Double Coverage (Changing the Game #2)

Prologue

Parker

I’m an idiot.

Why did I think it was a good idea to do a series of paintings showing emotions? And one bigger why is why did I decide to start with this one?

Love.

I’m staring at the blank canvas, letting my mind fall back into a place I swore I’d never let it go again. I really have no choice. It won’t turn out right if I don’t channel the right emotions. I roll my head back and forth, closing my eyes as I conjure up feelings better off buried.

When I think of Lincoln and of the life I thought I’d have with him, I usually only feel pain. Crushing, soul-stealing pain. I have to think past that this time. I have to feel past that. I have to remember the love.

Fluttering hearts and sweating palms and gentle smiles.

The way he’d whisper my name, like it was something sacred and revered.

The first time he held my hand, the first fumbling kiss we shared.

A sharp pain shoots through my heart, making my eyes fly open. Fuck.

Okay, I can do this.

Lingering kisses and tentative touching and secrets shared in the dark.

I dip my brush into the red paint, letting my hand take over control from my brain.

Red. Burning heat and flushed cheeks. The ache in your chest that feels like your salvation one day and the thing that will end you the next. It’s the rush of wanting and having. The feeling of falling and soaring.

I move over the canvas in broad strokes, not stopping or allowing myself to think too hard, until my wrist aches. When the red feels done, I dip the same brush into pink.

The pink is softer. Quiet. A flutter in your stomach. A smile against your lips. Fingers on your cheeks and in your hair. Eyes soft with emotion and tender gazes. Innocence.

When I’m done, I step back, looking over what I’ve painted. I nibble on my lip, tilting my head as I inspect the work. It’s not bad, but it’s missing something. Something vital.

I pick up a smaller paintbrush while I stare at the canvas.

Gold. It’s missing gold. Something sacred and homey. I use the smallest trace, weaving it through the reds and pinks. Not a lot. Just a little. Hope. Gold is hope. And if I use too much, maybe I’ll do something stupid—like let myself hope again—and ruin everything.

By the time I’m done, I feel hollow. I’m not even sure I like the painting at all. I’m not starting over, though, so it’ll have to do. There’s no way I’m dredging all those feelings up again. It was bad enough I had to do it once.

When I come fully back to my body and out of my own head, I hear something buzzing.

It takes me a second to realize that it’s my phone, and when I pull it out of my pocket, my stomach sinks.

I missed my first two “meet Darcy” alarms and have somehow landed on the third “move it the fuck along before you’re really late” alarm.

Shit. He hates when people are late. He’s always told me I get a free pass, but I still don’t like to make him wait.

Hence the alarm. I don’t even have time to clean the paint off myself before I head out the door, so not only will I be late, but Darcy will want to talk to me about what I’m working on.

I wonder if I’ll be able to talk about it without inviting the feelings back in. God, I fucking hope so.