Page 61 of Shattered
He saw through me then. There was no use denying it. I nodded, biting my tongue. “Do you hate me for it?”
He smiled, but it was reluctant. “Be sure to catch the livestream of the event then.” He stood, straightening his suit. “The plane leaves in two hours if you change your mind.”
I raised a brow. “You’re cutting it close, then.”
“It’s worth one last attempt to convince you to come with me.” I followed him to the door of the private room. “Take care, now. And consider whether you want to invite me to your showing. I have generous pockets.” He glanced down at his phone, and a few seconds later, my device pinged. “I’ve paid for the rest of the evening. The room is yours.”
***
Part of me was vaguely curious about a rich couple’s wedding. Thousands upon thousands of dollars for a destination event, dollars that someone like me could use to start a new life. But no, they threw it away on a one night party. And people like Garrett needed a date, otherwise, the gossip would overflow.
The rest of me was consumed with Rourke. When he would be here next. If he ever would come back, after his punishment.
Garrett texted me the livestream link, saying the ceremony would start at five p.m. my time. I plugged in my phone and turned it to landscape view, letting the video stream play. I didn’t know much about the lifestyle of the rich, but the video feed proved that it was expensive, showing the luxury curtains hanging on the wall, the shoulders bronzed to perfection, the hairdos that must have taken hours, rather than the ten minutes it took me to throw my hair into a low chignon.
My phone vibrated; a preview of my mother’s text covered the screen:When do I get to see the final selection? I need to tell Cheyenne how to describe the showing to her clients.For a second, I admired Beth’s ability to tell a lie. Maybe that’s where I got it from. She didn’t care about how Cheyenne described the showing; Beth simply wanted to figure out which ones she had to convince me to takeoutof the selection. Because to her, this wasn’t about my art. It was about how she was seen in association with me. The image she wanted to portray to the world. The image of me. I might not be a doctor or an educator, I might even be a whore in the end, but look at these socially acceptable, undeniably beautiful paintings. At least she has talent.
There would be no previews for my mother. I would send the paintings directly to Cheyenne before the opening night.
As I swiped the text away, the phone moved, shifting the lens along with it. It turns out that it was a three-sixty camera, in case a viewer wanted to turn and see the room in a different direction. I stood up, turning around and around until I found Garrett, that smug expression on his face as he stood judging the rest of the room. He was sitting in the last row with an older man who looked nothing like him. I focused on Garrett’s scarred cheeks. The black holes of his eyes. He was in tune with the event, clapping when appropriate, acknowledging him whenever his father spoke.
A hint of guilt crept in, gnawing at my stomach. But Garrett was a capable person. He didn’t need me.
Somehow, those words settled on my chest. He didn’t need me. I didn’t need him. But I did need Rourke. I needed the sound of his mechanical voice telling me to be myself. The same bastard who didn’t judge me for acting out in violence. Who punished me only because I asked, because it’s what I thought I deserved. It didn’t make sense that I would care more about what Rourke thought than my own mother, and yet I didn’t care anymore. I was done trying to figure myself out.
I painted, finally settling on a version of the tree that I could stand. It looked decayed, but like it would manage to live on. I found another canvas, thankful that Garrett had been generous enough to give me more than enough money to spend on things beyond rent and lingerie for once.
The video feed switched to a large ballroom. I had expected something more tropical, but there were no signs of paradise there. The typical round tables covered in cloths and more silverware than was necessary for a regular meal.
I tried turning the view, but this camera was stagnant. From this angle, I couldn’t see much. A table full of good-looking twenty-somethings in the best possible dresses, elegant and tasteful with a hint of seduction, the men in suits exuding power and dominance. What would Rourke look like in a suit? Powerful? Dominant? Full of control? As if he could swallow my body in a single touch.
Garrett wasn’t visible, but I wasn’t that interested anyway. I had watched enough to make conversation the next time I saw him. There were various speeches, lots of clinking glasses. The music started and the laughter of the guests filtered through my phone’s speakers in tinny bursts. I glanced at the clock; it was late now. A few hours had gone by. When was Rourke going to be here?
I bit my lip. It’s not like I could tell him, Hey, I stayed behind from this tropical vacation so that I could be available for you, so could you please come screw me like you did last night? My ass was still so sore that I was afraid to sit down, but I sat down anyway because I wanted to feel him there, the ghost of his touch on my skin. It was all I could think about.
I couldn’t even go to work and entertain, filling myself with mind-numbing conversation until Rourke finally showed up. Because Garrett was gone.
Where was Rourke?
I sat up, grabbing my phone, staring at the screen, willing the lens to move like the other camera so I could spot Garrett at one of the tables. Maybe he’d surprise me and be dancing. He’d have a gorgeous woman on his arm, and he’d be thankful that I hadn’t come, because he had found her.
But there was no evidence of him. He had said something about only staying for an hour of the reception, then I could paint at the studio. Did that mean that he had left early too?
A dark shadow appeared in my doorway. He turned off the light, moved to the dresser where he knew the candle would be waiting. I thought of it ashislight now, and left matches there for him. The strike of the match sent off a trigger inside of me.
Rourke was here. I had made the right call.
“Is that the final one?” he asked, gesturing at the canvas. I nodded. “What do you call it?
“Life and death.” He tilted his head. “I call it Rourke.”
He came forward, grabbing my shoulders, and I sucked in a breath.
“You’ll get it tattooed?” There was a hesitation to his voice that left me breathless. The tone was so unexpected.
For you, I would do anything.
“Of course,” I whispered.
