Page 22 of Conflicted Lies

“Fantastic. Now, the pearls,” the photographer instructs again. I fake a smile, wishing I was in my pajamas, hanging with Billie and Ivy in their apartment for a movie night.

After a few more minutes, Candice and the photographer seem confident they have enough photos to choose from. The first thing I do is grab my glasses before I head into the showroom, Candice beside me, briefly going over the details of pieces and other artists I might be interested in connecting with. I’m not. Although I can admire others’ work in all forms, it always seems lacking in creative genius to me, or maybe it’s because what truly excites me is taboo.

I’m always on the go, traveling the world and appearing at events such as these, even though they exhaust me mentally and physically. I’m not a people person. While my mother can captivate any room she steps into, I’d rather be home alone, reading a good book.

There are times when I’m jealous of my mother’s ability to be so comfortable in social situations. Then again, my auntie and my father never cared about wooing anyone, and I think I took a little bit—or a lot—of that from them.

I walk through the masses as hands reach for me, squeezing and congratulating me on my pieces. Their faces blur, their energies mingling and yapping at my own. I smile like I’m supposed to. But, for some reason, tonight is more exhausting, maybe because I really wish I were hanging out with the girls, or even the twins for that matter.

The moment I see a waitress walking around with a tray of champagne, I grab a glass, just to have something in my hand to try to deter people from grabbing at me. I prefer to come alone to events, instead of inviting any family or friends. I don’t want them to be bored when I don’t have it in me to keep them entertained. Also, I want to keep my worlds separate. With my family, I’m just Hope. Here, I’m treated like some kind of icon. These people don’t know the real me. I’m seen but not really.

“Gosh, Hope, you outdid yourself,” the lady who runs the gallery gushes as she places a hand on my shoulder and starts guiding me around. She goes on to tell me how this is the most successful exhibition she’s had all year, and that we need to book again soon for the next one. Sometimes making the pieces can take up to a whole year, while others I can do in just a week. It just depends how complicated the piece is. That’s something I learned early on, but I can’t rush something if I love it.

I spend the next hour mingling with people as I hold the same glass of champagne, never even taking a sip. It’s not that I don’t like to drink. I obviously do. But not when I’m at a work function like this. I want to make sure I’m on my best behavior. And I have to fly home in a matter of six hours and tell my parents that I’ve decided I’m going to quit college because I’m not really sure what I’m doing there when I know for a fact it’s being an artist that truly makes me happy. Why am I even studying art when I’m already in the field? My mother thought it’d be great for me to build a network of like-minded people, but my lack of social skills hasn’t changed. I have my core people, and that’s all I need or want. I have made a few acquaintances while going to college, but I now feel like I’ve learned all I can, and it’s starting to eat into the few hours I have free to myself.

My mother also mentioned how unique of an experience it could be. And although she wasn’t wrong, I feel like it’s outlasted its season. I don’t think they’ll be disappointed, per se, but I’m still nervous about having the discussion.

I don’t manage to get any sleep in the hotel after the event, so I give up and pack my bag. I do, however, get a few hours of sleep on the private jet returning home. Candice is busily scanning posts and articles that have already begun filtering out. Notifications have already started blowing up my phone because of the photo they posted of me in my elegant dress. I couldn’t feel more like day or night as I now wear jeans that accentuate my curves, a midriff-baring top, and a pair of heels. If Candice weren’t there to remind me of my ‘appearance,’ I would’ve worn my sweats on the flight. But we’d learned photos like that can appear quickly in gossip articles. When I was a teenager, I used to be followed often as Lena Love’s daughter, but that form of invasiveness slowly receded as my artwork began to be highlighted. I also think my father blackmailed and terrified certain newspapers to not encroach on my personal space.

The flight feels long but gives me time to also daydream with ideas of what I’ll create next.

When we land, I perk up in my seat when I spot my cousin waiting for me on the tarmac beside his car, which is very unusual.

It’s never a good thing when you arrive, and evil is already waiting for you. Hawke smiles as I exit the plane.

“You miss me that much?” I ask curiously. He walks up to me and takes the bag from my shoulder.

I notice the way Candice scans him up and down. It’s always the same with Hawke; women are cautious of him but often led by their libido. He gives her a slow once-over with a cocky grin, and I roll my eyes.

“Off-limits,” I growl. His grin grows wider as he carries my bag to the car.

“Nothing’s off-limits to me,” he says arrogantly as he opens the passenger door for me. “Does your friend want a lift?”

She blushes and glances at the car waiting for her. “No, I have work to do. But thank you for the offer.”

“That’s a shame. Sometimes play is important,” he drawls, and I glare daggers at the side of his head as I lower into the car.

When I twist around to look at her, she’s blushing and tucking a piece of her hair behind her ear. When she notices my attention, she averts her gaze and clears her throat. “Thank you for the offer, but I’ll be going home.”

“Your loss.” Hawke shrugs.

“You need to stop,” I hiss.

Hawke laughs as he rounds the hood and then drops into the driver’s seat. We wait patiently as Candice’s car slowly pulls away.

“Want to tell me what’s happening? You don’t have anyone in the trunk, do you?” I ask as Hawke begins driving. That devilish smirk lights up his face.

My stomach drops. Oh fuck. Does he? Does he have Braxton in there?

“No. But I’m here so we can have a little fun. You have me lying to Uncle Alek, little red, and you know that man puts the fear of God in me.” He shivers.

Hawke is… unpredictable, so I’m a little concerned at what his idea of fun might entail.

“Where are you going with this, Hawke? And where’s your brother?” They’re almost always together.

He groans and looks out the window. “Off fucking Billie, probably.” I try not to smirk. Hawke hates it that he doesn’t have his brother to himself all the time now, but he secretly loves Billie—in a brotherly way. But he loves his brother the most. So, I find the whole dynamic quite interesting.

“And how does that involve me?” I quip.

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