5. Arden
5
ARDEN
I scowled at the canvas as strains of one of my favorite bands pounded through the speakers. Usually, I could count on an old favorite to get me into my creative headspace. But not this time.
The canvas stared back at me, its blank spaces taunting me. It was all Lincoln Pierce’s fault. He’d come to my studio yesterday looking more like some dark, avenging angel than a billionaire business magnate. When I tried to focus on work, all I could see was his stupid smirk and how it made a dimple pop in his cheek.
My phone buzzed on the table for the dozenth time. I let out a growl of frustration, slammed my brush down, and picked up the device. Sliding my thumb up the screen, I unlocked it and tapped the text icon with twenty-three alerts. Twenty-three.
I hit the sibling group text chain, reading the first message. Kye has renamed this group My Organ Donors . It was a constant battle between us to one-up each other in renaming it. Well, it was mostly Cope and Kyler. But that wasn’t a surprise. Those two had gotten into more trouble growing up than the rest of us combined.
Kye
Too much? Your bullet hole still leaking water when you drink, Copey?
Fallon
That’s not funny, Kyler.
I wasn’t surprised that our most tenderhearted sister had jumped in to reel Kye back from the inappropriate edge. She was the only one he’d listen to anyway. He’d come to live with the Colsons at sixteen, furious at the world and two seconds from imploding. Fal had seemed to be the only person who could reach him, and their bond had remained.
Kye
Hey, I helped his ass to the bathroom for a week after surgery. I have earned these jokes.
Cope
No one cleans out a bedpan like you, buddy.
I didn’t want to admit the relief I felt at just seeing Cope’s name in the chat, cracking jokes like always. I could pretend that he was in hockey preseason instead of at some fancy physical therapy place Linc had set him up at.
Me
I thought I had you idiots on silent. Who turned this chat off do not disturb?
Rhodes
I might’ve made some adjustments when I stopped by the other day.
Kye
That’s cold, A. Muting your siblings. The people you love most in this world.
Me
I’m turning my phone on silent now. Byeeee.
Trace
No, you aren’t. Because it’s a security risk.
Of course, the eldest and most overprotective of our bunch would point that out. He was more than just the sheriff of this county; he’d also taken it upon himself to be law enforcement in our patchwork family.
I lifted my phone, took a selfie of me sticking out my tongue at him, and hit send.
Kye
Don’t worry, Arden can kick everyone’s ass on this chain except for me.
Me
Including you.
Shep
In case you were looking for photographic proof.
A second later, a photo appeared of me putting Kye on the mat in an armbar hold. It made me look like a badass, but as good as I’d gotten, I knew Kye had let me have that one. He’d been training for years longer than I had, and his style had an edge that mine didn’t. The kind that came from struggling to stay alive when no one had your back.
Kye
Come spar with me tonight, Bob the Builder. We’ll see how you feel then.
Fallon
You know Thea will cut off your balls with her garden shears if you give Shep another black eye.
Shep’s girlfriend had not been pleased when he came home rocking a shiner after their last session.
Kye
Scratch that. Thea scares me. How about we throw a dayger at Cope’s mega-mansion while he’s out of town? Gotta use that pool while we can.
Cope
You try to throw a party while I’m out of town, and I’ll pour peach schnapps all over your precious truck.
Kye
You play dirty, hockey boy. But just remember, I have photographic proof of you streaking down Cascade Avenue the night before graduation.
Cope
And I have photographic proof of you letting Keely give you a makeover.
Fallon
Nope. I’ve got that one.
She sent a photo of Trace’s six-year-old daughter biting her lip in concentration as she swept gobs of blush over Kye’s cheeks. He might look like a cross between a mountain man and a tattoo god, but he was putty in his niece’s hands.
Kye
I’m letting Keels paint all over Cope’s walls with those glitter markers she loves so much.
Cope
Don’t you dare.
Rhodes
You’re just tempting him by saying that.
Cope
I’ve got Linc staying at the house. He’ll protect it from a glitter attack.
I stilled, every nerve ending in my body going live. Just reading Linc’s name sent images of him dancing through my mind: those vibrant hazel eyes pinning me to the spot with questions I could never answer, the twist of his lips when he smiled, that damn dimple.
My fingers flew across my phone’s screen.
Me
Thanks for the chaperone, by the way.
Kye
Uh-oh. You really pissed off the princess of darkness now.
Cope
Linc needed a place to stay while he looks for property in Sparrow Falls and Shep works on a house design. It was the least I could do.
I didn’t need the reminder. I was happy living in denial land. The thought of Linc staying within a two-minute walk from my house? Moving to Sparrow Falls, even part-time? Nope. Nope. Nope.
Me
I’m helping Keely douse your walls in glitter. You deserve it.
I flipped the notifications on the chat back to Do Not Disturb, frowning at the fact that Rhodes had switched it off in the first place. More evidence that she was worried. Or maybe it was simply because she’d found happiness and healing and wanted the rest of us to, as well.
My lips twitched at the image of our sunshiniest sister ending up with the broodiest guy I could imagine—one all but allergic to color. But the grumpy ex-FBI profiler had turned out to be the one for her. And she was the one for Anson.
An uncomfortable sensation slid through me. An ache that reminded me of the growing pains that woke you up as a kid. I shook off the feeling, placing my phone face down on the table. No more distractions.
I stepped back, trying to take in the canvas with fresh eyes. Something about it still wasn’t working. Over the years, I’d found that the painting would never come together if I didn’t get the first broad strokes right. But that didn’t mean all was lost. Not yet.
The canvas had paint in some areas, and pencil marks that were supposed to be my map in others. I tried to erase the sketch lines in my mind and let go of the plan I had to see the endless possibilities. The spark of something lit. It was just an ember of an idea, but I gently blew on it, letting it grab hold.
I quickly moved to my paints, my fingers flying over the rows of options before stopping on perylene red. It was a deep cherry red. Not a color I used often, but exactly what I needed today. I crossed to my palette and pressed some out of the tube.
As the music and my vision took hold, I lost myself in creation. First, in the darker colors I’d started with—the purples, greens, and blues. Instead of trees, I painted thorny brambles, a tangle you’d never be able to escape.
But then the red came—slashes of color against the darkness. They were messy and imperfect, just like Linc invading my space with his charm, vitality, brash humor, and challenge. I smeared the blooms across the dark canvas in an unmeasured way, some of the edges darkening with the deeper colors around them. Until Brutus let out a loud bark.
I jolted, just then realizing someone was pounding on the door. I reached for my phone, ignored the countless notifications, and turned off my stereo. The knocking stopped as soon as the music did.
I stilled. The security alarm for the property hadn’t gone off. It could’ve been Linc at my door or an axe murderer like he’d suggested. Honestly, I thought I’d take the axe murderer over someone who had me painting fucking flowers.
My fingers flew over my phone’s screen until I reached the app for the security cameras. Cope had an elaborate system covering his property. He always said it was because of his hockey-star status, but I knew the truth.
When I finally moved off the Colson Ranch property, my siblings, Nora, and Lolli all wanted to make sure I was safe. Their need for me to be secure felt stifling at times but like a warm embrace at others.
As I tapped on the screen for the camera above the door to my studio, I had to admit the system came in handy at times. Denver looked up at the camera, grinning the second it came on and flashing a peace sign. I couldn’t help the snort that left me when I saw his attire.
He’d gone a bit over the top with his hippie-chic outfit. His long, light brown hair hung loosely around his shoulders, a few thin braids among it with feathers at the ends. He wore a flat-brimmed hat, a white tee with countless turquoise necklaces, and dark-washed jeans with paint splatters that I knew were put there by some designer and not by working on a piece. Because while my art dealer and manager of the gallery space I owned appreciated art, he didn’t have the patience to master it himself.
I sighed and headed for the door, giving Brutus a hand signal to be at ease. The moment I yanked it open, Denver strode in. He never waited for an invitation or worried he was disrupting my flow.
“Have you seen a doctor about your potential hearing loss yet?” he asked, making a beeline for the painting.
I fought the urge to go stand in front of it and try to block it from view. I was never crazy about people seeing works mid-progress, but this was different. More. Something about the piece felt far too personal to have Denver staring at it and assessing every brushstroke.
The thought didn’t make sense, not when I was used to displaying my darkest moments on canvas or in sculpture. I bled into my art, each piece carrying a piece of my soul. So, why was this one so different?
“Den,” I called, trying to get him to turn away from the painting.
He studied it for a few more seconds before turning. “I could hear every scream in that godawful stuff you listen to from the main road.”
My lips twitched. “Not the mystic chants you’re used to? ”
“Hey,” Denver said. “Don’t knock it until you try it. Maybe it’ll clear the storm cloud hovering over your head all the time.”
“But then what would I make art about?” I challenged.
“Good point.” He turned back to study the painting. “This is good. Really good. A little different. I like it. It’ll be a good match for the auction.”
“I’m not sure it’s going in the auction,” I said quickly. I might hold on to this one for myself, and I rarely did that.
Denver glanced at me, his eyebrow lifting. “Shouldn’t you be focusing on pieces that will be part of the fundraiser?”
“You know it doesn’t work like that for me. I have to go where the creativity leads.”
He was quiet for a moment, studying me the way he had the painting. I fought the urge to squirm. Finally, he seemed to see something he needed and released his gaze. “All right. Don’t forget we have a meeting next week at The Collective.”
I groaned. “Do you really need me there?”
Denver just shook his head, looking exasperated with me. “This whole thing was your idea. The show, the auction. For a good cause, remember?”
I knew it was: raising funds to expand art programs for youth in the Sparrow Falls community, after-school programs and training with teachers in a variety of mediums. I was good with the work that needed to go into it, less so with the socializing.
“Fine,” I mumbled. “I’ll be there.”
Denver moved in closer, dropping his hands to my shoulders and crouching slightly so we were eye-to-eye. “We would have a much larger turnout if you’d agree to give an interview.”
Alarm bells rang out in my mind, and every muscle in my body stiffened. “No.”
“Arden—”
“No,” I said, dipping out of Denver’s hold. “You know interviews are a no-go for me. Not my thing.”
They were so much more than a no-go. They were the kind of thing that could get me dead. The witness protection guidelines swirled in my mind. Even though I’d opted out of the program over seven years ago, the rules were still branded on my brain.
No contact with people from your old life .
That one was easy. My parents were gone, now nothing more than names on tombstones on the other side of the country. I had no other relatives except for a cousin on my father’s side who’d declined to assume custody of me at the time. And I was a distant memory to the childhood friends I’d left behind.
Don’t tell anyone about your past .
That one got a little murky. The Colsons knew bits and pieces now, but I trusted them with my life. They’d proven themselves over and over again. But I hadn’t told a single other soul.
Don’t have your picture anywhere public .
I ran into issues with Denver on that one. He constantly wanted me to do interviews or create social media profiles where I showed my personality . Only by personality, he meant my face.
“Arden, I know attention isn’t your thing, but?—”
“No.” I tried to put as much finality into the word as possible.
Denver sighed. “This arts collective is your brainchild. You’re the one who wanted to create a place for all artists in the community to have a home. Space to create and share those creations with the world.”
I shifted uncomfortably. He wasn’t wrong. Art had given me an outlet I desperately needed at the worst time in my life. I just wanted to make sure others had access to the same if they wanted it.
“I’ll come to the meeting. I’ll make sure you have paintings and sculptures to auction off to the highest bidder. I’ll even smile at every deep-pocketed douchebag who wants to tell me what he thinks my art means while staring at my cleavage. But no interviews.”
Denver’s lips twitched. “Who are you kidding? If some d-bag stares at your boobs, you’ll break his arm.”
I choked on a laugh. “I’d give him a warning first.”
“I need to check on the gallery’s insurance policy.”
I grinned at my friend, but it slipped slightly as worry niggled. “I’m sorry. It’s just—I can’t. ”
A muscle fluttered in Denver’s cheek, but he nodded. “It’s okay. I can probably get Hannah to do one. Maybe Isaiah or Farah.”
The other artists in our little collective would likely jump at the chance. And they deserved it, too. They were all incredibly skilled with interesting perspectives and outlooks. “Thanks, Den.”
He pinned me with a stare. “I just want the world to know your art. You’re ridiculously talented. You deserve to be known more widely.”
“I’m good with my little corner of the universe,” I promised him.
And that wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the whole truth either. The truth was, I couldn’t afford the risk.
Because when someone put a hit on you when you were eleven and living in foster care, you didn’t take chances. Not when your life depended on it.