12. Hope
CHAPTER 12
Hope
I ’ve flown out for a show in Paris, but not before I scheduled an elegant black box to be delivered to Braxton’s address and left at his door. My stomach flutters, just imagining his reaction. Will he be mortified at the drowned man I took inspiration from? Can he appreciate the work that went into the piece? I know it’s risky sending them to him, but I’ve never felt more alive, finally being able to show someone my secret art.
It doesn’t make sense to me, but maybe I decided to take the risk because if anyone might appreciate a dead body in the same light I do, it’s surely a homicide detective. It’s a thrill to fuck with him in retaliation for him constantly popping up uninvited in my everyday life. We might move our pieces on the board differently, but we’re both here to play a game, and I’m curious about the outcome.
Me killing him is the ultimate goal, but it excites me to think he might be the first person ever to corner me. Ford and I often play chess, but I’m understanding there’s a very different thrill when playing with your life and reputation on the line.
“Angle yourself like this,” the photographer instructs, and I’m brought back to my reality at the art exhibition. I’ve donated two pieces for charity, and although I specifically told my agent I didn’t want to attend the event, I was told, as always, that it’s a must if I want to keep my name out there and continue building my career. I wonder when enough is enough. When are people satisfied by their level of fame? If it were up to me, I wouldn’t be in the spotlight at all. It’s the shadows I prefer.
But I mimic her movement, running my hands down the very expensive gown I’m wearing. “Perfect. Now, lightly brush your fingers against the pearls on your neck. Oh, and let’s remove the glasses. Do you mind? You have such beautiful blue eyes.”
“It’s a rarity to have red hair and blue eyes,” my agent, Candice, interjects, peering over the photographer’s shoulder at the photos that have already been taken. The photographer’s assistant holds out her hand, and I hesitantly take off my glasses and pass them to her. Candice has suggested for years now I switch to contact lenses, but the glasses are like a security blanket for me. Another layer I can hide behind.
“Fantastic. Now, the pearls,” the photographer instructs again. I fake a smile, wishing I was in my pajamas, hanging with Billie and Ivy in their apartment for a movie night.
After a few more minutes, Candice and the photographer seem confident they have enough photos to choose from. The first thing I do is grab my glasses before I head into the showroom, Candice beside me, briefly going over the details of pieces and other artists I might be interested in connecting with. I’m not. Although I can admire others’ work in all forms, it always seems lacking in creative genius to me, or maybe it’s because what truly excites me is taboo.
I’m always on the go, traveling the world and appearing at events such as these, even though they exhaust me mentally and physically. I’m not a people person. While my mother can captivate any room she steps into, I’d rather be home alone, reading a good book.
There are times when I’m jealous of my mother’s ability to be so comfortable in social situations. Then again, my auntie and my father never cared about wooing anyone, and I think I took a little bit—or a lot—of that from them.
I walk through the masses as hands reach for me, squeezing and congratulating me on my pieces. Their faces blur, their energies mingling and yapping at my own. I smile like I’m supposed to. But, for some reason, tonight is more exhausting, maybe because I really wish I were hanging out with the girls, or even the twins for that matter.
The moment I see a waitress walking around with a tray of champagne, I grab a glass, just to have something in my hand to try to deter people from grabbing at me. I prefer to come alone to events, instead of inviting any family or friends. I don’t want them to be bored when I don’t have it in me to keep them entertained. Also, I want to keep my worlds separate. With my family, I’m just Hope. Here, I’m treated like some kind of icon. These people don’t know the real me. I’m seen but not really.
“Gosh, Hope, you outdid yourself,” the lady who runs the gallery gushes as she places a hand on my shoulder and starts guiding me around. She goes on to tell me how this is the most successful exhibition she’s had all year, and that we need to book again soon for the next one. Sometimes making the pieces can take up to a whole year, while others I can do in just a week. It just depends how complicated the piece is. That’s something I learned early on, but I can’t rush something if I love it.
I spend the next hour mingling with people as I hold the same glass of champagne, never even taking a sip. It’s not that I don’t like to drink. I obviously do. But not when I’m at a work function like this. I want to make sure I’m on my best behavior. And I have to fly home in a matter of six hours and tell my parents that I’ve decided I’m going to quit college because I’m not really sure what I’m doing there when I know for a fact it’s being an artist that truly makes me happy. Why am I even studying art when I’m already in the field? My mother thought it’d be great for me to build a network of like-minded people, but my lack of social skills hasn’t changed. I have my core people, and that’s all I need or want. I have made a few acquaintances while going to college, but I now feel like I’ve learned all I can, and it’s starting to eat into the few hours I have free to myself.
My mother also mentioned how unique of an experience it could be. And although she wasn’t wrong, I feel like it’s outlasted its season. I don’t think they’ll be disappointed, per se, but I’m still nervous about having the discussion.
I don’t manage to get any sleep in the hotel after the event, so I give up and pack my bag. I do, however, get a few hours of sleep on the private jet returning home. Candice is busily scanning posts and articles that have already begun filtering out. Notifications have already started blowing up my phone because of the photo they posted of me in my elegant dress. I couldn’t feel more like day or night as I now wear jeans that accentuate my curves, a midriff-baring top, and a pair of heels. If Candice weren’t there to remind me of my ‘appearance,’ I would’ve worn my sweats on the flight. But we’d learned photos like that can appear quickly in gossip articles. When I was a teenager, I used to be followed often as Lena Love’s daughter, but that form of invasiveness slowly receded as my artwork began to be highlighted. I also think my father blackmailed and terrified certain newspapers to not encroach on my personal space.
The flight feels long but gives me time to also daydream with ideas of what I’ll create next.
When we land, I perk up in my seat when I spot my cousin waiting for me on the tarmac beside his car, which is very unusual.
It’s never a good thing when you arrive, and evil is already waiting for you. Hawke smiles as I exit the plane.
“You miss me that much?” I ask curiously. He walks up to me and takes the bag from my shoulder.
I notice the way Candice scans him up and down. It’s always the same with Hawke; women are cautious of him but often led by their libido. He gives her a slow once-over with a cocky grin, and I roll my eyes.
“Off-limits,” I growl. His grin grows wider as he carries my bag to the car.
“Nothing’s off-limits to me,” he says arrogantly as he opens the passenger door for me. “Does your friend want a lift?”
She blushes and glances at the car waiting for her. “No, I have work to do. But thank you for the offer.”
“That’s a shame. Sometimes play is important,” he drawls, and I glare daggers at the side of his head as I lower into the car.
When I twist around to look at her, she’s blushing and tucking a piece of her hair behind her ear. When she notices my attention, she averts her gaze and clears her throat. “Thank you for the offer, but I’ll be going home.”
“Your loss.” Hawke shrugs.
“You need to stop,” I hiss.
Hawke laughs as he rounds the hood and then drops into the driver’s seat. We wait patiently as Candice’s car slowly pulls away.
“Want to tell me what’s happening? You don’t have anyone in the trunk, do you?” I ask as Hawke begins driving. That devilish smirk lights up his face.
My stomach drops. Oh fuck. Does he? Does he have Braxton in there?
“No. But I’m here so we can have a little fun. You have me lying to Uncle Alek, little red, and you know that man puts the fear of God in me.” He shivers.
Hawke is… unpredictable, so I’m a little concerned at what his idea of fun might entail.
“Where are you going with this, Hawke? And where’s your brother?” They’re almost always together.
He groans and looks out the window. “Off fucking Billie, probably.” I try not to smirk. Hawke hates it that he doesn’t have his brother to himself all the time now, but he secretly loves Billie—in a brotherly way. But he loves his brother the most. So, I find the whole dynamic quite interesting.
“And how does that involve me?” I quip.
“Isn’t it obvious? I need someone to party with, and I figured you owe me a favor.” I stare at him in disbelief.
“You’re desperate if you’re inviting me to go out with you.” I’m the least inclined out of all of us to want to party. Surely, there was someone else he could take. It’s the middle of the night, and I want to go to bed.
“I don’t think you’ve exactly been lying to my father, so what reason is there for me to go anywhere with you? Especially somewhere with people.”
“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong. He asked if I’d seen you, and I told him yes. But I didn’t tell him about the guns, so that means I lied to him.” I can’t help but laugh. He idolizes my father, so I know not telling him the full truth would kill him.
“That doesn’t mean you were lying, Hawke,” I say flatly.
“Whatever. It made me feel icky, okay?” His shoulders bunch.
I shake my head. “I’m not going out with you. Take me home.”
“Damn, you really are ruining all the fun,” he grumbles, turning in the direction of my house.
I wonder if this is Hawke’s way of checking up on me. I appreciate the fact that he hasn’t told my father that I have a detective following me and that Hawke also hasn’t moved against my wishes. I can’t help but smile. The big oaf might be unorthodox, but he’s certainly protective.
“What if I agree to go out with you tomorrow as a thank you?”
He perks up in the same way I imagine a dog might. I’ve just locked myself into God knows what.
When we reach my home, he gets out, grabs my bag, and follows me inside. It might be midnight, but he doesn’t care. He basically grew up here. Hawke struggles to be alone, so he often stayed at our house or Eli’s place. He makes haste to the kitchen, dumping my bag at the entrance and then finding himself a snack.
My father walks out with a glass of whiskey in his hand, clearly uncomfortable at the fact that Hawke’s here without him knowing. His discomfort is probably because he’s not wearing his gloves; he’s never around people without them on.
It’s not that he has scarring or anything, but physically touching people causes an adverse reaction in him.
“I see you brought company,” my father says, taking a sip of his drink.
“Figured you’d appreciate her getting home safe,” Hawke says with a mouthful of food. This guy’s always eating.
“Yes, thank you,” my father grits as he comes over to me and presses a kiss to my forehead.
Hawke smiles at him like he won a prize.
“How was the event?” my father asks.
“Good.”
I want to tell him about my decision regarding college, but with my mother out of town, it’s best to wait for her to return in a few days.
Hawke looks between us expectantly, never quite able to read a room. “You sure are lonely without your sidekick,” my father observes. “Go to bed, Hawke.” He turns and walks off, leaving me alone with Hawke.
“See, he loves me. He noticed how lonely I was.” He shovels more food into his face and then pulls me in for a side hug. “I’m holding you to your word. I’ll see you later, little red. I’ll be here when the sun goes down tomorrow.”
I expel a sigh. What have I signed up for? “Oh, and for future reference. My agent is off-limits, as is anyone else I work with, for that matter.”
He smirks, devouring what looks like a plain white roll. “How presumptuous of you to think we don’t already have history.”
Hawke’s laughing when he leaves, and I glare serious daggers at his back.
I don’t know why he needs a sidekick to go out with, considering he ends up with women all over him. I’ve been out with him before, and while he might walk in with everyone else, he never leaves with us, so that means tomorrow night, I’ll be on my own. Not if I invite someone, of course. He never said I couldn’t. And I know one particular party girl who might be able to keep up with him. I pull out my phone and message Ivy. And then Billie. It depends, though, if Billie’s willing to step away from Ford for a night; they’ve been tied at the hip ever since they became official.
Ivy, however, is free as a bird. She loves to party, and as a bonus, she draws most of the attention, which immediately puts me at ease.