Page 88 of Sinful Skulls
My head falls, and he hugs me. “Whatever you need to tell Brody about what happened in Paris, you need to do it soon. I promise it will set you free.”
I pull away from him. “Gosh, I’m so sorry. We hardly know each other, and here I am with a risqué painting of myself, crying to you. I’m sorry.”
I turn to run up the stairs, completely mortified. He catches up to me before I get to the truck.
“Brody can help you. This club can help you. You didn’t stumble across us by accident. The fucking universe dumped your ass here.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I get in, but he stops me from closing the door. I take a deep breath and look at him. “I’ll get it out of your basement by the end of the day. Can we please just forget about it?”
His eyebrow rises as he stares at me. “Yeah, yeah, we can forget about it.”
My shoulders fall in relief. “Thank you. It was very inappropriate of me to paint that in your home. I’m really really sorry. I meant no disrespect. I … I don’t know. I’m just not right up here.” I tap my head sadly and then close the door.
He watches me drive away.
God, I’m such an idiot. I just need to get these dropped off at the shop, and then I’ll go back and get the paintings I left behind and burn them. Brody has a fire pit out back. I’ll burn them all.
Even the one of my birth mother.
I can do that.
Then I can go back to being normal.
Chapter Thirty-One
Jesse
My gaze roams over the portrait as Dirk stares at the side of my face.
“What do you think?” he asks.
“I think we open the one in the box.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” he agrees, pulling it out from behind the easel.
When he moves it, we find a small portrait hidden behind it. Dirk flips it around. I gasp, jumping back two full feet.
“What the fuck is wrong?” Dirk sets it on the easel before turning to look at it. His gaze darkens. “Is that what I think it is? Who I think it is?”
I cover my mouth, slowly approaching it. Not much makes my stomach turn, but the thought of what Elizabeth went through by the hands of that bastard does. “How the fuck did Daisy get this?”
“Better question is why does she have it? And is that an original?”
“It’s signed by the fucker. We have to tell Brody.”
“Well, he just happens to be upstairs. He said he was waiting to talk to JD.”
“Why are they meeting here?” I ask.
“Don’t know.”
“Go get him.”
When Dirk walks out, I set up another easel and begin to open the box. It’s been shipped from Paris. I slowly slide the canvas out onto the table. “Holy fuck,” I whisper under my breath.
I carefully place it on the easel with shaking hands.
“Oh Daisy,” I whisper quietly to her image as my heart aches for her. I glance at the signature. It’s different than the one on Elizabeth’s portrait, but both are signedBaxter. I place them side by side. They’re not done by the same artist. It’s a completely different style, too.
