Painter’s Obsession

29. Chapter Twenty Nine

Chapter Twenty Nine

Ren

A fter leaving the studio, I get back in the shower and prepare once again. Perfection is part of the game, and I play it well. Now I’m on my way to my Rose. Gotta keep up appearances—it wouldn’t do to let things slip. Another flower to cultivate, another petal to pluck. My Thorn still needs work, but bending something so stubborn takes patience. I’ve got all the time in the world.

My grip tightens on the steering wheel as I drive into the trailer park. The sun beats down, baking the cracked pavement and dry, overgrown lawns. The air feels heavy, stagnant, like this place is trapped in time. That’s when I spot her—the redhead.

She’s talking to a neighbor, her body angled just enough to catch attention. Women like her are predictable, beautiful in that worn, desperate way, bound to kids and a loveless marriage, starving for even a scrap of acknowledgment.

I slow the car, just enough for her to notice. Our eyes lock, and her smile spreads wide, too eager, too hopeful. Ruby-red nails catch the sunlight as she raises a cigarette to her lips, her fingers trembling slightly. I nod, letting my gaze linger, a faint smile curling my lips. Her expression falters for a moment before she recovers, and I continue driving, pulling into the small parking lot.

“Call Gabriela,” I say to the car’s voice assistant. For the fourth time, it goes straight to voicemail. A sigh escapes me as I glance in the rearview mirror. The redhead bends over to pick up a discarded toy on her lawn, the light green sundress hugging her curves in just the right way.

So desperate. So easy.

With a sigh, I step out of the car, slipping off my aviator sunglasses. Her gaze stays locked on me as I walk over, her movements slowing, cautious but curious.

“Good afternoon,” I say smoothly, my voice warm and practiced. “Have you seen Gabriela?”

She shields her eyes from the sun with one hand, the cigarette dangling between two fingers. Her lips part slightly, the gloss catching the light as she answers. “Oh, hi. I saw her earlier, but she’s gone now. I think everyone’s at the diner—for the memorial for Mary Jane and Theresita.”

I nod, lightly smacking my sunglasses into my palm. “And her brother?” I ask casually, tilting my head.

Her body stiffens just enough to notice. “Byron?”

“Does she have other brothers?” I feign confusion, my tone light, curious.

She shakes her head quickly. “No, she doesn’t. I haven’t seen him around, actually.”

I inhale deeply, the faint scent of her perfume mingling with the acrid tang of cigarette smoke. “Gabriela told me he’s been missing. Think he’s with someone?”

Her smile falters, the corners of her mouth twitching downward. Her shoulders stiffen, and her eyes dart to the side. Another petal is plucked. It wouldn’t take much to finish her off.

“Maybe,” she says, her voice thinner now, brittle. “Who knows?”

I tilt my head, studying her carefully. Her body shifts slightly, her arms crossing over her chest as if to shield herself. “You know him well, don’t you?”

“Not really,” she whispers, her gaze dropping to the ground.

“That’s odd,” I say, my tone thoughtful, almost teasing. “I could’ve sworn I saw you on your knees for him.”

Her body jerks slightly, her discomfort radiating off her like heat. The cigarette trembles in her hand, and she shifts her weight, looking like she might bolt.

Weak. Wilted. Almost too easy.

I could indulge in this, draw it out until she shatters completely. But there are more pressing matters to attend to. Without another word, I turn and walk back to the car, sliding into the driver’s seat.

As I start the engine, I catch her in the corner of my eye, still rooted in place, her cigarette forgotten, her lips slightly parted. I drive slowly, letting her feel the weight of my presence as I pass. When I’m close enough, I give her a small wave, my brightest, most practiced smile fixed firmly in place.

In the rearview mirror, she’s still standing there, unmoving, her discomfort blooming like a flower choking on its own roots. Another one for the garden. Another reminder that I hold the leash. Always .

Pulling into the diner, I slow down to take in the scene. Locals scatter across the parking lot, their faces drawn and weary, the weight of grief pressing down on their shoulders. White candles flicker in clusters along the base of the yellow brick building, wax dripping onto the asphalt in uneven rivulets. Pictures of the two women are posted everywhere—smiling, frozen in a time before their tragic ends. Families huddle together, their pain etched into every tear-streaked face.

It’s all too beautiful.

I didn’t anticipate my headless ballerina being discovered so quickly. I must’ve missed something—a birthmark, a tattoo, maybe a scar. Some clue that tied her to this sorrow-drenched crowd. But oh well. Creation always comes with risks.

I cut the engine, my gaze scanning the parking lot again. Then I see her.

Gabriela.

She’s comforting a grieving mother, her hand rubbing slow circles on the older woman’s back as the sobs shake her fragile frame. Gabriela is dressed in black, her slim figure outlined by a cardigan and jeans. Her long brown braid hangs over one shoulder, swaying gently with her movements. The golden hue of her skin catches the late afternoon light, warm and familiar even in the shadow of mourning.

The grieving mother—Mary Jane’s—has the same green eyes I saw in the courthouse. Those eyes, now brimming with tears, are dulled by despair.

It’s like a candy store, and my body responds accordingly.

The pain, the tears, the rawness of it all—it stirs something deep in me. My dick hardens, straining against my pants. So fucking hard that I can’t get out of the car. I almost smile as I reach down, cupping my bulge, savoring the heat pooling in my core.

Gabriela looks up, her brown eyes locking onto my car. Her expression shifts—confusion, recognition, and something else I can’t quite read flickers across her features. She whispers something to the blonde waitress standing nearby and then to Mary Jane’s mother.

Straightening, she smooths her cardigan, her movements precise and deliberate, before stepping away from the booth. She’s walking toward me now, her slim figure cutting through the waves of grief like a shadow moving through sunlight.

Oh boy.

Her expression is tight, guarded. Not happy—definitely not happy. Why wouldn’t she be?

My arousal begins to fade as I focus on her, trying to read her mood. She doesn’t look relieved, doesn’t look glad to see me. The thought twists in my chest, sharp and unfamiliar. What’s wrong with her? Shouldn’t she feel safe? Protected? Loved?

Her pace slows as she nears my car. I stay seated, watching her carefully, noting the subtle tremble in her hands, the puffiness around her eyes. Grief clings to her like a second skin, and for a brief moment, I almost envy it. Grief has her wrapped in its grip. I want to be the one wrapping around her instead.

Gabriela reaches the window, her gaze searching mine. Her lips part slightly, as though the words are caught in her throat. She leans closer, her voice soft and raw when she finally speaks.

“Ren, what are you doing here?”

Her voice is soft, tired, like the weight of everything is too much for her to bear.

“I was worried about you. I called, you know.”

She nods, crossing her arms over her full breast. The motion presses her cardigan tighter against her, and for a second, I wonder if she’s trying to shield herself—from me, from the world, or both. “I know. I need time.”

I tilt my head to the side, confused. Is she dumping me? “Time?”

“Ren,” she begins, her voice so soft I can barely hear it over the beats of my heart. “Two of my friends died. I don’t know.” Her voice breaks, a single tear sliding down her cheek. She quickly wipes it away with the sleeve of her shirt, almost angrily, like she’s furious at herself for showing weakness. “I just need time alone.” Her arms go up in the air in a helpless gesture. “I can’t find my brother.”

The mention of Byron sends a jolt through me. The memory of him, chained and bloody, flashes in my mind like a hidden treasure.

Removing my seat belt, I do what any caring boyfriend would do at the sight of the woman he loves breaking down. Opening the door, I step out of the car and cup her face in my hand. Her skin is warm, damp from tears. “Tell me, what do you need?”

Gabriela’s lip quivers, and her breath hitches. “I’m scared.”

Fuck. The fear in her voice is enough to send shivers down my spine and a rush straight to my cock. Fear is so raw, so honest—it’s the most intimate thing anyone can give.

“I’m here to protect you,” I whisper, pressing my forehead against hers.

“I need my brother,” she sobs, her voice breaking into pieces as I pull away and bring her into my chest. Her tears soak through my shirt, hot and heavy, and I pray she doesn’t feel the hardness between my legs.

“I’m here,” I whisper, running my hand slowly down her back, my touch soft, deliberate. She fits so perfectly in my arms. But she’s not the one I want.

Abruptly, she pulls away, her hands falling to her sides as she steps back. “Ren, please. I’m sorry. I just need time.”

I nod, my smile faint, measured. “Of course,” I murmur, watching as she slips away, turning her back on me. Leaving me.

I bite my lip to keep from laughing. Time? She thinks time will save her. Time doesn’t save anyone. I make the rules, not time. Not her.

The sound of a door creaking open pulls my attention. The blonde waitress steps outside, a cigarette in hand, her face smeared with tears. Her hands tremble slightly as she lights it, the flame catching on the first try.

I let out a breath, forcing my body to relax, before walking toward her. Nothing weird, nothing out of place. Just another man having a conversation. “You have another of those?” I ask, pointing at her cigarette.

She glances at me, her red-rimmed eyes dull, empty. Without a word, she pulls a pack from her apron and offers it to me.

“Thank you,” I say, pulling a cigarette from the box and placing it between my lips. She lights it with a blue lighter, her hand steady this time.

I inhale the minty smoke, letting it curl through my chest before exhaling slowly. “How well do you know Gabby?”

She tilts her head slightly, her green eyes narrowing as she takes a drag from her own cigarette. “Well enough. I used to be with her brother.”

I nod, exhaling the smoke through my nose. Byron again. He’s everywhere, isn’t he? Even when he’s mine.

“She needs space, and her good-for-nothing brother needs to be there for her,” she adds, her tone sharp, bitter.

“Good for nothing?” I question, taking another pull of the cigarette, my gaze steady on her.

She hesitates, her lips parting as if unsure whether to continue. Then, as if something snaps, she does. “He’s MIA. I’m sure she told you. But this isn’t the first time. He did it after we split. Then one day, he showed up with the cops tailing him and got arrested right in front of her.” She points a finger at me, her anger flaring. “Useless,” she sneers. The words come out coated in venom, her voice cracking slightly at the end.

I let my gaze drift, my lips curling around the cigarette as I exhale again. The smoke hangs between us, thick and heavy. “I thought they were close.”

“They are. He just makes shit decisions, and loving someone doesn’t mean you’re there for them.”

I bite my lips, nodding slowly. “Yeah. I guess you’re right.”

“I’m sorry about Theresita,” I say, my tone gentle, assuming they were close.

She sniffles, her hand shaky as she presses the cigarette into the ashtray built into the trash can. “Give her space, pretty boy,” she mutters, her voice softer now. She avoids making eye contact as she heads back inside, her apron swaying slightly as she disappears into the diner.

I chuck the cigarette into the ashtray, watching the embers smolder and die, before returning to my car. The leather creaks beneath me as I settle into the seat, gripping the steering wheel tightly.

Space? She doesn’t know me at all. Gabriela doesn’t need space—she needs to serve me. Byron needs me. They just don’t know it yet.

I start the engine, the faint scent of wax and cigarette smoke lingering in the air. In the rear view mirror, the candles outside the diner flicker and die.