Page 5 of Dirty Heirs

I had no friends.

No nothing.

My family made sure of that.

Aiden took the open bench easel beside me, dropping his bag onto the floor at his feet. Students gave him looks that said, Are you fucking crazy?

I was an outcast.

A freak.

Run while you still can.

Aiden’s long legs hugged the wooden bench, and I wondered what it would feel like to have him between my legs. I was so out of my league. A guy like Aiden would never hook up with a girl like me.

“Hey,” he said, his voice a deep rumble that sent a shiver down my arms. “I’m Aiden.”

A grin split my mouth in half as I slipped my fingers between his. “Ella Doyle.”

I said my last name to see if he would flinch. He remained expressionless. My family was in the newspapers for months. Everyone in the state had read all about the brutal attack and murder of my mother. The news outlets blamed my father and were right to do so. He may not have ordered the hit, but his shady business dealings with a rival crime family killed my mother. And if she hadn’t told me where to hide, I would be dead, too.

Aiden didn’t seem phased, oblivious to the usual gossip at this school, and shook my hand. “Nice to meet you, Ella Doyle.” He rested his forearm on his thigh and leaned closer, searing my skin with his eyes. “I know your secret.”

Which one?

My family had too many secrets.

More than I could count.

I narrowed my eyes at him. “No, you don’t.”

A crooked grin tugged at his full lips. “You don’t like people.”

I plucked a paintbrush from my set and tapped the end on the bench to steady my trembling hand. “That’s not much of a secret.”

I wanted to like the students at this school. But they hated me. The silence was deafening, louder than any words. Since my mother’s murder, they were even more afraid of me. It was like they thought death was contagious.

“But you like me,” Aiden said as if he could read my mind.

I snickered at his boldness. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

Being this close to a man who looked like a damn movie star drove me wild. My skin was on fire, ready to burst into flames, as I caught the scent of cloves, charcoal, and clean linen on his clothing. I pictured him smoking clove cigarettes while he sketched with charcoal pencils. Aiden was an artist through and through. He had white paint under his nails and black marks on the pads of his long fingers from using charcoal.

Everything about him screamed street artist, not the heir to a multi-billion dollar fortune. The Wellingtons were one of the wealthiest families in the world. They owned many companies but were most known for Wellington Pharmaceuticals.

“This week,” Mrs. Waters said, interrupting my staring contest, “we’re doing freestyle painting.”

The students echoed their excitement by tapping their benches or making sounds. Despite my excitement, I didn’t join in, nor did I ever. I was as invisible as the furniture in this room, even when surrounded by my peers. All of us were artsy and different from the rest of the student body. We walked around with paint on our clothes, in our hair, and under our nails. None of us conformed to the typical standards.

But I didn’t get that impression from Aiden. I bet he was the hottest person in every room and never unwanted. Girls eye-fucked him. Even a few guys cast curious glances in his direction.

This was an advanced class for students with natural talent. Most of us would attend RISD, Pratt, and other respected art schools. I applied for an early decision to RISD, my dream school, but I was still waiting to hear back.

Aiden lifted a clean canvas onto the easel and prepared his paint and supplies. He had a routine which was typical for an artist. We all had strange things we did to set the mood.

I liked arranging all my brushes in a straight line, touching each one with my fingertips until one spoke to me. It was dumb, but my method of madness worked.

Aiden rubbed the tips of the brushes on his left palm five times, then selected a rigor brush and slipped it behind his left ear for safekeeping.

---