Page 44 of The Muse
My gaze drifts away from the painting, eyes trying to find him in the space. He’s over by the sink, something in his hand, as he walks back towards me. A cool, wet cloth lands on my face, wipes gently, and then I’m being heaved upwards and pulled through the room.
“Why are you here?” I mutter, landing heavily on the sofa.
“Drinks? You said come around today at sevenish.” Did I? “Who did this to you?” He fusses in front of me, crouching so he can look at my face and try wiping it again. “Scott? Who did this?”
My hands push him away, eyes closing and head lolling back to rest. “Doesn’t matter.”
“I’ll call the police now, and then–”
My eyes open. “No. No police. Just get me a drink.”
His brows pinch in, concern evident, but he eventually gets up and walks off to the kitchen, hopefully to get me more whisky. Fuck, I hurt. I swallow a few times and try getting my vision straight, shoulders rolling to ease the pain. It isn’t until I hear the sound of the coffee machine whirring that I realise there isn’t any whisky being delivered.
My frame goes to get up, only to be pushed back into place by his hand.
“Take these,” he says, dropping a selection of pills and a glass of water onto the side table. “And drink the water slowly.” I look at the offering, as enthused with that option as I am with him even fucking being here.
“Whisky or get out.”
“Take them or I’m calling the police, Scott. I’m sure you’ll love explaining this to them.” I watch him picking up the chairs that got tipped over, quiet hands clearing the place up for me. “Who did you fuck this time?” My brows furrow, head turning away. “Pissed off husband again? Not learned much since Paris then.”
The sound of broken crockery getting dumped in the bin causes more pain to my head than it’s already in, as does the sound of scraping furniture getting moved back into place.
“Leave it, for Christ's sake," I snap as I reach for the water and pills.
“Fuck. What’s that?”
I look back at him, watching as he pulls the screens wider and backs off a few steps in surprise. If I’d got the energy to be annoyed with him for daring, I’d get up and punch him for intruding, but I haven’t. So instead, I watch his reaction to it, reasonably interested in what it’ll achieve, and down the pills and water. He’s as mesmerised by it as I usually am, his whole frame loose and sighing as he moves closer again.
“Jesus, mate. This is … I don’t know.” He looks at me and then back at the painting, his fingers gently running the ridges of her thigh. “Is this the girl you brought the other day?” I nod to myself, a disgruntled huff coming out of me, as I remember another nice time that is now a lie. “But this is nothing like you. This is … it’s incredible, Scott. What else is in the collection? When are you showing it?”
I heave myself upright slowly and head over to the coffee machine, lucid enough in thought that coffee seems an acceptable option. “I’m not.”
He starts lifting covers from other work, searching for more of her in there. There isn’t anything. The only thing that’s in there is that piece. The rest of it is in my battered head or on charcoal sketches scattered around this place. I do let him look, though. He’s about the only one I would. Living together for those years proved a reasonable friendship, and he’s good at his art—or would be if he stopped daydreaming as much as he does.
“What do you mean you’re not?” he eventually says, backing his way to me.
I put two coffees down on the table and gingerly sit, looking at the painting with him, and consider the question. I can’t show lies to the world. And that’s what it's become now. Add in the fact that Landon’s just beaten the shit out of me because of it, and I’ve got little reason to ever stand proudly at its side like I would other work. It does give me a new chain of thought, though, one that might at least help me get revenge in some fashion—Lies. I can play that game, too.
“Scott? I’m no expert, but Paris would go crazy for this, as would New York. If you could ever get it out of London without selling. This is the best thing you’ve ever done. By far.”
It is, and so was she.
My lips tip up slowly, fingers bringing the coffee up to them. Stay away from her. That’s what Landon told me I should do. Crawl into a hole and die. And that’s probably what a lesser man would do when threatened. He’d do exactly what a Broderick told him to do, too fearful of the possible consequence that might come for him if he didn’t. I’m not a lesser man, though, regardless of the state I’m presently in. I’m a Foxton, and if the only way to hurt him and that family now is through her, if the only way to prove my point is by screwing with her, then that’s exactly what I’ll do.
Virginal innocence means nothing to me now.
Chapter Eighteen
PERSEPHONE
The house is too big. I’ve taken to hiding in my room after the showdown with Landon, and so far, there’s been nobody else who’s come to fight with me, which might be a good thing.
Landon has ignored all my texts, just like Scott. But the longer I hide, the more frustrated I become. The only person I’ve seen in the last two days is Sophie, who’s done a wonderful job at keeping me alive with food and water, but I am going to go insane if I don’t find the courage to risk the consequences of the last few days.
I grab my phone from the bedside table. Still nothing from Scott or Landon.
Hey, are you free at all later?
