Page 42 of Brushed and Buried
“No.” I gently pull free from her grasp, but composure is the last thing I feel inside. “I think I’ve heard enough.”
I leave and walk straight to Adrian’s suite. My heart pounds against my ribs as I knock on his door, each beat echoing thephrase that’s been torturing me all evening,perfect for what he needs.
Adrian opens the door in sweatpants and a paint-stained t-shirt, a pencil still tucked behind his ear. His face lights up when he sees me, and that makes it worse somehow. That genuine happiness, that relief in his eyes like he’s been waiting for me to come to him.
“Vince! Hey, I was just—”
“Were you going to tell me?” I push past him into the suite, my skin already burning from just being near him. “Or were you planning to just disappear back to L.A. when this is over?”
The light in his eyes dims, confusion replacing the warmth. “Tell you what?”
“That everything between us is just about your art. That I exist only to spark your inspiration.”
Adrian closes the door slowly, the soft click echoing in the suddenly suffocating room. “What are you talking about?”
I go silent for a while, thinking I might be getting too carried away, giving him the benefit of the doubt. But I need to hear it to hurt enough, enough for me to let things go. Again. “I overheard your phone call with your manager. About how you found what you needed to finally finish your pieces.”
The blood drains from Adrian’s face so fast I think he might collapse. “Vince, that’s not…”
“Not what? How it sounded? Because to me, it sounded like you’ve been shopping around for inspiration, and I happened to fit the bill.”
“Vince, stop. You need to listen to me.” Adrian runs both hands through his hair, and I can see the panic building in his movements. “I have to say it that way for Matheo to understand I have it under control. You don’t understand the context…”
“Then explain it to me.” I step closer, backing him toward the center of the room. The air grows thick with tension and unspoken history. “Explain how this isn’t exactly what it looks like.”
I’m close enough now that I can feel the warmth radiating from his skin and see the way his chest rises and falls with each ragged breath. The urge to touch him makes my hands tremble, but the betrayal burns hotter than the desire.
“My art…yes, it’s important to me. It’s my career, my life’s work, but you…” Adrian’s voice breaks, his eyes searching mine desperately. “You have to know you’re more than that. You have to know what you mean to me.”
I think back to the days and years that came before. I think back to the hurt, the pain I had to bury deep, and I wonder how Adrian managed to make me forget all those years of moving on just by randomly showing up as a stripper at my best friend’s fucking bachelor party.
“Do I? Because Holly told me about the sketches. About how you’ve been looking for inspiration for years.” The wordscome out sharp, cutting. “Was I just practice back then in high school?”
“No!” The word comes out broken, desperate. “That’s not what this is. That’s not what you are.”
“Then what am I, Adrian?” My voice cracks on his name, and I hate how desperate I sound. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you reconnected with me, got what you needed, and soon you’ll be ready to go back to your real life.”
“My real life?” Adrian’s voice rises, breaking completely. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? This is real. This is the only real thing I’ve had in years. Stumbling into your hotel suite that night was the best fucking thing that’s happened to me in years. I’ve never been more grateful for a mistake.”
The confession should stop me and make me reach for him, but I can’t let myself believe it. Not when I know how this ends, not when I’ve been here before.
“You never planned for me to be part of your future.” The question rips out of me, raw and bleeding. “You never thought about what happens next, what this means beyond your art.”
“You think this is just about my art?” Adrian gestures wildly between us, tears streaming down his face now. “You think any of this has been easy?”
“I think you needed something, and I was convenient.”
Without thinking, I reach out and grab his shoulders, my fingers digging into the soft cotton of his shirt. His body jerks forward, solid and warm against me, and for a moment I canfeel his heart hammering against his ribs, matching the frantic rhythm of my own.
“That’s not true,” Adrian says, his hands coming up to grip my forearms, his touch burning through my skin. “God, Vince, that’s not true at all.”
I can feel the tremor in his breathing, can see the way his pupils dilate even as tears track down his cheeks. My body wants to pull him closer, to press my mouth to his and forget everything else, but instead, I shove him back hard enough that he stumbles toward the wall.
The loss of contact feels like tearing something vital out of my chest.
“Then why?” The question comes out broken, desperate. “Why did you meet up with that football scout in high school? Why did you look like you fucked him in his hotel room?”
Adrian’s face crumples, and he slides down the wall until he’s sitting on the floor, his head in his hands. “You knew about that?”
