I also didn’t because I had to park in a spot that wasn’t mine, two units down and hoof it back to mine …and fast.

“Is he in there?” I asked Joe before I even made it to him.

“Heya, Hattie,” Joe said as answer.

“Hey,” I returned shortly. “Is he in there?”

“Yep.”

Grr!

Brett.

I walked by Joe, pulled open my door, and stopped when I got inside, confused.

Because, yes, Brett was in there.

But he was with Sadie Chavez, Jet’s sister-in-law and fellow Rock Chick.

Jet was married to Eddie. Sadie was married to Eddie’s brother, Hector.

I saw Sadie had on a beautiful pink blouse, a slim, bone-colored skirt, a fabulous pair of deep rose Malone Souliers mules with their signature thin bands, these in cream across the toe and the top of the foot.

I knew Sadie, of a sort, mostly in an acquaintance-type, friend-of-a-friend deal.

She’d been to Smithie’s repeatedly.

She’d also been to the shower last weekend.

So what I didn’t know was why she was there.

With Brett.

Though, I could hazard a guess.

When I came in, she turned, smiled and called, “Hey, Hattie.”

“Hi, Sadie,” I greeted her then looked right to Brett. “I need to talk to you.”

“I don’t get a ‘hey’?” he asked on a smile.

“Hey,” I said. “Now can I talk to you a sec?” I returned my attention to Sadie. “Not to be rude. I just have to have a word with Brett real fast.”

“Of course,” she said.

Brett moved to me.

When he got to me, I reached for his wrist, grabbed hold, turned, and as I was right inside the door, I opened it and called, “We’ll be right back,” to Sadie.

“Take your time, I’m enjoying myself.”

I couldn’t imagine how, what with her now going to be alone in a room with a bunch of amateur sculpture, a bunch of detritus from sculpting and a bunch of stacked and boxed materials that would maybe one day be sculpture.

I dragged Brett outside and noticed Joe’s eyebrows go right up when I did.

I ignored Joe, turned on Brett, but waited until the door closed.

I let Brett go.

Then I launched in.

“Let me guess, she works at a gallery.”

“No,” he replied.

Oh.

Well then …

What was Sadie doing there?

“She owns one,” he finished.

Ugh.

I dropped my head back and studied the blue Colorado sky.

“Hattie, sweetheart,” he called.

I righted my head and looked him straight in the eye.

“You don’t get to do that,” I said quietly.

“Honey,” he said quietly back.

“I share my stuff when I’m ready to share my stuff.” And that was never, since he, Sly and Axl were the only ones who’d ever seen it, and I hadn’t invited any of them to have a look. “You don’t do it for me, and it doesn’t get done until I’m ready.”

“You have eleven finished pieces in there,” he told me.

“How do you know if they’re finished?” I asked.

That shut him up.

But not for long.

“If they’re not, when they are, I suspect you’ll get right on finding somewhere to show, or someone to consign them with.”

Hmm.

Sarcasm.

Not a big fan.

“Brett—”

“She flipped for them.”

That shut my mouth.

“She wants to show you. A clear-out of her gallery, total focus on you.”

My skin started to feel tingly.

Brett kept speaking.

“She says, as you’ve never sold, she has no idea where to price you. But she thinks the girl folded into herself she’d tag for fifteen K, that huge man head would be twenty.”

Oh.

My.

Freaking.

God!

“Twenty thousand dollars?” I whispered.

“Yes. And she says she thinks she can get a feature on you in 5280 magazine. She also wants to take some pictures. Because she knows a couple of galleries in LA, one in San Fran, one in Vail and two in Aspen who she thinks will be interested in your work. This, after you debut at her gallery. And they’ll have the clientele that’ll buy it.”

I didn’t know what to say, and considering the tingles had taken over to the point my fingers felt numb, I decided to concentrate on that rather than try to find something to say.

“Are those pieces done, Hattie?” he asked.

“Yes,” I pushed out.

“Sweetheart, Sadie Chavez has run a successful art gallery in Denver for a long time, through good times, and a seriously bad recession. She’s done this because she knows good shit. And she wants to debut you and make a big deal of it. Because your shit is good shit.” He got closer. “You’re a fantastic dancer, Hattie. But you’re a knock-your-socks-off artist.”

He lifted an arm straight, finger pointed at the door to my studio.

He then finished softly, “That’s your future, baby. You just gotta have the balls to grab hold.”

“What if people don’t buy it?” I asked.

“They will.”

“What if they don’t get it?” I asked.

“Art is pain. That studio is filled with your pain. And now it’s time to let it go.”

He was talking about more than what was in that studio.

I stared up at Brett.

Brett stared down at me.

When he was done staring, he took my hand and squeezed it.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

I couldn’t say the words.

So I nodded.

I’d dragged him out by his wrist.

He walked me back in holding my hand.

* * *

Axl showed twenty minutes later.

Brett and Sadie (and Joe) were gone.

I was sitting on my ass in front of “After,” knees to my chest, arms wrapped around my calves, toe-to-toe with my sculpture in the same pose, except with my head up, when he pulled open the door.

I looked his way.

He saw where I was, his expression morphed right to worried, and he hustled to me.

He got in a squat beside me and asked, “Baby, are you okay?”

“Yeah. Sadie had another appointment, so she had to go. Brett left with her.”