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In this scene, my heroine, Donna Stone, is on the hunt for a large shipment of stolen plutonium. A hot lead sends her to a posh Beverly Hills art gallery. Just because the owner is sleazy doesn't mean he has anything to hide–
Or does he?
Donna finds out–the hard way.
Speaking of works of art, here's another angry housewife painting from one of my favorite artists, Kelly Reemtsen. You can catch her work here on her website, and also at Skidmore Contemporary Art in Santa Monica, David Klein Gallery in Birmingham Michigan, or DeBuck Gallery, in New York.
The subject is wearing the perfect frock for a the start of summer, don't you think? And who'd a thunk an ax would make such an eye-catching accessory?
TGI Holiday Weekend,
“It’s a Larkaro,” Armand Fronsdal hisses in my
ear. “Arresting, is it not?”
Yep, that’s exactly how I’d describe an art installation made up of a video projector playing a short film in which three big-breasted nymphs cavort in the woods. But hey, what do I know from art?
One thing I do know: this man’s breath leaves a lot to be desired.
But when I turn to face him, I’ve already set my lips into a come-hither pout. “I’m looking for something a bit more… je ne sais quoi? Ah! Romantique.”
Having one-upped his Lounge Lizardeese with my high school French has scored me major points with this jerk. He crooks a finger at me to follow him.
He is too tall and too slight: think Ichabod Crane in Goth. If his ponytail is supposed to cover up the fact that he’s got a bald spot, he’s failed miserably. He’s wearing more eyeliner than me, which is saying a lot, because I laid it on thick this morning.
Albeit no thicker than the crap he’s laying on me now. “Has ma’amselle been complimented for her resemblance to John Singer Sargent’s magnificent painting of Mrs. Waldorf Astor?”
I shrug. While it is flattering, we both know it’s a stretch. Edvard Munch’s The Scream,
“Ah, well, perhaps we shall find some petit amusement, oui?” I murmur. Playing
the bored art patroness has meant dressing up in a shiny ass-grazing red
leather dress that zips up the front, black fishnet stockings that end in
four-inch Louboutin thigh-high boots, and a veiled chapeau perched atop my
French twist. What with the tightness of the dress and the tiny heels of the
shoes, keeping up with his long strides is a bitch.
The gallery is really a warehouse broken up into
several rooms. He doesn’t stop until he reaches the one farthest to the back of
the building. One wall is made up of medieval pitchforks in a lattice pattern.
Near another, a seven-foot hot pink and purple polka-dot penis rises, thick and
proud, among two humongous blue balls.
The center installation is made up of abstract
mirrored balls of varying sizes, hung from the ceiling. They are dripping some
substance the color of blood.
If this is his idea of romantic, I’m guessing he doesn’t go on many dates.
“Voila,” he purrs in an accent as bad as mine.
“C'est magnifique,” I whisper as I stare up at the mirrored balls.
“This is my private atelier,” he hisses proudly. “Everything in here is my own creation. If this piece speaks to you, I’m sure we can come up with some arrangement: say, forty thou? That’s a third off the catalog price.”
“Such a steal. Almost wholesale.” I tilt my head. Unconsciously I straighten the seams of my stockings. In truth, I am taking aim with the toe of my right bootie. It is loaded with truth serum. The sooner I take this guy down, the better. This place gives me a bad case of the creeps, and I want out of here fast—
Ah, darn! His cell phone just buzzed. I wave him off as he excuses himself to answer it.
In one of the mirrored balls hanging from the ceiling, I see that he is almost at the door when he freezes. His back straightens. Then slowly he turns around.
He has a wary look on his face. He doesn’t think I see him as he plucks one of the pitchforks from the wall. And steps up behind
But I’m too quick for him, swinging the largest of the mirrored balls toward his skull.
It knocks him down but not out. The pitchfork skitters on the slippery floor. As I lunge for it, he grabs my ankle, and I fall hard—
Damn. These. Heels…
Copyright © 2011 by Josie Brown. Published in May 2011 by Signal Press. All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or medium must be secured from the Author.
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