Page 49 of The Muse
“Fuck,” he says.
“Mmm. Looks worse than it feels,” I reply, as I look at my phone to find out what day it actually is.
I can’t say the same for my ribs.
He pulls upright and takes the coffee I’m handing him out of my grip. “At least you won’t be fucking anything that's married for a while with a face like that," he says, rubbing his hair.
“Haven't fucked anything that was married for two years. That I know of.”
“No?”
“No. She does have a big brother, though.”
“Ah. Protective.”
“Something like that. Also, he's a cunt.”
I walk for the door, intent on getting on with dealing with the issue at hand—namely finding a Broderick. Frankly, any of them would do with this mood, but I’m specifically after the youngest one, and I’d like that to happen when I arrive at the family home just so I can watch the look on Landon’s face when I take her from him.
“Let yourself out, Shaun,” I call, pulling on my jacket. He nods at me, then looks at the screens I’ve already pulled closed this morning.
“You really need to show that piece, Scott.”
I might, but that’ll come as and when I’ve worked out how much damage I can do by showing it to the world. Presumably taking a Broderick’s virginity and getting every critic to review the painting it produced, should hurt them sufficiently. But at the moment, it’s still haunting me too much to contemplate that sanely. It’s still personal. Still potent. And until it’s not— until it’s as dead to me as she should be—it’s alive and breathing too much depth into me.
“The work was good by the way,” I say, unlocking the door. He looks at me, confused. “Your piece in the Japanese gardens? Best to date.”
A broad smile lifts his tired face as he stands and rolls his shoulders. “You think?”
“I do.”
He’s like a giddy schoolboy as I walk out and close the door behind me, which goes somewhere close to making me feel reasonably good for a few minutes. But by the time I’m in my car and on the road, driving through grey suits and grey smiles, I’m back to feeling the animosity rising through me in waves.
My phone rings halfway over the bridge, my father’s name on display covering a few texts from Seffi that are still unopened. I don’t answer it or them. Just like I didn't yesterday. There's nothing to say to him other than the detailed email I’ve already sent. And nothing to say to her until I see her. It rings again after I've ignored it once, and still, I ignore it. I told him not to trust them, told him to find another way, but oh no—Broderick wealth was apparently the sensible route forward. As much as part of me feels for him, and as much as Iwillfind a way to hurt them back, there’s nothing I can do for the paper now. It’s under Broderick control, and as long as my father manages to retain his position there until retirement, it’s as empty to me as London has become.
Paris.
Turning down the back streets for a quicker route, I travel through lighter traffic and head for Earlwood House. The Brodericks have lived in that pretentious mansion for generations. I should go back to Paris now, find a way to use what she’s given me and forge a new path in my art. I have friends there, a life I could easily slip back into. The flat here will sell quick enough, and that little building on the side of the Seine always did call to me. Beautiful views. A short walk down to Le Marais. Real café culture. Drinks till late. Fucking. Liberally.
With more than one woman preferably.
The gates of the drive loom up ahead before I’ve come out of my own daydream, both of them with some insignia of Latin intent woven into wrought iron. I drive past them and park so I can stare up at the house, perhaps wondering where she is in the large, Georgian building. Nothing moves. No curtains twitching or servants milling around in the windows. Odd that I’ve encountered no security as yet, either. But then Landon wouldn’t even contemplate the fact that someone might ignore his threats. Nor would he imagine I’ve got the balls to even try to take her from him. I have. If there’s one thing I do have, it’s a pair of balls large enough to not give one fuck about his intimidations. I’m far from my father’s son, and I will not bow down and be told what I can and cannot do.
Especially not from a Broderick.
Getting out, I walk straight down the drive, grabbing my phone out to call her as I go. That’s all I need to get her out here, and as soon as that happens, she’ll be putty in my hands. Annoyingly, the call goes straight to voicemail which screws up my plan to a degree, and then the sudden sight of Landon’s arrogant face coming out of the main door just pisses me off past rational sense.
His brow goes up as if he’s so shocked by my appearance, he doesn’t even know what to say. Four strides and I’m in his face delivering a well-aimed punch that isn’t full of booze this time. He folds backwards, half stumbling, and then comes at me.
My hands go up in partial surrender, a smile breaking across my face as I move sideways.
“No, not this time. I’ve only come to get my girlfriend,” I state. All hell rears up in his face. I don’t give a fuck. He might be bigger, but I know I’ll be a damn sight faster if running is on the cards. “Would you mind calling her down for me?”
He comes at me again, making me skitter sideways, hands still up in case he manages to get a swing in. “No? Shame. Or isn’t she in? I’ll call again, shall I?”
The look on his furious face almost makes me laugh out loud.
“Piss off, Foxton,” he grates, loudly.
