His Masterpiece by Ava Lore Read Free Book Online Page A

nothing to do with the circumstances I currently found myself in.
    It wasn't beautiful. In fact, it was pretty weird looking, a bust of an old man all pushed and pulled and warped until the weariness of the world rolled off it, but that was the mark of Rodin. The celebration of the real, of the run down, of the tired and beaten. I loved it. It spoke to me, and for a tiny split second the world ground to a halt. The cold air fell away, the high, tight panic in my chest withdrew, the noise of the street outside and Don's impatient sighs faded as I took a tiny moment to enjoy this piece that I'd admired since I'd first seen it.
    A ghost of a thought grazed against my brain. Malcolm saw something in me like I saw something in this sculpture. Something strong. Beautiful despite its flaws. Or maybe because of its flaws.
    Something expressive.
    And heavy, I thought. It wasn't the traditional bronze of a Rodin, but it was plaster. God. I didn't want to do this. I really didn't. I had to, though.
    I'd found the bust sitting on the ground, so I hunched my body around it as I tore the paper and bubble wrap away. I gasped, feigning surprise, and behind me Don's shoes ground over the concrete as he stood up straighter and took notice.
    I ran my fingers over the sculpture. “I...” I hesitated. “I think I found something. It's here, I think.” I remembered then how I'd grunted and acted weak as I'd lifted the door, and I did so again. A great groan burst out of me as I struggled to lift the plaster sculpture. My baggy artist's clothes made me look smaller than I was, and I stopped trying to lift it, breathing hard, though it was from fear more than effort. “Help me,” I panted. “I think there's something under it.”
    The footsteps behind me were hurried, and my stomach drew tighter and harder. He was buying it, but there was no joy in me about that. Not yet. I was so close. My hands were slippery on the plaster, and I frantically wiped them on my jeans. I'd need a strong grip when the time came.
    “What's wrong?” he said. He was only a few steps behind me. I felt the oppressive presence of the gun like a weight in the world.
    I licked my lips. “I need you to help me lift it,” I said.
    He laughed. “You must think I'm stupid if you think I'm going to put down this gun.”
    “But I only have five minutes,” I replied. My voice was starting to shake. If I didn't get him at least close to me, I was fucking dead.
    “Try again. Just shove it over if you have to.”
    Real outrage surged through me. “No! This is a Rodin, it's priceless. It'll break if I push it over.”
    He sighed, but it was impatient. “Here,” he said, reaching down for the head with one huge hand, and there, peeking from the sleeve of his jacket, was a small shiny scar, the size of a cigarette.
    Time stopped and I stared at that wrist.
    Scarred, just like me.
    This man, I remembered. He's just like me. Abused. Knocked around. The world had failed him, too. But I would never kill anyone for any amount of money. Why would he?
    And then, gently, the question turned on its head.
    Why wouldn't I?
    I didn't have to be good. He didn't have to be bad. And yet here we were. Was that part of what Malcolm saw in me, the alternate path Don could have taken? Where the wounds turned rage inward instead of outward? Where the disappointment and the fear and the sadness came out in stunted art and a bitter tongue rather than ruthlessness and cruelty?
    And then I had no more time to think about it, because his hand was almost on the sculpture, and I thought to myself: What the fuck does it matter?
    It didn't.
    So I brained him with the Rodin.
    I heaved. I was not weak like he thought I was, and the plaster lifted from the floor with just enough effort to give it a deadly heft. He tried to back away, but his greed for the evidence had unbalanced him. He was leaning forward, couldn't correct his course in time. The bust swung up and out at the end of my arms, flew