His Masterpiece by Ava Lore Read Free Book Online

out.
    Hands sweating, heart pounding, I darted away from Don. I heard him curse behind me as he made haste to follow, and I silently swore that the warehouse wasn't as terribly cluttered as Malcolm's house had been. I could have hidden, maybe... except there was only one way out. I decided to ignore what-ifs and could-have-beens for the moment and concentrate on forming a plan.
    The harsh lights overhead gave the whole warehouse a weird, surreal quality. My orientation was thrown off and I found myself bumping into things as my panicked thoughts chased each other in and out of the labyrinths in my head. I jogged on, through the mountains of boxes and furniture, clipping corners with my hip, scraping my arm over rolled up rugs. My anxious eyes swept over the packages surrounding us, some piled high and neat, others lumped together haphazardly. The only saving grace was that each one was labeled quite clearly, and I found that there was a sort of order as I scurried between the groups while Don, larger and more ungainly than me, squeezed through the narrow aisles.
    Here were the Dolls (Living Room) and there were the Accordians (Library). Collectibles. My hands floated out from my sides, brushing over the scratchy cardboard as I searched for the art section. I passed through a maze of bookcases, then through their neatly organized guts ( fiction, fiction, atlases, history...) Large squares wrapped in brown paper—paintings, the descriptions of each floating across the surface of the paper like a pale ghost of the image inside—told me I was getting warmer. I shuffled through the phantom gallery, squeezing between Fox Hunt and Nude Homosexual Couple, making a beeline for the huge, shapeless lumps wrapped in paper and bubble wrap. Those would be the sculptures.
    The chilly air caressed my cheeks as I stopped, breathing hard with fear and adrenaline. I heard Don behind me, his fine shoes scraping over the dirty concrete, and I hoped they had become scuffed to hell and back. As I had thought, Malcolm had quite a few sculptures, but not as many as I had feared. Good. I just... just had to figure out what I was going to do now...
    I stepped forward and dug my fingers into the tight wrapping of one large lump. My fingernails tore at the plastic and tape as behind me Don caught his breath and said, “Ten minutes.”
    Fuck you, I thought. What was I going to do? I tugged and swore until the wrapping had fallen away completely and I ran my hands over a large, abstract sculpture made of welded bits of farm equipment. Rusty corners caught my numb flesh, and I gritted my teeth. Was there something here I could use as a weapon? How would I even get close enough to use it?
    “Shit!” I said. Tears gathered at the corner of my eyes.
    “Eight minutes.”
    I whirled around, breathing hard. So many sculptures, and I had no idea what to do with them. I'd bought all the time I could...
    I reached for another one, hoping it would give me some kind of inspiration, but the packaging came away easily, revealing a ceramic vase painted with naked ladies. I looked inside it, for appearances, but of course there was nothing in it. The thumb drive between my legs poked and prodded me awkwardly. I moved on, ripping wrapping from sculptures and curios, sticking my hands through the gaps, making a show of looking, my mind racing. If I were a shithead, I thought giddily, despairingly, what would I be thinking right now?
    I'd probably be enjoying my frustration... but I'd be frustrated myself. Without knowing where that evidence had gone, I would be forever looking over my shoulder, forever wondering when I would be caught out.
    My hands mechanically ripped away the plastic covering another sculpture, and my breath caught.
    The Rodin.
    I'd thought it was by a student of Rodin when I'd first seen it, but now, close up, my hands actually on it, I realized it was the work of the master himself, and my lungs hitched as I had a tiny, artistic orgasm that had