Page 16 of Beautiful Exile

But then the red came—slashes of color against the darkness. They were messy and imperfect, just like Linc invading my space with his charm, vitality, brash humor, and challenge. I smeared the blooms across the dark canvas in an unmeasured way, some of the edges darkening with the deeper colors around them. Until Brutus let out a loud bark.

I jolted, just then realizing someone was pounding on the door. I reached for my phone, ignored the countless notifications, and turned off my stereo. The knocking stopped as soon as the music did.

I stilled. The security alarm for the property hadn’t gone off. It could’ve been Linc at my door or an axe murderer like he’d suggested. Honestly, I thought I’d take the axe murderer over someone who had me painting fucking flowers.

My fingers flew over my phone’s screen until I reached the app for the security cameras. Cope had an elaborate system covering hisproperty. He always said it was because of his hockey-star status, but I knew the truth.

When I finally moved off the Colson Ranch property, my siblings, Nora, and Lolli all wanted to make sure I was safe. Their need for me to be secure felt stifling at times but like a warm embrace at others.

As I tapped on the screen for the camera above the door to my studio, I had to admit the system came in handy at times. Denver looked up at the camera, grinning the second it came on and flashing a peace sign. I couldn’t help the snort that left me when I saw his attire.

He’d gone a bit over the top with his hippie-chic outfit. His long, light brown hair hung loosely around his shoulders, a few thin braids among it with feathers at the ends. He wore a flat-brimmed hat, a white tee with countless turquoise necklaces, and dark-washed jeans with paint splatters that I knew were put there by some designer and not by working on a piece. Because while my art dealer and manager of the gallery space I owned appreciated art, he didn’t have the patience to master it himself.

I sighed and headed for the door, giving Brutus a hand signal to be at ease. The moment I yanked it open, Denver strode in. He never waited for an invitation or worried he was disrupting my flow.

“Have you seen a doctor about your potential hearing loss yet?” he asked, making a beeline for the painting.

I fought the urge to go stand in front of it and try to block it from view. I was never crazy about people seeing works mid-progress, but this was different. More. Something about the piece felt far too personal to have Denver staring at it and assessing every brushstroke.

The thought didn’t make sense, not when I was used to displaying my darkest moments on canvas or in sculpture. I bled into my art, each piece carrying a piece of my soul. So, why was this one so different?

“Den,” I called, trying to get him to turn away from the painting.

He studied it for a few more seconds before turning. “I could hear every scream in that godawful stuff you listen to from the main road.”

My lips twitched. “Not the mystic chants you’re used to?”

“Hey,” Denver said. “Don’t knock it until you try it. Maybe it’ll clear the storm cloud hovering over your head all the time.”

“But then what would I make art about?” I challenged.

“Good point.” He turned back to study the painting. “This is good. Really good. A little different. I like it. It’ll be a good match for the auction.”

“I’m not sure it’s going in the auction,” I said quickly. I might hold on to this one for myself, and I rarely did that.

Denver glanced at me, his eyebrow lifting. “Shouldn’t you be focusing on pieces thatwillbe part of the fundraiser?”

“You know it doesn’t work like that for me. I have to go where the creativity leads.”

He was quiet for a moment, studying me the way he had the painting. I fought the urge to squirm. Finally, he seemed to see something he needed and released his gaze. “All right. Don’t forget we have a meeting next week at The Collective.”

I groaned. “Do you really need me there?”

Denver just shook his head, looking exasperated with me. “This whole thing was your idea. The show, the auction. For a good cause, remember?”

I knew it was: raising funds to expand art programs for youth in the Sparrow Falls community, after-school programs and training with teachers in a variety of mediums. I was good with the work that needed to go into it, less so with the socializing.

“Fine,” I mumbled. “I’ll be there.”

Denver moved in closer, dropping his hands to my shoulders and crouching slightly so we were eye-to-eye. “We would have a much larger turnout if you’d agree to give an interview.”

Alarm bells rang out in my mind, and every muscle in my body stiffened. “No.”

“Arden—”

“No,” I said, dipping out of Denver’s hold. “You know interviews are a no-go for me. Not my thing.”

They were so much more than a no-go. They were the kind of thing that could get me dead. The witness protection guidelinesswirled in my mind. Even though I’d opted out of the program over seven years ago, the rules were still branded on my brain.

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