Blank Spaces

  Riptide Publishing

  PO Box 1537

  Burnsville, NC 28714

  www.riptidepublishing.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All person(s) depicted on the cover are model(s) used for illustrative purposes only.

  Blank Spaces

  Copyright © 2016 by Cass Lennox

  Cover art: L.C. Chase, lcchase.com/design.htm

  Editor: Chris Muldoon

  Layout: L.C. Chase, lcchase.com/design.htm

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Riptide Publishing at the mailing address above, at Riptidepublishing.com, or at marketing@riptidepublishing.com.

  ISBN: 978-1-62649-483-1

  First edition

  November, 2016

  Also available in paperback:

  ISBN: 978-1-62649-484-8

  ABOUT THE EBOOK YOU HAVE PURCHASED:

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  Absence is as crucial as presence.

  The decision to stop dating has made Vaughn Hargrave’s life infinitely simpler: he has friends, an excellent wardrobe, and a job in the industry he loves. That’s all he really needs, especially since sex isn’t his forte anyway and no one else seems interested in a purely romantic connection. But when a piece is stolen from his art gallery and insurance investigator Jonah Sondern shows up, Vaughn finds himself struggling with that decision.

  Jonah wants his men like his coffee: hot, intense, and daily. But Vaughn seems to be the one gay guy in Toronto who doesn’t do hookups, which is all Jonah can offer. No way can Jonah give Vaughn what he really wants, not when Jonah barely understands what love is.

  When another painting goes missing, tension ramps up both on and off the clock. Vaughn and Jonah find themselves grappling not just with stolen art, but with their own differences. Because a guy who wants nothing but romance and a guy who wants nothing but sex will never work—right? Not unless they find a way to fill in the spaces between them.

  For anyone who thought they were unlovable.

  About Blank Spaces

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  Dear Reader

  Acknowledgements

  Also by Cass Lennox

  About the Author

  More like this

  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 t
hem, 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.”