Page 43 of Scarlett and the Big Bad Billionaire
Scrolling to the bottom of one article, I read some of the public comments then swiftly shut the page down. They were filled with such vitriol—on both sides—I was kind of surprised the computer hadn’t caught fire and melted.
It couldn’t have been easy for Gray to be in the center of such a firestorm of controversy and public scrutiny. I pressed my fist against my chest, trying to soothe a sudden ache there.
One more piece of evidence that you don’t want to get involved with a former SEAL. How much more do you need, girlfriend?
Appealing physique and alluring tattoos aside, Gray Lupine needed toremainin the My Favorite Mistake category. In fact, I needed to add him to the Never Again column as well.
Admittedly, he didn’tseemlike a ticking time bomb of suppressed rage or a hollow shell, but still waters sometimes ran deep.
Who knew what lurked beneath that beautiful surface?
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
WELCOME HOME
Gray
Iranaway.
Like a rabbit. Or a rodent. Or a three-year-old.
I could hardly believe it myself, but there was no denying that was what had just happened.
Scarlett had asked a simple question. I could have given her a simple answer, something like, “It was just time,” or, “Can’t be a superhero forever,” or some other glib remark then turned the conversation to the beautiful summer weather here in Eastport Bay.
How could a few words from her unnerve me like that? Maybe I wasn’t quite as zen as I’d given myself credit for. I had no difficulty making superficial small talk with my clients and the people I saw socially.
For some reason, it was different with Scarlett. Just as I did with her grandmother, I found it impossible to be fake with her.
Maybe it was the scarily accurate way she’d read my painting. Or the way she studied me with those big blue eyes of hers. I could swear I’d actuallyfeltthem analyzing me before I’d turned around and caught her looking.
Maybe it was just the echo of the time we’d spent together three years ago when she was so vulnerable and emotionally bleeding out. Once I might have been able to be that open, but those days were gone.
That was one of the reasons I protected my Inksy alter-ego so fiercely. I didn’twantto be seen or known. I’d had enough exposure to last a lifetime during my commanding officer’s trial.
Thanks to thewondersof modern technology, some of the worst moments of my life were readily available for public entertainment twenty-four-seven, three-sixty-five. Forever.
It was much safer to keep the rest of it, the things that mattered to me—my thoughts and feelings, my art—close to the vest.
Anyway, I hadn’t lied to Scarlett about having something I needed to do. Her innocent mention of the inglorious end to my military career triggered something in me—a swell of shame, pride, regret, and unquenched desire that Ineededto work out.
When I left Victoria’s house, I stopped by my studio for some supplies then headed out into the night in search of a canvas.
I didn’t usually create street art close to home. The risk of exposure was too great. Normally I’d get in my car and drive three hours south to New York City or an hour north into Boston or hop a plane to some international city where I’d stay a day or two and take in the sights after leaving my own personal stamp on it. I guess you could call me a guerilla-art tourist.
But that wasn’t possible tonight. I had to go in early for a few hours of work tomorrow morning before picking up Victoria for our usual Saturday outing.
That would mean another inevitable encounter with Scarlett.
Before I saw her again, I needed to get my head right. Art therapy wasn’t just something I recommended to Victoria and the boys I volunteered with at the Ocean State Training School.
It was critical for me as well, probably the only thing that had kept me sane during the years I served as a SEAL and in the aftermath.
Already, just planning the mural I’d paint tonight, I felt calmer, more centered. I drove from Eastport Bay to Providence, only thirty-five miles away.
Cities were the best place for street art. Somehow, though there were more people living and working there, there seemed to be fewer eyes around after hours—at least none that would care what I was up to enough to call the police.
And there were plenty of spots here that could use a new focal point. I picked a location not far from the freeway near the homeless shelter. Just beyond the shelter’s large brick building lay an empty lot containing a single partially demolished cinderblock wall, a remnant from some downtown revitalization project that had begun but stalled along the way.
