Chapter 20
Bridger
I stood inside one of the many bedrooms in Juliette’s house, the room eerily quiet.
All that was in there was her art stuff.
The stuff I got her. Easel, canvases, brushes.
That was it. Nothing on the walls. No colors besides the stuff she had made.
Just white. The whole fucking house was like that.
Bland and clinical. I wasn’t sure how anyone could find inspiration while living in it. Maybe that was the point.
I took another step closer to the easel, standing in front of the painting, and I was immediately reminded of how fucking talented Juliette was. And then rage hit me, because all of that had been ripped away from her.
Reaching a hand out, I gave the painting a gentle trace with my fingers.
It was dry, and I wondered when Juliette had finished it.
She had painted a little house. Some tiny cottage.
It was the kind of stuff she used to paint back in the day.
The sky she had made was a soft blue, and the cottage had a sea of pink and white and yellow flowers along the front and sides.
Not a cloud in the sky. Just pure brightness, pure light. It felt like summer.
And when I thought about Juliette, when I thought about all our times together all those years ago, every day felt like summer. Even the cold, rainy days.
That bracelet she had made me felt heavy there on my wrist. I had finally found the strength to put it back on.
The tethered leather sat there against my skin, bright and blue and hidden by the sleeve of my jacket.
I didn’t think I could ever part with it.
It came from her, was made with her hands for me and no one else. How could I ever let it go?
“Thought I heard footsteps,” Juliette said from behind me.
I turned to see her in the doorway. She was in some little nightie that stopped just above her knees, the shiny material looking all smooth and soft.
Silk, probably. Expensive too. She looked beautiful.
She always did. She leaned up against the doorway, her long locks flowing down her bare shoulders.
“This looks good,” I said, nodding at the painting, but my subconscious wouldn’t stop reminding me that I was really talking about her.
Her legs looked all soft and smooth, my hands aching to touch her, feel her.
The other night hadn’t been enough. Seeing her like that had sparked so many memories.
Those late nights together. Me and her tangled up in her bed, one hand pressed to her mouth because Mommy and Daddy couldn’t find out.
Us in my car, in the backseat, sharing rushed, heated kisses.
Her hands everywhere and my own hands just as curious to feel every part of her.
“I’m surprised you’re not in my bedroom,” she said, arms crossing over her chest.
“I didn’t come here to watch you play with your pussy tonight,” I said.
Her cheeks went red and her eyes met the floor. “You caught me at a bad time.”
“Were you gonna paint some more?” I looked back at the canvas. “Pretty good for someone who hasn’t painted in so long.”
Her eyes snapped up to mine, darkening in a second flat. “Why do you keep bringing that up? After what you did, why do you even act like you care?”
I sucked in a sharp breath. I already knew where this was going. “What did I do?”
“You know what you did.”
“You already know I didn’t do it.”
“Mhm. And I absolutely believe you,” she said, venom there in her voice.
“Yeah, you should believe me, because I’ve never fucking lied to you about that.”
“Why can’t you just admit to my face what you did?”
“I’m not going to admit to something I had nothing to do with.”
“You already admitted you did it on paper, but I’m very curious to see if you have enough integrity to say it to my face.”
That stalled me, my head shaking a little at her words. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
She pressed two fingers to her forehead, rubbing in firm circles, eyes shutting tightly like it was the only thing keeping her together. “How stupid am I for letting you back into my life?”
“I didn’t do it, Juliette. I told you: I’m not admitting to a crime I had nothing to do with. You want me to talk about the ones I was actually involved in? I’ll give you the details on every last one. But this? This shit you think I did? Nah. Not me, princess. You got the wrong guy.”
“Whatever. I don’t even care.” She pushed herself away from the doorway. “Just leave already. I don’t wanna see you.”
I eyed her up and down. “Okay, why are you so pissed?”
“Besides the fact that you keep breaking into my house like you own the place?”
“You weren’t like this the other night.”
She stiffened. “I’ve had a sudden realization.”
“And that is?”
“Letting you see me the way you did the other night? That was a mistake.”
“That was a mistake?” I laughed, taking a few steps towards her. “You whining my name and coming for me… That was a mistake? ‘Cause you sure looked like you were having a great time.”
“Will you be quiet?” she asked, teeth gritted. “He’ll hear you.”
I scoffed. “You think I fuckin’ care about that?”
“Do you want him to hear you?”
I leaned in closer, towering right over her, that scent of her perfume there in my nose. Sweet and flowery. Fucking addictive. “I might like the idea of your pussy husband knowing I made you come harder than he ever has even though I barely fuckin’ touched you.”
Hands pressed to my chest, she tried to give me a shove backwards.
It did nothing. I stayed standing, too strong for her, too strong for the man downstairs even when he didn’t have those damn crutches.
I caught her hands before she could pull them away from me, feeling her fingers curl into the material of my shirt.
“I never touched your painting, Juliette,” I said, voice steady. “I thought we were past that shit, but I see you haven’t moved on a whole five years later.”
“How the hell am I meant to move on from that?” she said, voice breaking. “You know how hard I had been working on that painting! You knew what it was, what it meant to me, what I needed it for—”
“I didn’t touch it,” I snapped, cutting her off. “And even if I did, it’s not like it meant shit to you, anyway. How quickly did you stop painting, huh?”
Something flashed behind her eyes. All dark and bitter and angry. She only saved that side of her for me. She spun around, quick on her feet as she walked away from me.
“Oh, get away from me,” she said.
“You gave up,” I said, following right after her. She was storming right down the hall, right to the end where her bedroom was. I had broken into her home enough times to know where everything was now.
“I did not give up,” she snapped at me over her shoulder.
“You gave in. To what they wanted. What your parents wanted. To be this boring fucking Stepford wife that you have no goddamn business being.”
“It’s so funny that you seem to care about my art career when you destroyed something I made! When you literally sliced it in half!”
“I didn’t touch it! How many times do I have to tell you?”
“Do you think if you lie about it enough times that I’ll believe you?”
“I’ve never lied to you about fucking anything, Juliette. I. Didn’t. Do it. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“You need to grow up and admit to it already.”
“I’m not admitting to something I didn’t do!” I said, following her right into her bedroom.
“You haven’t changed at all!” she spat out, finally turning around to face me, her long hair whirling all around her.
Her big eyes were clouded with fury, but the worst part was that they were glistening with tears.
I hated seeing her with wet eyes. “And you still can’t even look me in the eyes and admit to what you did.
You can’t say sorry. You can’t acknowledge how much you hurt me.
I was a mess when you left, even after what you did.
I cried over you for so many nights, Bridger.
I loved you. I loved you so much and you just go and ruin everything we had, and then you have the nerve to barge back into my life and ask all of these stupid questions like you have any right to know about me!
No, okay? No. You don’t get that right back.
When you hurt me that night, that was it.
That was the end of me and you and us and whatever we had.
And even that wasn’t enough. You had to take that bag with you too. ”
My head rolled back, a low groan escaping my lips. “Oh, you and that fucking bag. Christ, is it made of gold?”
A little cry left her. One she was trying to fight off. I could tell by the way she flinched, the way she pulled in a breath that wasn’t as steady as she was hoping for.
“No,” she finally said. “Close to it, though.”
“You have a million fucking more. I saw ‘em. You’ll live.”
Her jaw clenched. “Not like that one. Hope whoever you sold it to enjoys it.”
“What’s in it?”
“Like you didn’t dump it at the first pawn shop you found. You can’t just barge in here and take my things. That thing. The one thing I needed. The one thing I was relying on, Bridger.”
I exhaled. “Jesus fucking Christ, you’ve got a million of those bags, Juliette. You’re still mad about that? Really?”
She pressed her lips together tightly. “Yes.”
“Get the fuck over it. You’ve got more of that shit.” I moved past her, stepping into her bedroom, making my way right to that walk-in closet that I knew was stacked with all kinds of expensive shit.
“Don’t go in there!” Juliette called out.
But I was already there, stepping inside, bright white walls surrounding me along with shelves and drawers and mirrors and a whole pile of fucking purses all over the floor.
The place was wrecked. My eyes scanned the floor.
Those damn bags were everywhere. Straps all tangled, dust bags crumpled, zippers yanked off.
I felt a hand on my shoulder, Juliette’s fingers tight and clingy.
“Get out, Bridger!” she called out. “Get out, get out, get out.”