Old Ink (Get Ink'd #3) - Ali Lyda Page 0,71

to me. I’d only taken a short art history course in school for an elective credit, and it had covered the Italian Renaissance. That definitely wasn’t what these people were discussing.

It felt like I’d disappeared. I was a ghost child at a table for grownups, and there wasn’t enough wine in the world to make me feel real again. So when it was time to go, I was filled with such relief that I swayed when I got out of the chair. Okay, so maybe I’d had a glass too many on what amounted to an empty stomach because fuck all those small plates.

“Steady,” Reagan said in a hushed tone as he caught my elbow to balance me.

Probably embarrassed by me. It was uncharitable, and the roar of alcohol made the heat of my shame that much more intense. I let him lead me to the truck. I slumped in the front seat. The world wasn’t spinning, but it did feel muted. Then again, maybe that was because I was beginning to withdraw into myself, where I couldn’t feel embarrassed or angry or awkward.

The cab rocked as Reagan hauled himself into his seat. “Are you okay?”

“Peachy.” I shut my eyes. “I’m sorry,” I said a second later, straightening up and forcing myself to look at him. “I’m hungry, and I felt a bit out of place.”

His smile bolstered me. “God, yeah. That food wasn’t even food. After the gallery showing, let’s get some real meals at the diner, okay?”

I felt woozy at the prospect of spending even more time on this evening. But at least this part would be active. I’d be able to see Reagan’s art and the others from his class who were part of the exhibition. And maybe there would be snacks? God, I hoped there were snacks.

“Sounds great,” I said, reaching over to squeeze his thigh, both a gesture of support for him and a reminder to myself of why I was doing this.

When we pulled into a driveway, though, I was confused. A mansion was sprawled out ahead of us, well-lit and cars packed around an enormous circled driveway. There were people in suits and dresses entering the front. “I thought we were going to a gallery?”

“We are,” Reagan said, but I heard a hint of chagrin in his voice. “Ian’s converted a portion of his home into a gallery. He’s the one sponsoring and hosting the alumni show.”

“This is Ian’s house?”

“Uh, yeah.” Reagan cleared his throat. “He doesn’t just teach. He does a lot of buying and selling of artwork, and makes a very good living with it.”

I stared at the stone walls, the well-manicured lawn, and the types of cars parked in the circle. Let’s just say we were in the only American-made pickup truck in an ocean of luxury sedans.

I wanted to bolt. I wanted to strip off this suit that suddenly made me feel like a toddler playing dress-up, I wanted to wash the mousse out of my hair, and I wanted to sober up on a worn-out couch with Reagan at my side in his typical t-shirt and jeans. I didn’t want to be here.

You can do this for him. And one look at Reagan confirmed my desire to try harder. He was smiling to himself. At dinner he’d been charismatic, conversational in a way I’d never seen before. At Get Ink’d he was all gruff, wallflower boss man, hiding in his office and coming out to papa bear when his crew needed it.

He was gentle, smart, and so fucking supportive of everyone. But he also put everyone’s needs in front of his own. Tonight I felt as if I were seeing a part of him that he’d hidden. Suppressed. And it was a part that clearly brought him joy. I wanted him to experience that. I just also wanted to be included as more than window dressing.

We went inside and were immediately presented with flutes of champagne. I followed Reagan as we headed toward a back room where people were milling around. When we stepped inside, I saw it wasn’t a normal room. Ian had clearly had the walls blown out on the entire wing of the home, creating a large, open space. The floors were a beautiful knotted pine, the walls white and covered with art. There were caterers moving smoothly through throngs of partygoers with trays of hors d'oeuvres and that, I decided, might save the evening.

Reagan pointed to a buffet as well, and thank God, because