Page 43 of The Painter and His Poet

“I should…” I mumble, my cheeks flaming with heat as Dalton whistles low. “This isn’t… You shouldn’t have… Oh, God…” I take two shaky steps back, holding my hands uptowards Sterling to try and fend off any more advances. Right now, I don’t think I have the strength to keep him at bay. “I have to go.”

“Harlow, just wait a minute,” Sterling begins, that damned muscle in his jaw jumping as he grits his teeth. I don’t know why I find that so attractive, I just do. I pause in the doorway, dragging in a shuddering breath.

“Please, Sterling…”

“Isee you, Harlow.”

“Don’t,” I bite out, regret for what can never be, opening up a well of pain inside my chest.

“Thisisn’tover,” he counters.

“It has to be,” I whisper as reality comes crashing back full force, and I flee the room.

ELEVEN

STERLING

The next couple of hours pass in a blur.

I eat just enough to try to fend off what I know will be a god awful hangover, chasing down the few mouthfuls of food I managed to consume with the free-flowing alcohol. I know I’m on dangerous ground, that getting drunk is a stupid thing to do, but I need to dull my senses, and the constant bombardment of conversation, laughter and background music is making my head spin far more than the alcohol. Not to mention sitting in such close proximity to Harlow and not being able to continue what we started in Dalton’s office.

Fuck.

I can still taste her on my tongue.

Perhaps I should feel guilty, but I don’t, because I know that she couldn’t stop herself any more than I could. The attraction between us blazed to life the moment we were alone together, and whilst a part of me wanted to remain angry at her for walking out that night the way she did, that anger dissolved as soon as she explained why. I just couldn’t hold on any longer, my need to claim her far outweighing every feeling of hurt that she’d caused.

Fuck, the way it had felt to hold her in my arms again, to kiss her, to taste her, knowing that she didn’t use me, that she’d felt what I’d felt too, was a fucking relief. She might’ve walked away from me again when Dalton caught us alone together, but I meant it when I said it wasn’t over, despite her arguing otherwise. There isn’t a chance in hell that I’m letting her go, not now that I’ve found her again.

Sitting three seats to my left, Harlow is currently in conversation with Walter Pike, Ben’s father. He’s one of the few people in attendance that I actually like. Whilst an extremely wealthy man in his own right, he isn’t as pompous or arrogant as my dad, far from it in fact. I always envied Ben and his relationship. So easy, so loving, sonormal.

I spent hours at their home, Wildridge Estate, growing up, and even though it is as palatial as Adaga Hall, it always felt like a home should, filled with laughter and so much love. In contrast, Adaga Hall is bland in its finery, built to impress, and filled with expensive furniture and works of art that have little meaning other than my father’s desire to show off his wealth.

Perfect home. Perfect life.

Imperfectson.

And just as those thoughts pinball around my head, the fucking universe decides it’s time to test my limits again as music begins to play. My spine stiffens as my father and Melody head to the dancefloor for their first dance.

“I need to get the fuck out of here,” I mutter under my breath, and with a shaky hand I knock back the last dregs of my red wine, grateful that it’s dulling my senses just enough to enable me to seek out an escape.

Flicking my gaze to the door, I get ready to flee whilst all eyes are on the couple, Harlow’s included, but Walter rises from his seat and holds his hand up, microphone in hand.

“Ladies and Gentlemen. The bride and groom ask that you now join them on the dance floor. So gather your loved one and let’s get this party underway!”

Fuck no.

Pushing to my feet, I traverse my seat, grabbing the back of the chair briefly as another rush of colour swamps me, causing my body to sway. My synesthesia is angry, as though it’s forcing me toseeafter spending all day trying my fucking hardest to suppress it, to deny that part of myself so that I don’t embarrass my father, his new wife, and their friends and family.

I’ve held on to my anger towards my father all day, pushing aside the colour over and over again. I’ve done everything I can to ignore it, to not react, to be normal, and all for what? To keep up appearances, to hide the real me?

But Idosee.

I always have, and I know that repressing my feelings and ignoring the colour will catch up with me sooner or later. But I have to hold it off a little longer. I must.

Despite that, every shade and hue imaginable penetrates my tired brain, my wired body, my depleted soul. It’s taking an enormous amount of effort not to fold, to let my synesthesia take hold of me as my fingers grip the chair, my grasp so tight that I swear any minute now my bones will pierce through the thin layer of skin on my knuckles.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

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