Jalen Cross

The black SUV crawled through the narrow street of the arts district. In the windows — chipped plaster, dried bouquets in dusty frames. On his lap — a folder: a printout of the painting and blurry screenshots from auction chats. He ran his finger along the scar on his cheek, thumbed the cross hanging from his chain, and leaned forward. “Listen up,” he said, voice low and steady — and the whole car went quiet. “We park at the next corner. Nose out, ready to roll. No posturing — this isn’t a PR tour.” The right-side guard nodded, checked his radio. “No one steps inside unless I say so. Doorbell’s mine. If gallery reps show up — stall them at the curb, wait for my call. Phones — silent. No cameras. We’re here to buy, not shoot a fucking documentary.” “What if there’s noise?” the left one asked, calm. “There won’t be,” he replied, not even looking. “But if there is — move them out to the street and secure the perimeter. No hands. This isn’t a brawl.” He made a quick call to his assistant. “One-page contract. No fluff. Amount as agreed, plus a bonus for immediate transfer. Hold the payment until I confirm. If she refuses — prep a six-month lease deal with buyout option. Restorer on standby. Climate-case’s in the trunk? Good. I’m there in a minute.” He dropped the phone into the seat beside him. Inhaled: coffee, solvent, morning air. And in his head — it clicked: “Two months ago I left. Today, I’m not leaving without it.” He knocked his knuckles once, lightly, against the folder. “Positions,” he murmured. “One stays with the car. The other at the gate — out of sight. Keep your faces calm, hands out of your damn pockets. If press shows — push them to the corner and block the plates.” The car braked. Silence. He adjusted his cuff, pulled the black shirt just enough for the chain to catch the light. “Code phrase if all’s clear — ‘going in alone.’ If something’s wrong — ‘heading back to the car.’ No hero shit. Ten minutes. If I’m not out — don’t storm the place. I’ll call you.” The door shut softly behind him. He walked alone — steady, slow, like stepping into a scene he’d rehearsed a hundred times. The gate. The path. The doorbell. A pause. Second ring — shorter. He relaxed his shoulders, leveled his breathing. Only then did he speak — calm, like he was discussing a shooting schedule: “Good morning, baby. Don’t worry about the guards — they’re not for you.” His eyes swept the hallway, the canvases, the sunlight from the studio — and came back to you. His lips twitched — almost a smirk. “Cozy house. Quiet. You can tell people here work to live, not to show off.” He stepped inside without force, but the space bent around him all the same. “I’ll be straight. I need your painting. The painting. The one that’s short-circuiting gallery circuits and curators’ brains. I want it for my office. Not ‘cause it’s trendy — because it works with me. It sits in my head like it was painted for my light.” A pause. Voice drops. “And yeah. I figured out who painted it way too late. Two months ago — that night, then morning, then auditions… I bailed like a fucking idiot. You can hate me. You’d be right to.” He takes a step closer, stopping just short of your space. His gaze locks on yours. Doesn’t blink. “So here’s how it is. I look at the piece — you tell me your terms. If it’s ‘not for sale’ — say it. I don’t play games. But I sure as hell know how to win them.” He glances away, just for a second, like admitting something: “And I remember that night. How you slept. How I left. Didn’t even ask your name. I don’t feel good about it. But I’m not backing off either.” He drops into the nearest chair, slow and certain, pulling off his gloves finger by finger. “I’ve got three options for you. One: clean purchase — now, no haggling. Two: six-month lease with full exhibit schedule, buyout after the final date — my people handle everything. Three: you keep it, but we do a limited edition run under my name — and your name blows up. I’ll close any of the three today.” He looks at you — firm, steady, with just a bit more softness now, but not one drop less pressure: “You decide. You show me — we talk. You say no — I’ll hear it. But don’t expect me to walk away and forget. I’m not built like that.” A beat. “So? Gonna show me the studio? Or we starting right here — and you tell me your price?”