Page 41 of Shattered
She brought in a duffel bag. I realized then that she planned to stay the night. I glanced at the trees lining the back of the house near the canal and thought of Rourke. I wished I could text him, warn him that I was having a friend over. Tell him that Iris would be cool. She loved the Dahlia District, saw its potential as a business, and believed that the servers and staff were owed a lot more than the cupcakes Dahlia tried to seduce us with. That Iris was the kind of woman who could be a brothel manager and actually stand behind her workers. Iris might not like what the murders did to business at the Dahlia District, but she might be glad that there was someone out there to defend the women from abusive creeps.
She paused at the foot of the stairs, staring at the paintings. “Damn. You are one talented artist,” she said. “I like the tree. You’ll have to design my next tattoo when I finally figure it out.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Yeah. Why not?”
That made me smile. Trusting me with that kind of responsibility was an honor, and that she liked my new style enough to want it on her skin, filled me with pride. I thought of those binders full of art in that tattoo shop. Maybe one day I could have one too, tattoo art I could sell and still be proud of.
After getting settled in, including a tour of where Colin had died, we ordered Chinese food and ate on the floor of my bedroom. With most of my paintings downstairs, there was actually a decent amount of space in there.
“So, what happened with Kendall?” I asked through a mouth full.
“Okay, okay. Back in high school,” she said, bobbing her head as she shoved an egg roll into her mouth, “she thought I was talking shit about her, saying that I sucked her boyfriend’s dick or something. Maybe she was jealous? I don’t know. I told her that every time he fucked her, he thought of me. Now, get this: I didn’t even know who her boyfriend was, nor did I care. I just wanted her to leave me alone, but she would not stop. And we lived in the same group home at the time, so she beat me up. Broke my ribs and cut off my hair.” She tossed a hand under her chin bob. “Hence why I’ll never get attached to my hair again.”
What the hell? That was worse than I had expected. “What did you do?”
“I found out who her boyfriend actually was, and told him that she slept with one of the people in our group home.” I snorted, and she added, “Which was true, by the way. But I wasn’t going to say shit at first. What do I care? Just leave me alone, you know?” She shrugged, then finished the egg roll. “What’s going on with your mom?”
I realized I was staring at the window, as if Rourke might come through it at any moment. But it wasn’t late enough, and he always came in through the master bedroom’s balcony or the kitchen door downstairs. I had this urge to be with him, an obsessive need. Maybe it was the fact that I couldn’t call or text him.
My phone buzzed: Garrett, not Rourke. I sighed.Not working tonight?he sent.
Not tonight, I sent back.
Night off?
Night in. Hanging with a friend.
I turned off the phone’s screen and Iris raised a brow. “Garrett,” I said.
“Ah.”
“Anyway,” I picked up a different takeout box and dipped my chopsticks into it, “My mother is getting me a showing for my art.”
“Which is good, right?”
“Yeah, it should be, but it’s weird,” I paused, trying to reason it out. “I tried to put which paintings I liked into the pile to take to the gallery, but she told me they wouldn’t sell.”
“Wait. Isn’t your mom a teacher?” she asked. I nodded. “How would she know what will sell?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “That’s exactly why it was weird. Like she was still trying to fit me into the box that would best represent her.” I shook my head. “I want to be good with my mom, you know? I want to trust her.”
“Of course you do. She’s your mother.”
“But I need to be myself,” I sighed. “I’m so sick and tired of pretending. That’s how I got into that situation with Aldrich.” She nodded deeply. “I need to be myself. Me. The failed painter—”
“You haven’t failed.”
“Okay,” I rolled my eyes, “The struggling artistic whore that sells a blow job for another month’s rent.”
“What’s wrong with that?” She slapped my arm. “You’re good at serving. And you’ve sold art.” She tilted her head. “I’ve seen the accounts.”
Dahlia had let her see the accounts? She was the closest server to Dahlia, probably theonlyserver that Dahlia truly trusted, and yet she didn’t get the credit she deserved.
“Only because those club members wanted a free hand job on the side.”
“Shut up. They still bought your work. Take it.” She shrugged. “If you want, I can try and convince Dahlia to hold a showing at the club. You can cancel the one with your mother. Our showing would be completely up to you.Youpick the paintings, all of that. I couldn’t tell you which ones will sell and which won’t.”
I shook my head. We had tried that before. It was a sweet gesture, but it wasn’t what I needed. “Thanks anyway.”
“Well, you let me know when it is, and I’ll be there.”
We finished the food, all four boxes, trading dishes when we tired of an entree. I stared at the unlit candle, thinking of Rourke. Wondering if he was watching us from the shadows. If he missed me too.
