I winced as I walked around, trying to look relaxed and not tense. Dominic Rossini had once appeared to be a connection who could have really led me to fame in the art world. He’d doted on me, dating me and making me feel special for so long, only to reveal his true intentions. That distinguished Italian strung me along only as a way to get closer to my father. For months, Dom conned me, making me think he loved me and my artwork with his vague plans to sponsor me in Italy and get me into European galleries. All that time, I thought I’d hit the jackpot in finding an older gentleman who cared about my artwork.

Instead, I learned he led a double life as a crime lord who’d simply pursued me as a way to maintain some kind of a business arrangement with my father.

It was all a lie.

Just thinking about Dom soured my stomach, but it wasn’t as awful as the headache that grew as I thought about my finances. I only had so much to pay Hannah for babysitting Emily tonight, and I felt so selfish to pay for childcare that didn’t amount to my working and picking up extra hours.

I hope she’s not being finicky. At the thought of my sweet girl, I smiled and wondered if Hannah was having any luck with her. Teething time sucks. It was brutal, and I wondered when that first tooth would cut through already and end Emily’s consistent fussiness.

I pulled my phone out of my purse, smiling and glancing around to see if anyone would notice. Being glued to a screen was a huge mistake to make here. I had to be on , smiling and chatting, promoting the showing and my artwork, socializing and mingling.

But simply seeing the screensaver of my baby calmed me. Emily was the brightest ray of sunshine in my life, and I vowed daily to do my best for her.

The text thread with Hannah showed nothing new, but then again, the college-aged sitter seldom complained. She was too sweet and competent to ever struggle with Emily.

Before I could stash my phone back in my purse and resume this smiling, fake-it-’til-you-make-it peppiness, the device buzzed with an incoming call.

Shit. Taking a call would be a bigger transgression. Once I saw that it was my dad, though, I sighed and knew he’d continue to call until I answered. I didn’t want to deal with his pushiness, so I stepped aside to settle whatever he wanted.

I missed the call in the time it took me to find a spot near the drinks in the back of the gallery, but sure enough, he called again.

Steven Murphy never called to check in. Or see how I was doing. The fact that he called back to back without a pause meant he wanted something.

What’s new? He always wanted something.

“Hey, Becca,” he answered quickly, stuffing enough charm to make it seem like a personal call. He didn’t give a shit about me. I wouldn’t be conned. Not by him.

“Are you busy?”

I looked around the gallery, smiling in case anyone saw me. “Yes.” No one was here to speak with me about my art, but I clung to the chance that someone could.

“I need you to come to my place and talk about reaching out to Dom.”

I blinked. Then blinked some more, wondering if I misheard. “Dom?”

“Yeah. Dominic Rossini,” he replied snarkily. “Don’t tell me you forgot about your boyfriend already.”

Dom never really was my boyfriend. He’d tried to act like one, but he never cared about me like a real significant other would have.

“He contacted me, wanting to talk about custody for Emily.”

I snorted, shaking my head and losing the smile for the crowd here. There was no chance in hell I could mask this scowl. No one was looking at me, anyway.

“The hell he is,” I retorted. My dad calling me to arrange a discussion wasn’t a bizarre thought. I’d met Dom through my dad. But his claim was bullshit. “Dom never acknowledged Emily. He was never even aware that I was pregnant.”

I didn’t give him a chance to cajole me any further. Anger rose too quickly and hotly. “What do you want, Steven?”

Calling him Dad never happened. He wasn’t a father figure, so it hadn’t even felt natural to refer to him as such.

“Well, first to see how you’re doing and all…” His tone fell into that cunning, persuasive sugariness, and I rolled my eyes.

I was far too used to his lies to fall for this. “What do you want?” I repeated bluntly.

“I just want to see how my baby girl is doing.”

“No, you don’t.” I was calling his bluff.

“Listen, I’ve got a lot of things going on with work.”

Like I haven’t heard that excuse before.

“And I feel like I’m not available for you like I want to be.”

You never have.

“I feel guilty about being such a workaholic.”

“I don’t have time for this.” I was too jaded to be patient and give him a chance. “I’m hanging up.”

“Fine. Wait.”

I shook my head, so bitter that I considered changing my number. Actually, I had done that before, when I was eighteen and wanted to cut all ties with him when he asked me for money. As a cop, though, he’d found me anyway.

“I need you to go to this sex club and ask for someone for me.”

I snorted. “What?” A sex club? “No way.”

“I can’t go myself. I’d be recognized as law enforcement in that crowd.”

I didn’t even want to put the idea of my father and a sex club together. Eww.

“My cover wouldn’t hold up there.”

“Then ask one of your colleagues.” Was he insane? He had to be to ask me to do him a favor like this. All my life, he’d wanted favors from me, and I knew how poorly those tended to end up.

“That’s not a great idea,” he argued.

Oh, he’d ask his daughter to be an accomplice with something at a sex club—a place I’d never consider visiting to begin with—but not his fellow officers. That right there told me this was another one of his corrupt plans, and I wanted nothing to do with it.

“Someone will have an envelope for me there. I just need you to get it and deliver it to me.”

“No. Hell no. I don’t trust you.”

“Okay.” He huffed. “Then I’ll tell Dom how to reach you so he can talk to you directly about this custody business.”

I narrowed my eyes, fuming and trying to find the fewest words to reply. He was threatening me, his own flesh and blood. The fact that he’d stoop so low to threaten me infuriated me. This was nothing but an ultimatum, but I wasn’t worried. I doubted Dom knew I had his baby. And he wouldn’t have cared.

“You’re lying.” I shook my head and turned, giving the gallery crowd my back as I glowered at the wall. “And I’m sick of it.”

All my life, he'd looked out for himself, trying to score money and power. Not once did he ever care about me, and I was so damn tired of his attempts to control me.

“I’m not helping you with a single fucking thing, Steven.”

Then I hung up, pushed too far past my quota of patience to hear his voice. Pressing my fingertip on the screen to end the call did little to appease my anger. Scathing mad and annoyed, I drew in a deep breath and tried to get back into the spirit of being here.

It was hopeless. Once I caught my breath and slapped on what I hoped was a smile, I replayed the conversation in my head with the repeated awareness of what it all meant.

Control. Steven only wanted to manipulate me, to use me for his own gains.

Just like Dom had.

Zoning out on the crowd that praised Morgan’s artwork and not anyone else’s, I sank into a pit of despair, wishing this wasn’t how my life had to be.

Never mind my artwork. Most days, it felt like a pipe dream to wish for success in that field.

With a deeper sense of longing, I wished—not for the first time—that I could find someone who would care about me . Just the way I was. With no expectations or rules to follow. No burdens or obligations. No roles or chances of being used for something else.

Someone to love and support me, no matter what.

Keep dreaming, Bec. Keep fucking dreaming…