There Are No Saints (Sinners Duet)

Early in the morning, I finally rinse out my paintbrushes and wash my hands at the sparkling stainless-steel sink in the corner.

I worked all night long, and now I have a brunch shift to cover. But I don’t regret a thing. This painting is coming alive in a way I’ve never experienced before. I wish I could keep working on it right now.

I gather up my scattered belongings, pausing in front of the large mirror hung on the wall so I can tidy my paint-streaked bird’s nest of hair.

As I’m doing so, I spot something in the reflection that I hadn’t noticed before: a camera mounted above the door, pointed into the studio. I frown, turning to face the blank black lens.

Why is there a camera in here?

Is it recording all the time?

Something tells me yes, it is.

I feel suddenly self-conscious, replaying my spastic behavior all night long as I labored away on the painting. Was I talking to myself? Scratching my ass?

I’m paranoid that Cole Blackwell is watching me.

He unnerves me, and I don’t fucking trust him. I don’t know what his intentions are, but experience has taught me that when a man takes a special interest in me, it’s never fucking good.

As I’m leaving, I stop at the cafe on the ground level, treating myself to one of the iced lattes Sonia promised were so good. She’s not wrong—the coffee is rich and perfectly prepared.

Sonia herself comes through the front doors as I’m leaving.

I kind of wish she hadn’t caught sight of me, since she’s dressed in a stylish scarlet pantsuit, her hair freshly blown out and her lipstick immaculate. Whereas I look like I spent the night riding around in the back of a garbage truck.

Also, if she’s talked to Cole, there’s a good chance she’s going to give me my walking papers.

“Oh, Mara!” she says, “You’re here early.”

“Hey,” I say nervously. “Just leaving, actually. I was working late—I hope that’s okay.”

“More than okay.” She smiles. “That’s why you have twenty-four-hour access.”

“Yeah . . .” I say. “Actually I was curious . . . I noticed a camera in the studio. Right above the door.”

“Oh, yes,” she says. “All the studios have them. It’s for security purposes only—we’ve had issues with theft in the past. Don’t worry, no one has access to the feed. It would only be reviewed in cases where an incident has occurred.”

“Sure.” I nod.

I don’t believe a word she’s saying. Cole owns this building, and those cameras are there for a reason.

“I have good news for you,” Sonia says.

“You do?” I say, still thinking about the camera.

“The guild reviewed all the applications . . . you’ve been chosen for the grant!”

I stare at her, dumbfounded.

“Are you serious?”

“Completely.” She passes me a slim envelope with my name neatly typed on the label. “That’s your check. And you’ll be showing at New Voices in a couple of weeks!”

I clutch the envelope, stunned. “I’m starting to feel like you’re my fairy godmother, Sonia.”

She laughs. “Better than a wicked stepmother.”

She strides away cheerfully, heading up toward her office.

I open the envelope and take out the check, which has my full name on it, made out for two thousand dollars, right there in black and white.

What the fuck is going on?

There’s no way I should have gotten that grant after confronting Blackwell. In fact, I expected Sonia to tell me to pack my shit and get out.

Instead, she handed me a check.

Which means Blackwell is doing me another favor.

Favors ALWAYS come with strings.

What the fuck does he want?

I hurry home so I can shower and change before my shift. Already my tiny room feels cramped and dingy compared to the luxurious studio space. My roommates pepper me with questions as I stuff my face with a hasty piece of toast.

“You met Blackwell?” Erin says. “What was he like?”

“A dick,” I mumble around the toast. “Just like Joanna said.”

“What did you talk about?” Frank demands.

They’re all wide-eyed and eager, thinking we discussed color theory or our greatest influences.

I’d like to tell them exactly what went down. But I find myself hesitating, remembering Cole’s threat. No one will believe you . . . you’ll only look more unstable.

These are my best friends. I should be able to tell them exactly what happened.

But I find myself stammering and twisting in my seat, unable to meet their eyes.

I’ve had a long and ugly history of people not believing me. Stories twisted, facts changed, people who weren’t what they seemed to be.

It really starts to fuck with your sense of reality. Every time someone tells you that you’re wrong, it didn’t happen like you said it happened, it couldn’t, you’re a liar, you’re a child, you don’t understand . . .

Each hack of the hatchet takes a chunk out of your confidence, until you don’t even believe yourself anymore.

“We talked about a grant,” I say, shoving the check across the table at Joanna. “I’ll sign that over to you—I know I owe you for this month’s rent and last.”

“I told you I could swing it for a few weeks . . .” Joanna says, her elegant features screwed in a scowl.

“I know. And thank you—but I have it now.”

Frank rips open the envelope, pulling out the check. “TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I know,” I say, blushing. “Finally getting lucky.”

“It’s not luck,” Joanna says. “You’re talented.”

Erin yanks the check out of Frank’s hand so she can ogle it, too.

“Is he . . . into you?” she says.

“Erin!” Joanna chastises her.

“No!” I shake my head vehemently.

“How do you know?” Frank says.

“Trust me, Blackwell doesn’t like me. In fact, he might hate my guts.” I shiver, remembering the coldness of his eyes . . . dark, empty space. No sign of life.

“Then why does he keep helping you?” Erin says.

I bite my lip, a little too hard. “I really don’t know.”

Three hours later, I’m deep in the brunch shift, hauling out platters of sweet potato hash and artfully arranged avocado toast, when Cole Blackwell sits down at one of my tables.

I almost drop my tray of mimosas.

Cole cuts such a striking figure that almost everyone at the sidewalk tables stares at him. Every woman in a hundred-yard radius is suddenly compelled to smooth their hair and check their lip gloss. Even my boss Arthur squints and frowns, wondering if somebody famous just sat down.

Cole has that look of effortless celebrity, like certain models and rock stars. Tall, lean, and elegantly dressed in clothes that you know cost five figures. It’s his careless arrogance that really tops it off. Like you could get hit by a bus right in front of him and he wouldn’t even notice.

He’s also drop-dead gorgeous. So stunning that it only increases my distrust of him. Nobody that beautiful can be good, it’s impossible. Power corrupts and beauty warps the mind.

He looks even more handsome out in the open, the gray light glowing gently on his pallid skin, his dark hair wind-tossed, and the collar of his jacket turned up against that razor-sharp jawline.

He saw me long before I saw him. He’s already smirking, his dark eyes glittering with malice.

“Bring me one of those mimosas,” he orders.

I think I hate him. A wave of fury surges inside of me at the sight of his haughty face.

“You’re supposed to wait for the hostess to seat you,” I mutter.

“I’m sure you can handle one more table.”

“Here you go.” Ungraciously, I thrust a menu into his hands.

When I return a few minutes later with his drink, he says, “I want you to eat with me.”

“I can’t. I’m in the middle of a shift.”

“Bring me a coffee then, and I’ll wait.”

“No,” I snap. “You can’t sit here that long.”

“I doubt your manager will mind. Shall I ask him?”

“Look,” I hiss. “I don’t know what you’re trying to pull, giving me that grant. You can’t buy me off that easy.”

“I’m not buying you off,” Cole says, black eyes fixed on mine. “I already told you, I don’t care what story you tell.”

“Then why did you give it to me?”

“Because your work was the best.”

That hits me like a slap, even though it’s supposed to be a compliment. He sounds completely matter-of-fact. And god, I’d like to believe it. But I don’t trust him, not for one fucking second.

“Finish your shift,” Cole says, dismissing me imperiously. “Then we’ll talk.”

I finish out the brunch shift, feeling his eyes on me everywhere I turn. My skin burns and I fumble through tasks I could usually perform in my sleep.

“What’s with the camper?” Arthur asks me.

“Sorry—he’s waiting to talk to me. He owns my studio.”

“Oh, a rival boss, eh?” Arthur snickers, peeking around the corner to observe Cole closer.

“He’s not my boss.” I toss my head, irritated.

“He looks rich,” Arthur says. “You should ask him out.”

“No fucking way.”

“He is rich though, isn’t he?”

“Yeah,” I admit.

“I knew it.” Arthur nods, wisely. “I can always tell.”

“He’s wearing a Patek Philippe. You’re not exactly Inspector Poirot.”

“You better lose the sass, or he’ll never date you.”

“I DON’T WANT HIM TO DATE ME!”

Arthur looks at me pityingly. “Women always say that.”

I wish I could slap Arthur and Cole at the same time, with both hands.

“Well, go ahead then,” Arthur says. “I’ll handle your closing duties.”

“Thanks,” I say, not actually grateful.

Taking off my apron, I plop down in the seat opposite Cole.

“What should we order?” he says.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Liar. You must be starving after working all night.”

I narrow my eyes at him, trying to ignore the sensual shape of his lips and those outrageous cheekbones. Trying to focus only on the cold brilliance of that stare, harder than diamond.

“I knew you were spying on me,” I say.

Cole shrugs, unabashed. “It’s my studio. I know everything that goes on inside.”

“What do you want from me?” I demand. “Why are you fucking with me? I know you are, don’t deny it.”

“Fucking with you? That’s a funny way to say thank you.”

“I told you, just because you gave me that grant doesn’t mean—”

I’m interrupted by Arthur, who has apparently decided to wait a table for the first time in a decade so he can have the pleasure of observing my annoyance up close.

“GOOD morning!” he trills. “What can I get for you two fine people?”

Cole turns toward Arthur with a smile of such startling sincerity that I can only gape. His entire face transforms, suddenly animated. Even his voice softens, becoming warm and humorous.

“Mara was just telling me how hungry she is,” Cole says. “I want to treat her to all her favorites—I’m sure you know what she likes.”

“My goodness,” Arthur says, eyes wide behind his spectacles. “How incredibly generous.”

If I wasn’t sitting down, he’d be elbowing me in the ribs right now.

“I am generous,” Cole says, his grin widening. “Thank you for noticing.”

Arthur laughs. “And to think Mara didn’t want to eat breakfast with you.”

“Silly Mara,” Cole says, patting my hand in a way that makes me feel murderous. “She never knows what’s good for her.”

Arthur is enjoying this so much that he doesn’t want to leave to punch in our order. I have to clear my throat several times, loudly, before he departs.

As soon as he’s gone, I snatch my hand back from Cole.

“I don’t need you,” I inform him.

Cole snorts.

“The fuck you don’t. You’re flat broke, no studio, barely making rent. No connections and no cash. You absolutely need my help.”

I really wish I had an argument for that.

All I can do is scowl and say, “I’ve gotten along just fine so far.”

Cole lets out a long sigh of annoyance.

“I think we both know that’s not true. Even putting aside how we first met—which was hardly your finest moment—you’re not doing so great in the real world either. But now you’ve met me. And in a few short weeks, you’ll be showing at New Voices. I could personally recommend you to several brokers I know. You have no idea the doors I could open for you . . .”

I cross my arms over my chest. “In exchange for what?”

Cole smiles. This is his genuine smile—not the one he showed Arthur. There’s nothing warm or friendly about it. Actually, it’s pretty fucking terrifying.

“You’ll be my protégé,” he says.

“What does that mean?”

“We’ll get to know each other. I’ll give you advice, mentorship. You’ll follow that advice, and you’ll flourish.”

The words he’s saying sound perfectly benign. Yet I get the feeling that I’m about to sign a devil’s bargain with a hell of a hidden clause.

“Is there some kind of sexual implication here I’m missing?” I say. “Are you the Weinstein of the art world?”

Cole sits back in his chair, sipping his mimosa lazily. This new position shows off his long legs and his powerful chest flexing beneath his cashmere sweater, in a display that is absolutely intentional.

“Do I look like I need to bribe women for sex?”

“No,” I admit.

Half my roommates would fuck Cole in a heartbeat. Actually, all of them would, except maybe Peter.

I bite the edge of my thumbnail, considering.

“Don’t bite your nails,” Cole snaps. “It’s disgusting.”

I bite my nail harder, scowling at him.

He’s going to be bossy and controlling, I can already tell. Is that what he wants? A puppet dancing on his strings?

“Can I come see your studio?” I ask.

This is an audacious request. Cole Blackwell doesn’t show his studio to anyone. Especially not when he’s in the middle of a series. I have no right to ask—but I have the strangest sense that he just might agree.

“Already making demands?” Cole says. He stirs his straw through his ice with a cold clicking sound.

“Surely a protégé gets to see the master at work,” I reply.

Cole smiles. He likes being called “master.”

“I’ll consider it,” he says. “Now . . .” he leans forward on the table, steepling his slim, pale hands in front of him. “We’re going to talk about you.”

Fuck. That happens to be my least favorite topic.

“What do you want to know?”

He looks at me hungrily. “Everything.”

I swallow hard. “Alright. I’ve lived here my whole life. Always wanted to be an artist. Now I am—sort of.”

“What about your family?”

Come to think of it, that’s my least favorite topic.

I put my hands down on my lap so I won’t start chewing my nails again.

“I don’t have any family,” I say.

“Everyone has family.”

“Not me.” I glare at him, lips pressed together, stubborn.

“Where’s the alcoholic mother?” Cole says.

To me, our conversation at the studio was a blur of shouted accusations and utter confusion. Cole apparently remembers every word, including the part I blurted out and now fervently regret.

“She’s in Bakersville,” I mutter.

“What about the stepfather?”

“As far as I know, he lives in New Mexico. I haven’t talked to either of them in years.”

“Why?”

My heart is hammering and I feel that sick, squirming sensation in my stomach that always arises when I’m forced to think about my mother. I like to keep her trapped behind a locked door in my brain. She’s emotional cancer—if I let her out, she’ll infect every part of me.

“She’s the worst person I’ve ever met,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “And that includes my stepfather. I ran away the day I turned eighteen.”

“Where’s your actual father?”

“Dead.”

“So is mine,” Cole says. “I find it’s better that way.”

I look at him sharply, wondering if that’s supposed to be a joke.

“I loved my father,” I say coldly. “The day I lost him was the worst day of my life.”

Cole smiles. “The worst day so far.”

What. The. Fuck.

“So Daddy died, leaving you alone with Mommy dearest and not a penny between you,” Cole prods me, wrinkling his nose like he can still smell those awful years on my skin.

“There’s worse things than being poor,” I inform him. “There was a period of time when I had my hair brushed, a clean uniform, I went to a private school with a lunch packed every day. It was hell.”

“Enlighten me,” Cole says, one dark eyebrow raised.

“No,” I say flatly. “I’m not a sideshow for your amusement.”

“Why are you so combative?” he says. “Have you ever tried cooperating?”

“In my experience, when men say ‘cooperative,’ they mean ‘obedient.’ ”

He grins. “Then have you ever tried being obedient?”

“Never.”

That’s a lie. I have tried it. All I learned is that no amount of submission is good enough for a man. You can roll over, show your belly, beg for mercy, and they’ll just keep hitting you. Because the very act of breathing is rebellious in the eyes of an angry male.

Cole’s dark eyes rove over my face, giving me the uncomfortable sensation that he can see every thought I’d prefer to keep hidden.

Thankfully, I’m saved by Arthur depositing several platters of steaming food in front of us.

“All the greatest hits,” he says, grinning broadly.

“Looks phenomenal,” Cole says, turning on the charm with the flick of a switch.

Only after Arthur leaves us does Cole examine the food with his usual critical glare.

“What is this?” he demands.

“That’s the bacon sampler platter,” I say, nodding toward four marinated strips of premium pork belly labeled with fancy script like each is a guest at a wedding.

Cole frowns. “It looks . . . intense.”

“It’s the best thing you’ll ever put in your mouth. Look,” I cut off a bite of the rosemary balsamic bacon. “Try this one first.”

Cole takes a bite. He chews slowly, his expression melting from skepticism into genuine surprise.

“Holy shit,” he says.

“I told you—try this one now. Brown sugar cinnamon.”

He takes a bite of the second strip, eyebrows rising and an unwilling smile tugging at his mouth.

“This is so good.”

“I know,” I snap. “That’s why I work here. It’s the literal best brunch in the city.”

“Is that really why you work here?” Cole asks, watching me closely.

“Yes. The smell of food—I can’t stand it if it’s not good. The food here smells incredible because it is incredible. Here, try this now—take a sip of the mimosa, then eat one of the spicy-sweet potatoes.”

Cole does exactly what I said, taking a small sip of his drink, then quickly biting into the potato.

“What the fuck,” he says. “Why is that so good?”

“I dunno.” I shrug. “Something about the sour citrus and then the pop of salt. They amplify each other.”

Cole is watching me as I eat my own food, taking a small bite of one thing and then another, cycling through my favorite combinations.

“Is that how you eat?” he says.

I shrug. “Unless I’m in a hurry.”

“Show me more combinations.”

I show him all my favorite ways to eat the magnificent brunch spread Arthur laid before us—lemon curd layered with fresh strawberries and clotted cream on the scones, blueberries between bites of maple bacon, a dash of hot sauce mixed in with the hollandaise . . .

Cole tries it all with an unusual level of curiosity. I’d assume somebody as rich as him has eaten at a million fancy restaurants.

“Don’t you eat out all the time?” I ask him.

He shakes his head. “I don’t spend much time on food. It bores me.”

“But you like this?”

“I do,” he says, almost as if he hates to admit it. “How do you come up with all this?”

I shrug. “When I was little, we never had fresh groceries. Dinner was whatever I could scrounge from the kitchen without mold growing on it. A can of corn. Boiled egg. Dry cereal. I never tried most foods until I started working at restaurants. I’d never tasted steak, or cilantro, or avocado. I wanted to try everything—it was like discovering a whole new sense.”

“But there was a time when you weren’t poor,” Cole says, harrying that point like a dog with a bone. He’s really not gonna fucking drop it.

“Yes,” I say testily. “When we lived with Randall.”

“That’s your stepfather.”

“Yes.”

“What did you eat then?”

“Not fucking much. He used to scream at me if my spoon clinked in my cereal bowl.”

“How old were you?”

“Eleven.”

“He didn’t like having a stepkid?”

“No. He didn’t. And by that point, he had learned a thing or two about my mother. She’s very good at fooling people for a while. By the time he realized, they were already married.”

“Realized what?”

“That she’s a parasite. That her only ambition is to latch onto people and bleed them dry.”

Cole nods slowly. “Including you,” he says.

“Especially me.”

I leave brunch in a kind of a daze, wondering how in the fuck Cole Blackwell now knows more about my sordid history than my closest friends. He’s relentless . . . and hypnotic, the way he fixes me with those deep, dark eyes, never looking away for a moment. The way he absorbs everything I say with none of the usual displays of sympathy or irritating commiseration. He just soaks it in and demands more, like he plans to drill down to the core of me, strip-mining my soul.

He insisted on paying for the meal, leaving an extra hundred-dollar bill as a tip for Arthur.

I can already see how he uses his money to manipulate people—including me. I cashed that two-thousand-dollar check because I had to, because I owe Joanna for rent and utilities, and I have to pay the credit card bill for the replacement cellphone, and my hospital bill, too.

Cole knows exactly how much leverage he has over me, and he isn’t shy about leaning on the lever.

And yet, despite the fact that he’s clearly callous and manipulative, and he left me to fucking die in the woods, I still find myself walking with strange lightness down the hilly streets to my sparkling new studio.

Maybe because he wasn’t trying to make me feel better. In fact, it’s the first time I’ve ever mentioned this topic without hearing the words, “But it’s your mom . . .”

Cole offered no sympathy. He also offered no excuses. No fucking platitudes. No lies.

I spend the afternoon working on my new painting. I’ve never felt such confidence in a piece of my own work. It seems to come alive under my hands, like it has a mind of its own. Michelangelo used to say that—that the sculpture was always there inside the marble. He just had to release it.

That’s how I feel today. The painting is already there, inside the canvas and inside my brain. My brush is exposing what already exists. Perfect and whole—all it needs is to be unveiled.