Blank Spaces (A Toronto Connections Novel)

Caution: The following details may be considered spoilerish. Click on a label to reveal its content.

Length: Novel (45K+ words)

Heat Wave: 4 - On-screen and mildly explicit love scenes

Erotic Frequency: 2 - Not many

Genre: comedy, contemporary, romance

Gender: cisgender

Orientation: ace spectrum, asexual, gay

Pairing: male/male, multiple partners

Age: 20s

Ending: happy for now

Tone: humorous, realistic, sweet

Themes: child abuse / neglect, coming out, commitment, family, financial gap / class disparity, self-discovery / self-reflection

Kinks: exhibitionism, frottage

Era:

Settings: art gallery, bar / club, Canada, city, museum, office building, Toronto

Careers: art gallery curator / associate, art investigator, artist / designer, assistant, office worker

Species:

Chapter One

Vaughn stood in front of the wall, the sinking feeling in his stomach rapidly turning into plunging freefall. Around him, the silence of the gallery made ample space for him to take in a deep breath. And another one. Just to make sure he was awake and seeing this right.

Because a very obvious blank space sat on the wall in front of him instead of a showcase work of art. A delicate arrangement of threads sewn from a canvas onto clear plastic piping to resemble a dark, fragmented wormhole reaching towards the viewer, to be precise. It was visually arresting in a kind of nightmarish way, and it was also one of the main pieces of this exhibit.

Despite all his deep breathing, it remained missing.

“Shit.” He looked around, but every other piece still rested safely on plinths or on the wall or in the wall, in some cases. “Shit.”

He dug his phone out of his pocket and dialled his manager, Maurice. While he waited for Maurice to pick up, Vaughn walked swiftly around the gallery, keeping a desperate eye out for black threads attached to canvas. Maybe the cleaner had lost his mind and moved it. Maybe one of the owners or the artist, Jai Yoon, had sold it but hadn’t logged the sale. Maybe, just maybe, there was a nice explanation for the disappearance.

But no, everything else was in its place, except for an empty bag of chips some cretin of a visitor had left in one corner. He dumped it in a nearby bin.

Maurice wasn’t picking up.

Vaughn tried again. And again. But by the time he’d checked the front desk, the stationery closet at the front desk, the manager’s office, and the storage closet at the back of the gallery, Maurice still hadn’t answered. He gave up. “Shiiit.”

This was the third piece this year. Not good.

He went back upstairs to the office, tapping in the entry code on the way. He was the only person there, because Vaughn Hargrave was the lowly gallery assistant (read: office grunt) responsible for opening the gallery on time. This being the art world and today being a normal working day, no one else would show up until just before lunchtime.

Not today. He had to get his manager here. Failing Maurice, the owners. The police. Somebody. He turned on his laptop and ran to the filing cabinet that contained the physical copies of sales made through their gallery. While he thumbed through last month’s receipts, he dialled Maurice again. He’d found nothing for the piece by the time the voice mail kicked in.

“Maurice,” he said thickly, “another piece is missing. The Yoon. Get here now.” He hung up, then navigated to the contact info of the owner, Angeline. He took a deep breath and pressed her name.

She picked up on the first ring. “What is it, Vaughn?”

“The Yoon’s not here.”

“Excuse me?”

“Jai Yoon’s piece, Entrance. It’s not here; I’ve looked everywhere. It wasn’t sold. It wasn’t misplaced. It’s gone.”

She sucked in a breath. “What did Maurice say?”

“I can’t reach him.”

“I’ll handle him. Take down the plaque and put some folding chairs in that space. Open the gallery on time. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

“But what about—” she hung up and Vaughn exhaled heavily “—the police,” he said to his phone. It promptly vibrated in his hand and he saw Angeline’s name on his screen. He picked up.

“Vaughn.” Her voice was extra crisp. “On second thought, don’t do anything I just said. Also, do not call the police until I get there.”

“Yes, An—” She hung up. Normally her distinct lack of manners grated on him, but today he was grateful for the brevity.

Vaughn put his phone away and returned to his laptop station. As he opened his inbox, his mind raced. This was bad. This was really bad. If this turned out to be another theft, no one would want to exhibit at their gallery, and if no one wanted to exhibit at their gallery, they’d go out of business, and if they went out of business, he’d have to get another position, and he really, really didn’t want to do that. This assistant position, awful as it could be, had him working with art and exhibitions and meeting people in Toronto’s art scene; it was worth the ego management and terrible pay. Finding another job like this one? Soon? He didn’t even want to think about how difficult that would be.

And who would want to employ someone who’d had multiple pieces stolen while in their care? Not that he personally was responsible for the artworks; no, the owners Angeline and Cressida were, and perhaps the expensive security team supposedly available 24-7 to respond to breaches in the very high-tech security system they’d installed earlier this year. Only, they hadn’t responded to this because there hadn’t been a breach. Vaughn would know, because he’d turned the damn thing off half an hour ago when he’d arrived.

The security upgrade. The 24-7 monitoring team. There was an idea. He called them and asked for a system report of the last week.

Then he sat down and breathed deeply for a moment. There wasn’t any reason to panic. Not yet. Perhaps not at all. Angeline would arrive and they’d call the police and the police would pretend to do something about the gallery space—though how pictures of a blank wall would help them figure out what happened, Vaughn had no idea—and then he’d open the gallery and direct visitors and answer calls and fetch sushi for Cressida like normal. Nope, no need to panic.

So. While he waited for Angeline, he could review emails and answer inquiries like he always did. Yeah, he could totally do that. He was gonna do that right now.

The very first email he looked at was from Jai Yoon, wondering if she could bring her family for free that day, to show them the piece. They’d flown in from South Korea to visit her and wanted to see her work on display.

A strange garbled noise left his mouth, and he clapped one hand over it. Keep it together, Hargrave.

Maurice chose that moment to call him. Thank you.

“Maurice,” he answered in relief.

“Vaughn, why the hell did I just have Angeline scream at me on the phone?”

Because you didn’t answer your phone when I called, you prick. “The Yoon is missing. I looked everywhere, but it definitely is. Angeline is on her way.” He paused. “Jai Yoon wants to visit with her parents today.”

Maurice swore. “That is the last fucking thing we need. I don’t care what you tell her as long as she doesn’t come in today. Have you called the police yet?”

“No. Angeline said she wanted to be here for that particular honour.”

“Of course she did. God. Okay, I’m on my way. Don’t touch anything.” He hung up.

Vaughn looked at the email from Yoon, wondering how the hell any of them were going to tell her that her piece had been stolen. She was an up-and-coming talent, a few years out of Emily Carr University, and had been nothing but polite and friendly and accommodating; the idea of telling her Entrance was gone was physically sickening.

Nope. No way was he doing that.

He took a deep breath and typed, Due to a family emergency, we unfortunately have to close the gallery today. I’m terribly sorry about this, Jai, and about the short notice.

There, that would do. A few more platitudes, and the email was sent. Great.

How were they in this position again? Again? It was ridiculous. Perhaps it was just as well that they’d renewed their insurance and lowered the deductible. The thefts earlier this year had stung. Combined with the security upgrade, Vaughn had to wonder just how well the finances of the Delphi Gallery were doing right now.

Despite the constant worry tugging at his mind, he managed to process a few emails before he heard the click and slam of the downstairs door. He sprang up and ran down the stairs into the gallery’s ground floor.

He found Angeline standing before the blank wall, legs wide and hands on her hips. It was telling that she still had her snow boots on; normally she paused to take them off and slip into heels once out of the snow. She glared at the wall as though it had personally offended her. “This is a fucking disaster.”

“Maurice is on his way.”

“That is the least that man could do.” She glanced around the room. “Nothing else touched. Jesus. We have a carved rock estimated at $600,000, a triptych at half a mil, and this asshole takes the cross-stitch project worth a couple grand. I don’t pay myself enough to deal with this shit.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Did you check the closets?”

“Yes.”

“The office?”

“Yes.”

“The receipts?”

“No sale recorded.”

Angeline scowled, her fine dark features narrowing. “Damn it.”

“I called the security company for a log of the last week.”

She looked at him for the first time, squarely in his eyes. “Good.”

Praise. From Angeline. Vaughn would have swooned had he not been so stiff with nerves.

She turned back to the wall. “This piece isn’t necessary for the December exhibit,” she muttered to herself.

No, it wasn’t. Their December exhibitions were famous for their seasonal themes. Their annual shows were one reason Vaughn had been so happy to get the position: he’d be involved in curating the exhibition every year and organizing the Christmas party that accompanied it. Last year they’d done pagan roots, with works related to First Nation winter celebrations and druidism and even some Celtic imagery. The year before that, holiday pop art. This year it was interpretations of Christian symbolism, and some of it was very dark. Yoon’s piece certainly fit the tone of the exhibition, but not the religious theme.

“No, but we still have to do something about it,” Vaughn said.

“Is the coffee machine on?”

“Yes.”

She turned abruptly and marched towards the office stairs. “I’ll call the police.” The gallery phone rang at the front desk. “Answer that.” She disappeared through the door.

Vaughn rolled his eyes and jogged over to the desk. He picked up the phone. “Delphi Gallery, how can I help?”

“Hi,” said a throaty voice down the line. “Could I speak to the gallery owners?”

“Who’s calling?”

“I’m Jules Mitchell from the Globe and Mail. I understand you have an exhibition featuring Jai Yoon at the moment, and I was hoping to interview her there with her work. Are you the right person to talk to about that?”

Fuck. Me. Vaughn wanted to slam his face into the desk. “Unfortunately we’re closed today for a family emergency.”

“Not what I asked, but okay. I wanted to arrange it for next week.”

Next week. Would that be enough time to straighten this out? Who knew. But he couldn’t turn down publicity outright. “I’ll make a note for my manager to call you back.” He took down the journalist’s details and pencilled a date into the appointment book. If Jai Yoon still wanted to be associated with them next week, they’d need the good press coverage.

Maurice arrived as Vaughn finished up with the reporter. He stomped snow off his boots in the front entrance, his habitual scowl present as Vaughn put down the phone.

“How are you so calm?” Maurice demanded. “We’ve been robbed, you know.”

Vaughn’s jaw dropped. “I’m not calm.”

“Could’ve fooled me. Look at you.” He gestured at Vaughn. “Not even a goddamn wrinkle in your jacket. Let me guess—the maid ironed that for you this morning?” He came around and scanned Vaughn from head to toe, shaking his head. “And the always-present inappropriate footwear. It’s winter, in case you hadn’t noticed.” He shook his head again. “Is the coffee machine on?”

“Yes.”

“My God, you did something useful.”

Maurice went up the stairs to the office as Vaughn looked down at himself. He was wearing his usual workwear: a decent shirt, quality blazer, trousers, and loafers. What was wrong with dressing respectably? To give Maurice credit, it was November, so the loafers were kind of out of season. But it wasn’t like he’d actually walked here in them, he just preferred to feel the floor under his feet.

And knowing how to use an iron didn’t mean he had a maid. Jeez. Maurice could be unnecessarily grumpy without coffee.

The front of the gallery had wide glass windows that extended from the first floor up to the second floor. The desk where he currently stood faced the front door and a small reception area and coat hooks. Melting slush from Maurice’s and Angeline’s boots streaked around the door and doormat. Outside, the sun shone in a cold blue sky, making the snow glisten. People moved past on the sidewalk in bulky coats and big scarves, and the deli café opposite them had Christmas decorations up already.

Of course it had to be a beautiful day when they found out they’d been robbed. Again.

Vaughn dug into the drawer of the desk and pulled out the Closed Due to Unforeseen Circumstances sign and put it up on the front door, then locked it. That done, he reluctantly went up into the office.

Angeline was on the phone to the police, pacing the carpet near her desk in stockinged feet, and Maurice was frothing milk for his morning cappuccino. Vaughn returned to his laptop and saw a reply from Yoon: So sorry to hear that. Will the gallery be open next week? My family will still be here and I have a paper interested in interviewing me there.

“Maurice,” he began.

“Not now,” Maurice snapped. The milk spat at him.

Angeline hung up and turned to Maurice. “The police are on their way.” She gave a deep sigh, then jabbed at her phone to call another number. “Hi. I hold gallery insurance with you, and I need to report a theft.”

Vaughn’s phone buzzed and he glanced at it. His friend Devon wanted to go out tonight. That meant drinks and a club. Not really Vaughn’s idea of a good time these days, but after today? He texted back, God yes please, and put the phone down as Maurice sat next to him, cappuccino firmly in hand.

“What?” Maurice asked.

Vaughn explained the Yoon interview situation, and by the time he’d finished, Maurice looked ready to throw something. “Perfect. Just fucking perfect. Fuck you too, universe.”

“It might be really useful. I have the reporter’s details downstairs if you want them.”

“What do you mean your colleagues flagged it?” Angeline snapped into the phone. “No. That’s unacceptable. What’s your name? Jonah?”

Maurice rubbed his eyes. “Look, don’t answer Yoon yet. Wait until Angeline’s free to talk it over. We’ll have a powwow on how to handle her and the reporter.”

That seemed sensible.

“Put me through to your manager, Jonah.”

Vaughn raised one hand to run it through his hair, remembered he’d spent an embarrassing amount of time styling it full of gel, and lowered it again. “Maurice, she’s not going to be happy.”

“Who?”

“Yoon.”

“No shit.” Maurice sipped his cappuccino, eyebrows drawn. “We’ll tell her what we told Berkley and Katzenjammer.”

Vaughn grimaced at the memory. Both of those artists had been upset when their work had been stolen, but Berkley had been extra irate, threatening to sue and have them closed down. Delphi insured for theft, unlike most galleries, so in the end it had worked out, but the bad news had made the social media rounds anyway. Artists inquiring for exhibition space had dwindled a bit. Thankfully the Katzenjammer theft had been relatively low-key in comparison, mostly because Vaughn had managed to soothe the artist enough that he hadn’t ranted much online.

This? This could threaten the gallery’s existence. Yoon was new and exciting enough for this to be of real interest to people.

“Sorry and we’ll refund her the sale value of the piece from our insurance claim?” Vaughn said.

“What the hell else can we do?”

He had a point.

“Are you kidding me?” Angeline demanded. “Are you actually kidding me? Fine.” Her tone indicated things were immensely not fine. “I’ll expect you here exactly at eleven o’clock, Garrett, and if the police aren’t finished by then, you’ll have to wait. Good-bye.” She punched the End Call button and raised her face to the ceiling. “Fuck insurance lemmings. Fuck them all.”

Maurice raised his eyebrows at her. “Yeah, fuck them. What happened?”

“They don’t believe it’s been stolen.”

“What?”

Watching this was better than reality TV. Vaughn didn’t think he’d ever seen Angeline this furious.

Wait, the insurance lemmings thought what?

“This guy said it sounds suspicious. He has to come down here to see the damage, view the police and security reports, and establish for himself that we have a valid claim.” She shook her head. “Un-fucking-believable.”

“They don’t think we have a valid claim?” Maurice was turning purple. Vaughn backed away from the cappuccino. “Our claims were plenty valid earlier this year. What makes this one different?”

“Like I know?” She turned sharply and picked up her shoes. “Vaughn, go downstairs and open the door for the police. Maurice, finish your fucking coffee and get the paperwork ready for the lemmings.” She wedged her feet into the heels. “I’ll make sure nothing else was taken and call Cress.”

Both Vaughn and Maurice winced. Cressida, Angeline’s partner in life and in the gallery, wasn’t going to be happy about this. And when Cressida wasn’t happy, no one was.

***

Jonah looked out of the taxi window and wanted to scowl at the gallery.

He’d had this insurance investigator gig for two months, and so far things had been pretty smooth going. He got outside the office, got to meet lots of people, and got to visit plenty of swanky places—like this one. Sure he hadn’t been doing it long, but he could spot real whiplash a mile away by now and was developing a gut instinct for the big problem claims.

Like this one. Jeez, when Customer Services had bounced him this doozy of a claim, he could’ve killed them. An art gallery—loaded if the premiums were anything to judge by—two claims already that year, and now a third one discovered literally that morning. He’d scanned their claims history when he got the phone call (of course he did, because he took his job seriously, unlike some of the hosers in the Home and Contents Department), and three in one year struck him as very, very weird, considering they’d only included theft on the insurance eighteen months ago. When Garrett had taken over the call, he’d thought the same thing.

So now he and Garrett were doing an on-site evaluation. An immediate one, which meant their other appointments were pushed back thanks to these guys being whiny and rich. Doing insurance for companies like this pissed him off.

Hell, the mere sight of Delphi Gallery pissed him off. All concrete and glass, pretentious fancy eggshell-blue tiles on the path to the door, and a stripe of matching blue paint down one side of the façade. He supposed it was artistic or something. Along with the Yorkville address, the place looked exactly like the kind of ridiculous, trivial überwealth he detested. Not even the police car in front of the building ruined the impression.

He and Garrett left the taxi and walked towards the door.

“It’s good the police are here,” Garrett said. “We can hear their summary directly.”

“Yeah, but the official report won’t be ready for a few days. Is it even worth being here right now?” Not that Jonah would openly admit to it, but his thoughts on that were something like No freaking way.

Garrett shrugged. “Scoping things out before they have a chance to get their story together is worth doing. Take notes about the staff, the piece that’s missing, the estimated value of it, any security measures, all the usual stuff.”

“We know about their security measures. They installed a high-grade system after the second theft in order to reduce their premiums.”

“We still need to corroborate the situation for our side of things.”

Yeah, okay, true, but did that mean they had to drop everything and rush over here like the gallery was burning down?

They paused in front of the door, which had a big sign saying Closed Due to Unforeseen Circumstances in nice lettering. Through the door and the glass windows beside it, they could see a young man sitting at a desk with a laptop. Garrett rapped on the door, and the man looked up.

Jonah’s breath caught. Holy shit. The guy was hot. Tall and lean, in a form-fitting blazer over a patterned, collarless dark-blue shirt, cheekbones you could slice cheese with, and curly dark hair around his face. Grey eyes. Clear pale skin. Mmm. Jonah would bet money he looked even better without the expensive clothes. He could just picture it: a hairless chest; thin, hard torso; long cock—

The guy moved out from behind the desk, and Jonah saw he was wearing deck shoes and green pants. The shirt’s pattern was light-blue tulips. Lust careened to an abrupt halt. Who the fuck wore green pants? Willingly? And deck shoes in winter? Rich boys who don’t have to worry about wet feet or walking in snow, that’s who. This guy probably took taxis everywhere.

He shook his head to clear it. This was work, not a bar. Focus.

Gorgeous opened the door. “Can I help you?”

“We’re from Laigh and Sanders,” Garrett said.

“Please come in.” He opened the door wide for them. Jonah followed Garrett in, making sure to stamp the excess slush off his boots on the way. A place like this, dirt stains would show up like mud on snow. In fact, he and Garrett probably stood out like sore thumbs in their cheap suits and bright snow jackets.

“You may hang your coats up there,” Gorgeous (but badly dressed) said, indicating coat hooks on one wall. “I’ll inform my colleagues that you’re here.”

“And you are?” Garrett asked.

Gorgeous paused on his way into the gallery. “I’m Vaughn Hargrave, the gallery assistant. Please excuse me for a moment.”

If the shoes, clothes, and job weren’t enough, the name sealed it. Hargrave was the name on a shiny plaque on a very shiny building near Jonah’s office, one that he walked past every day. Gorgeous was Money. Jonah almost bristled at the way he sauntered off, not least because those pants showed off a mouth-watering ass. It was better than his, which wasn’t fair, as he had to spend two hours a day at the gym for his and Hargrave looked like his idea of heavy lifting was a latte instead of a cappuccino.

“You okay?” Garrett asked, shrugging off his jacket. “You look like you drank cold coffee.”

“I hate places like this.”

“Art galleries?” Garrett glanced around. “Not my favourite kind of place, but good for a date. Girls seem to like staring at random shit on walls.”

Jonah wasn’t about to tell him that he wasn’t into girls, or dates to galleries, or dating at all. His ideal date was a drink before being fucked against a wall. Definitely couldn’t tell his boss that. “I don’t get art.”

“Me either, bud.” Garrett picked up a pamphlet on the front desk. “Oh hey, a Christmas exhibition. That’s fun.” He frowned as he thumbed through the pamphlet. “Oh. None of this looks very Christmassy.”

Jonah glanced over his shoulder in time to see a picture of a naked woman on a cross, bleeding from places he’d rather not think about. That was art? He’d rather stick with insurance.

Hargrave returned. “My manager says he’ll meet you upstairs. Please follow me.”

They were being shunted out of the way already. Jonah glanced at Garrett, then decided to push back. “Do you mind if we see where the piece was?”

Vaughn smiled apologetically, smooth and practiced. “Unfortunately, the police are still surveying it.”

Garrett stepped forward. “I’ll meet with your manager while my colleague looks at the scene.”

Jonah shot him a grateful glance. He definitely wanted that spot scoped out for their own peace of mind.

Vaughn glanced between the two of them, his rich-boy good looks tugging at Jonah’s dick. Ugh, he was cute from all the angles. “If that’s how you’d prefer to do things, Mr. . . .?”

“Garrett Barlow. This is Jonah Sondern.”

Vaughn nodded. “The space where the piece was is through there, Mr. Sondern. Please follow me, Mr. Barlow.” He led Garrett to a door in the next room, punched a key code in, then ushered Garett through it.

Jonah moved in the direction Vaughn had indicated, behind the desk into the next room, which was a large clear space with paintings and random shit on the walls. Columns with stuff on top of them or pinned to them were dotted around the room, and there were two police officers talking to a fierce-looking woman in heels and a long skirt. She had to be Angeline, the owner, who he’d “spoken” to on the phone earlier.

They stood in front of an empty section of wall. There was a plaque on it, presumably for the stolen piece, and the police officers were taking pictures and notes. Jonah stepped forward, hoping to see for himself if there were any cracks or obvious smudges or scrapes in the paint on the wall.

There wasn’t anything.

Huh.

So he, the police, and the gallery owner were all staring at a wall featuring a grand sum of nothing on it. What kind of information could be had from that?

Talk about feeling like a chump.

Angeline caught sight of him. “Who are you?”

“Jonah Sondern, claims investigator from Laigh and Sanders.” He had the full intro down by now.

Her lip curled. “Ah. You. Vaughn should have taken you to see Maurice.”

“My colleague’s with him. I’m here to survey the site.” He nodded at the police officers, who were giving him that steady, expectant look law enforcement seemed to do so well. “Officers, we’re here from the insurance company to investigate the legitimacy of the claim. I wanted to ensure we’re all seeing the same thing.”

The officers glanced at each other, then at Angeline. She looked ready to throw something.

“We’ve searched the building and the piece is not here,” one of the officers said. “How it happened is the real question.”

Yeah, the million-dollar question for his company.

Jonah scanned the room. There was some crazy shit in here. One piece looked like someone had scrawled black pen on a canvas, but the pen marks were actually black threads. One painting was of mangled shapes in shades of yellow and orange. Another painting was literally a huge wall’s worth of white paint and one smear of red. And one of the columns had a gigantic Q hanging from it. What is that even supposed to be? Hopefully the stolen piece wasn’t as nutty as the rest of the art here. He had no way of judging how valuable any of this stuff was, not beyond I wouldn’t pay a dime for it.

“No break-in?” he asked.

“We’ll provide details in our report,” the officer said smoothly.

Great.

Vaughn appeared beside Jonah, startling him. Shit, he was tall—Jonah’s eyes were level with Vaughn’s chin. Damn it, not only was the guy loaded and a clothes freak, Jonah also had to look up at him? Nope, seriously not fair.

“I have the security log here.” Vaughn held up papers in one hand, then gave them to the police officers.

“We’ll need that,” Jonah said to him.

“I left a copy with my manager to give to your colleague.”

Jonah tried not to glare (up) at him. For someone who willingly wore tulips on his shirt, Money was organized.

And really handsome up close, which meant he was leaving unfair and travelling into downright unjust territory.

“We’re done here,” the officers said to Angeline. “You’re free to open the gallery to visitors; we’re not going to get any more information.”

Angeline walked the officers to the door, which meant Jonah found himself in front of an empty wall with Vaughn. He took his phone out and snapped a few pictures, then put it away, feeling silly. This wasn’t exactly a straightforward burglary; there wasn’t a sign of breaking in and none of the other pieces seemed to have been touched.

Also, standing next to what had to be the son of the guy who ran that expensive-looking company near Laigh and Sanders was awkward. Jonah eyed him and wondered what he was thinking. He didn’t look at ease; his arms were crossed and he had the slightest frown on his face as he gazed at the wall. Jonah half wanted to sigh; he even looked hot frowning. Just how beautiful was a guy allowed to be?

“What did it look like?” Jonah asked.

Vaughn jumped, then collected himself. “The piece? It was a three-dimensional construction of plastic and thread on canvas.” He uncrossed his arms and made a roughly tubular shape in the air in front of him. “It looked like the tunnel to a warren or another place on the other side of the canvas. It represented the experience of reality shifting, of travelling from one place to another despite physically staying put.”

What the . . .? “So . . . like a portal?” Portals he roughly understood. He’d enjoyed what little he’d played of the Portal games, though the physics of them had made his head hurt.

Vaughn smiled. Jonah’s breath caught again. Whoa. A smile like that could blind a guy. “That’s exactly right,” Vaughn said warmly.

“But what did it look like?”

Vaughn frowned, then pointed at the artwork with the thread on the canvas. “That’s a similar piece from a different artist. Similar black thread, only sewn through clear plastic tubing attached at a right angle to the canvas. It looks like the threads are hanging in the air. Quite remarkable.”

It kinda sounded creepy as fuck, actually.

Heels clicked behind him and Jonah turned to see Angeline. She came up to him with her hand outstretched, a piece of paper in it. “The case number,” she said icily.

He took it. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“I suggest we join Maurice and your colleague upstairs.” She turned and walked away.

Clearly not a suggestion. Jonah followed, noticing how Vaughn fell into step behind him. He automatically gave a small hip wiggle, then reminded himself he was working and that he didn’t like moneyed brats who didn’t understand the concept of warm shoes in the winter, no matter how beautiful or smiley they were.

He did glance back as they climbed the stairs, just to see if the guy was checking him out. How could Vaughn not, when Jonah’s ass was in his face? But no, the guy was looking down. Jonah turned to the front, a little confused. He had a great ass, as qualified by a vilifying number of men who’d know. And Vaughn was gay, right? Dressed like that and working in an art gallery, he had to be. Jonah’s gaydar was pitch-perfect, and it had twanged the moment he saw the guy.

Or maybe that had been his dick.

Anyway, it didn’t seem to matter what Jonah’s gaydar had picked up—Vaughn hadn’t noticed any of Jonah’s more prominent attributes by the time they reached a small office on the next floor of the gallery. He barely looked up from the ground, let alone at Jonah.

Angeline led them to a small meeting room where Garrett was sitting opposite a weaselly-looking guy with a bad haircut and a permanent scowl. Jonah figured this was the famed Maurice.

“Angeline. You’re finally done with the police?” Maurice said as they entered.

Garrett stood, extending a hand. “Good morning. I’m Garrett Barlow.”

Angeline briskly shook his hand. Jonah stepped forward and introduced himself to Maurice.

The guy had a handshake like a wet noodle. “Maurice Palomer.”

Jonah resisted the urge to wipe his hand on his pants after Maur

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