24. Roman
ROMAN
I rritation flares beneath my skin, making me overheat despite the crisp morning air.
I toss my phone down, that ridiculous gossip rag article glaring up at me, and reach for my black book instead.
I knew the headlines would be running rampant after yesterday’s conference, but this is the first one I’ve seen personally, and it’s also the most inflammatory.
Not that I should be surprised when something has the word “rag” in their title.
I’m on the front porch of my brand-new house, courtesy of my sperm donor. I’ve only been here for an afternoon, but already I can breathe easier not being under the same roof as my father. Montgomery Manor isn’t a part of my history, and it feels weird pretending it is.
Between that and the shiny new black card weighing down my wallet, my conscience feels like it might break me apart.
I hesitate for a couple seconds before grabbing my phone again and opening up a new message.
This time to Juliette.
I’ve been trying to restrain myself ever since she gave me her number at Upside Down Rock, but denying myself is just making me want it even more.
Me:
Rumor has it the hottest person to ever grace Rosebrook Falls is going to be drawing in an unknown location later today. You know, just in case anyone needs a muse for anything.
I toss my phone on the small table again.
Maybe she’s busy. Maybe she’s with Preston.
Groaning, I run a hand over my face. Fuck , I’m pathetic.
I focus back on my sketchbook, my hand flying over the piece I’m working on, the stress lifting from my shoulders one stroke at a time until nothing exists except pure emotion, one that bleeds through me and funnels onto the page.
Time drops away, and so does the outside stimulus, until I exist in a vacuum of focus.
A car comes rumbling up the drive, parking haphazardly, gravel flying from beneath its tires.
Merrick jumps out of the driver’s side and closes the door behind him, walking around to the front and then leaning against the hood, crossing his arms and staring at me.
Despite not knowing him well, my gut tells me he’s trustworthy. Someone who would have my back in a pit of vipers.
That’s why I texted him earlier, asking if he’d come over to talk.
I set down my pencil and close the sketchbook on my lap.
Merrick breaks out into a blinding grin. “Nice digs.”
“I’m surprised you came,” I reply.
He mock bows, one hand going over his torso and the other out to his side. “When the prince of the dead calls, you answer.”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “You make me sound like a bad guy.”
He laughs as he walks toward me. “Depending on who you ask, I think you probably are.”
When he gets up the three steps to the deck, he sits down in the wooden chair next to me.
My phone pings, and I snatch it up quickly, my heart jumping.
Little Rose:
Pass. I like the characters of my raunchy stories to be generously equipped.
I smirk.
Me:
Sounds like you’re asking me to prove I qualify.
Little Rose:
I’m asking you to leave me alone.
Me:
Weird way to say “send me a dick pic” but if you insist…
Little Rose:
I swear on everything that I will block you.
Amusement wrings my chest tight, and I don’t even realize how big I’m cheesing until Merrick clears his throat.
“Sorry,” I say, tossing the phone down on the table, and when I do the lock screen flashes that Rosebrook Rag article again.
His gaze homes in on it.
“Fucking vultures,” he says. “They’d print literal shit on paper just so they get the readership.”
“Seems that way,” I reply, thinking about what they’ve already said about me and wondering what else they will.
He sucks in air through his teeth. “You know, you may not think of yourself as a prince, but I promise you, you’re Rosebrook Falls royalty now, whether you want it or not. Be careful with them.” He taps his finger on the headline.
“Reading it or being in it?” I ask.
He shrugs. “If you can’t figure that out, then you’re fucked either way.”
I nod, his words settling against my skin like glue. “Noted.”
He leans toward me, his dark brows drawing down. “Do you have any idea what the hell you’re doing here?”
I blow out a breath, debating whether to trust him fully. But the truth is, even if I can’t, I need to have someone on my side. Someone who seems down the middle, not tied down to one side or the other of this generational feud I’ve found myself in the middle of.
“Not a fucking clue,” I admit, rubbing the back of my neck.
He whistles and shakes his head. “I had a feeling. You’ve got that freshly unboxed family trauma vibe.”
I smirk. “Do I?”
He nods. “Tragic and broody. It’s very Dickensian of you, actually. Almost romantic.”
“Glad my unresolved trauma is giving you material.”
Merrick grins. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. Every tortured hero needs a sidekick. I’m here now, and I’ll be that for you.”
Even though anxiety is still gnawing at my insides, and I’m pretty sure he’s being a smart ass, his words give me comfort. “Do you mean that?”
He lifts a shoulder. “Someone’s gotta be in your corner who doesn’t have skin in the game either way.”
“So it’s a pity friendship.”
He smiles. “What, you don’t want to be my friend?”
“Just trying to figure out who I can trust.”
His brows draw in, creasing his forehead. “Well, I won’t tell you to trust me, but I’ve got your back. Anything that shakes up these rich pricks in the area has my vote.”
“Technically, I’m one of those rich pricks now.”
He gives me a look. “Nah, you’re not. You can wear the clothes and take the name, but you’ve known what it’s like to go without. I can see it in your eyes. I’d trust you with my dollar before any of those motherfuckers.”
Nodding, I lean back in the chair.
“So, who’s got you smiling like that? You really testing out that ‘love in Rosebrook Falls’ theory?” he asks, looking pointedly at my phone again.
This time, there’s a text on the lock screen.
Little Rose:
Now you’re leaving me on read? Guess I’ll go find someone else who threatens me with dick pics then.
The thought of anyone else sending her a picture of their dick makes anger lash at my chest.
Swallowing down the misplaced jealousy, I shake my head. “You know how it is.”
He nods slowly. “Let me guess. It’s complicated?”
“That’s putting it mildly.” I spin the ring on my finger. “You really want to be my friend?”
“Well, now I’m not sure. You’re kind of making me feel like it’s a bad idea.” He nods to the phone again.
I laugh, running a hand through my hair. “I promise I won’t send you a picture of my dick. Those are for special friends only.”
I’m itching to tag somewhere public.
And while there is street art in Rosebrook Falls beyond the little bit that I’ve done, it’s mainly kept to the HillPoint or to the campus on the other side of town, and I don’t want to just come out to another artists’ turf and paint over their buildings and walls. It’s disrespectful.
I wasn’t lying when I told Juliette that street artists are territorial.
But I can’t ask anyone about it, because I don’t want anyone to know that it’s me doing the art.
I wear a mask, obviously, both to protect me from the fumes and to keep anyone from knowing my identity, but it’s still risky.
Right now, I’m on the outskirts of the town where the train tracks sit unused near the base of the cliffs that line the county park.
The train itself looks like it’s been sitting on this track for at least a few years.
There’s rust on the metal and trash littering the ground from where others have come by.
There is some tagging on a few of the boxcars, but it isn’t extreme, kept mainly to the edges.
The spot I pick is a little grimy from being abandoned for so long, but it’s definitely usable. It’s not like I’m trying to make a masterpiece here, and I don’t have any stencils of my work to perfect the lines.
All I had time to do was hop on a bus to the city about forty minutes away and grab new paints.
Art is my expression, and in every other aspect of my life, I have to hold it inside, so the need feels amplified somehow right now to get it out.
They can tie my tongue, but they can’t stay my hand.
Merrick didn’t ask questions when I asked him to drop me off here; he just did it without any protest, loading up my supplies and smirking like he knew I was up to no good.
I grab the stepstool from beside me and lug the backpack of paints over my shoulder before heading to the train and dropping it all on the ground. I open the zipper and grab a few of the spray cans, black first and then a bright pink.
Next, I flip my baseball cap forward on my head, grab the bandanna I use as a mask to cover my nose and mouth, and tie it around my face.
It’s a simple black with the bottom half of a skeleton showing its jaw and teeth, and the second I have it affixed to my face, my muscles relax, familiarity blanketing me.
Lastly, I slip on thin black gloves and then cover my head with the hood of my sweatshirt, slipping it over my hat until I’m covered enough where I don’t think I’d be recognized.
And then I get to work.
The sound of the can shaking and then the spray hitting steel sends satisfaction rippling down my spine, and I let myself get lost in the act, tension leaving my body with every stroke of the paint.
Two hours later, the sun has set too much for me to keep going—I forgot to pick up a light—so I grab the black paint and almost tag RMO in the corner of the piece, but I hesitate at the last second.
RMO feels too obvious now.
I paint a black rose instead with a simple R as the stem.
And then I pack it up and head to where I know I’ll be able to see the piece from a good vantage point.
Upside Down Rock.