A Real Flexible Girl
Part Two
by The Preve
The Carnegie Museum of Modern Art opened its Picasso exhibit on a beautiful spring day, end of May. The curator was present, as was Charley Bakersfield, the billionaire bankrolling the exhibition. Various members of the local Quality also attended. Semi-formal wear befitting the bright, sunny atmosphere was the rule.
The curator, Harold Bakersfield, noted the presence of Mike Barnes, the weaselly assistant professor from the University. He despised the bastard, in spite their "business association".
Sure it was too bad about Sarah. A beautiful and talented woman. Her work setting up the exhibit was exemplary. Unfortunately, he had those gambling debts, the Russians breathing down his neck, his father telling him he wasn't going to bail him out this time, and Mike, the ex-bro who'd got him into trouble in the first place.
Mike, who came up with the scheme to get back at his ex-girlfriend, Sarah, and clear their slate with Boris at the same time.
Plus, Sarah asking questions about the expenditures he approved. Maybe she recognized the embezzlement, maybe not. Harry couldn't take the chance.
Maybe she didn't know. It was a while back. She didn't mention it.
The train was running by then, too late to stop it. Too bad for Sarah.
Sarah, who walked into the main hall like a ghost. Sarah, wearing a bright, white sundress and white sandals, smiling as if she had no care in the world. Sarah, of the beautiful yoga-sculpted body, who technically shouldn't be there; who should be off to whatever fate Doctor Hamish planned for her.
He glanced at Mike. Mike was having his back pounded. Apparently he'd swallowed something down the wrong pipe. The look on his face was fish-pale, and pop-eyed at the woman walking past him.
Sarah glanced at Mike but seemed more interested in Harry. Other guests noticed her. Some smiled and waved. She waved back; people knew her. She drew more than a few admiring glances from both sexes.
Her sundress impressed, with a plunging neckline to reveal just enough to draw attention, but not enough to scandalize.
Charley Bakersfield intercepted her. They chatted briefly, smiling at each other. He was surprised to see her.
"Harold told me you wouldn't be coming. He mentioned trouble with the family?"
"False alarm, I'm afraid. Mom can get hysterical sometimes," Sarah replied. "I wasn't about to miss this day. Got back early this morning."
"Yes, you worked so hard on this project. Excellent job; people are saying it's the best display of Picasso they've ever seen. I'm recommending my son promote you."
"Yes sir. Thank you sir. I need to talk with your son about the upcoming Warhol exhibit. If I may . . .?"
"Oh, of course. I have to slap some palms myself. Once again, excellent work."
She watched him go to the Mayor and his wife.
A good man. At least as good as a billionaire can be. Too bad his son is such a shit.
She came to Harry, all sunshine and smiles. "Well, it looks like we did it again."
"Well, uh, er, um . . . Yes . . . Uh . . . I guess," Harry fumbled.
"Is something the matter Harry? You look a little pale."
"Uh . . . nothing! Nothing's wrong!" he nearly shrieked. "Um . . . how are you?"
He looked at Sarah as if she were the Grim Reaper come to collect his soul.
What's she playing at?! She's playing me?! Fuck! It's fucking blackmail!
"Oh, I'm great," she beamed, "I told your father, Mom's phone call was a false alarm."
Sarah wore the sunny, alluring smile he always found fascinating. She was throwing the sick mother lie back in his face. Her smile held a touch of humor.
She's enjoying this! She wants to see me squirm!
"Well, good to know. Um, did anything happen . . . while you were at your Mom's I mean?"
Sarah's face took on a quizzical expression. The question was awkward, but not unexpected. Her confusion was a parody. She drank in his discomfort, reveled in his fear.
This is fun.
"Not that I know of. That's a strange question."
"Yes . . . uh . . . well . . . I, uh . . . guess it is," Harry stammered.
"Look, maybe we should talk later, Harry. You look a little sick."
"Uh, yes, come to think of it. I'm not feeling too well. Yes! I . . . have to go. Not feeling too well, bye!"
Harry practically ran away. Sarah suppressed a giggle. She enjoyed watching him squirm.
His time is coming, but not now. Let's see about Mike.
Mike panicked.
Oh God! She's coming over here! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! What'd she say to Harry?! Fuck me!
Boris, in so much coded words, had told him Hamish picked her up; no telling who was listening on the phones, given Boris and his associates.
"Hamish conveys his personal thanks for the package, and so do I. It really is an exquisite present. Inform Mr. Bakersfield his debt is cleared."
Mike smiled.
Serves the bitch right. What did she think, dumping me like that? No one does that to me. No one.
Sure he didn't exercise fidelity, exactly, in his relationship, and maybe, he'd sponged off her a little too much, and often. So she accused him of being a control freak and narcissistic. Well? What of it? She's just a girl. The museum job took too much of her attention away from him.
Mike's narcissism, at the moment, had switched to self-preservation. Options raced through his brain; most explored how to use his charm to calm her so, hopefully, she wouldn't sic the police on him.
"I'm fucked," he sweated. "She calls the police, Boris will kill me before they even put me in the cruiser."
Sarah, however, didn't look pissed, or hateful.
In fact, her face was cheerful, carefree. Mike couldn't be more unsettled. Her expression held a different look, the last time they spoke.
What's she playing at?
Sarah waltzed up to Mike. "Hello Mike," she glowed, "Some party huh?"
"Gulp! Um, hi Sarah?" he squeaked.
"Is something wrong Mike? You don't look well."
"I . . . um . . . I . . . choked."
