27. Hope
CHAPTER 27
Hope
“M otherfucker thinks he’s funny,” I grumble as I glance over at the passenger seat where I’ve placed the box. “He just assumes it’s me. Just assumes I’m the one with the twisted and fucked-up mind.”
My hands grip the steering wheel tightly. I don’t know why this feels like a rejection, but it does, and I can’t fucking stand it. Not only does he have the balls to have this delivered to my home, but he also sent every fucking piece back. They can’t all be shit!
When I drive by his apartment building, I notice his car isn’t where it’s usually parked. I could dump it at his door, cameras be damned. I want him to know I returned them. But even better, I decide to go to the next place I think I can find him.
He wants to come to my safe place, then I’ll fucking go to his.
The police station is only a ten-minute drive from his apartment—naturally, he wants to be close to work. I’m smiling when I spot his car, barely hitting the brakes as I drive straight into the back of his car.
I brace myself at the impact. My head hits my forearms, as I anticipated, and I breathe out, a jolt of adrenaline rushing through me. Someone screams from the sidewalk, but I ignore them as I get out of my car, open the passenger door, and grab the box. I must look like a fucking mess after traveling all day and then coming straight here, but I don’t care.
There’s damage to my car, but I’m certain it’ll still get me home. A police officer gapes as he rushes out of the precinct doors. “It was an accident,” I say sweetly as I carry the box inside and straight to the reception desk.
The woman at the desk is gawking with her mouth open. She looks at me and then at a side door, which I expect Braxton to come out of at any moment.
“I’d like to see Braxton Hero. I’m under the firm impression he’s working today since I accidentally just rammed my Ferrari into his car. I have a gift for him.”
“And an apology?” the woman asks, flabbergasted.
My eyebrows furrow. “No. The box contains statues.”
Suddenly, I’m wondering if he works with a bunch of morons because she doesn’t seem to be moving.
An officer slowly approaches me. “Ma’am, you’ve just damaged a police?—”
“Leave her.” Braxton’s voice carries over the room as he appears from somewhere deeper in the precinct, and I smile like it’s the happiest moment of my life to see him. “I’ll handle this.”
The officer seems unconvinced and points to Braxton’s car. Braxton looks out the glass doors and his jaw tics.
“Too short for the brake pedal, Shortcake?” he growls.
“No, my heel slipped,” I say innocently as I glance over his shoulder and into the area he came from. The same one he took me into months ago.
People are cuffed to chairs as they sit there and wait their turn, and officers walk around talking, eating, or drinking coffee.
He makes a point to bring his hand near his waist, drawing attention to the gun in his holster. He’s wearing all black, and the badge I came all over only a week ago hangs around his neck. I feel rather smug with a twisted idea of how it might look as a noose instead. His sleeves are rolled up to showcase the tattoos on his arm, and I can’t help but smile as those blue eyes darken with anger.
Oooh, I really got to him this time. Good.
He takes a few steps and reaches for me. People are watching us, but I don’t really care. I make a pointed look down to the box in my hands, and when he follows my gaze, it’s like he hadn’t noticed it before.
“What are you doing?” he hisses.
“I think your package got lost in the mail and somehow ended up at my house,” I inform him. “While I appreciate the compliment that you thought I was the one to create them, they’re not mine to take, so please take possession of your belongings.” His gaze flicks to the box and back to me and then back to the box again like he can’t believe what I’m doing. What did he expect to happen when he sent this to me? Did he really think I’d just accept it?
He then looks back at his car. That’s just a fucking bonus. Asshole .
“You’re still denying you made them?” he asks in disbelief.
“I can’t possibly be the only gifted person you know.” I lean in. “Also, please tell me you understand there’s a difference between what I do and what’s in this box because it’s not the same.”
“ You are the most gifted person I know.” I’m taken aback by his words. I didn’t actually expect him to admit that. He looks back down to the box again, avoiding my gaze, and I wonder if he’s realizing too late what he said. “If they aren’t yours, then throw them away. I have no need for this trash,” he says.
Trash?
Fucking trash ?
He thinks my work is trash?
I mask my imploding thoughts, too stunned to reply, which he takes advantage of and continues. “I’ll be in touch about the insurance for the car. Have a good day, Shortcake. Don’t want to be late for your event this evening.” Then he turns back toward the bullpen. I stare after him. For the first time in my life I’m actually shocked into silence. I don’t know what to do or say.
What the fuck is this asshole playing at?
My nails curl into the box, and I hold my head high as the receptionist watches me anxiously.
Piece of shit. Asshole. Dickhead.
Wait to see what’s coming to you. You fucking deserve every slow torture in the world.
I fume on the inside as I leave with the box. I’m not so furious and stupid as to leave it in the center of a police station. Even though I was here to hand it to a fucking detective. I don’t know what the fuck I’m thinking lately, but it’s certainly nothing sane.
I set the box back in the passenger seat, start the engine, and throw the car in reverse. His bumper falls off when the vehicles are no longer pinned together, and I smirk, a tiny bit satisfied by the damage.
Piece of shit.
I don’t know what I plan to do with the statues now. I expected him to take them back because they’re his.
And he will take them back.
* * *
My mood hasn’t gotten any better since I smashed the asshole’s car. If anything, I want to return and throw gasoline on it. I’m surprised Braxton hasn’t yet filed the insurance claim, but I wonder if it’s a strategic move. Neither of us want my parents to know about me being anywhere near him or a police station, and had I been smarter, I wouldn’t have left behind evidence. But the damage is quite literally already done.
Part of me hopes the asshole keeps this to himself. I try my best to smile for the cameras at yet another event. Thankfully, I didn’t have to travel far for this one, and it’s more of a social event to raise money for a charity, which my mother has always been an advocate of. So doing things like this always makes me feel good about myself because it reminds me that although I’m not the same as my mother, I can follow her lead and try to do some good with my fortune.
I would have much preferred to stay home tonight. I’m in such a shitty mood already, and now I have to mingle with a fellow artist who is represented by the same agent I am. To say Kylie hates me is an understatement. Every time we’re in public together, she plasters on a fake smile and pretends to be my best friend, when in reality, she can’t stand to be near me.
She’s been rather boisterous about her displeasure with my level of success compared to hers, accusing me of favoritism or somehow buying my way up the ranks, and that’s even with her having no understanding of who my family is. It’s a pretentious concept among the inner circles, which is why I hate it here. Even if you have talent, everyone assumes someone paid someone to get where they’re at.
The success I gained, especially over the last four years, took her much longer to accomplish. She’s only become popular within the last year when she hit her stride in her thirties. Part of me doesn’t blame her because if I were working that hard for so many years without recognition, I’d probably be bitter as well. But to place the blame on me is a bit fucking stupid if you ask me. This industry has temporary seasons and favorites. Anyone can be spat out at any second.
I walk up to one of her pieces and admire the craftsmanship. She is definitely skilled.
See, I can fucking admit when something great is sitting in front of me, so why the fuck can’t a certain asshole appreciate my art?
Gah. I want to rip out my hair since my thoughts have, yet again, returned to him. I’m going so fucking crazy; I might actually kill someone tonight.
“I see you’ve sold out.” I turn to find Kylie standing next to me, her fake smile plastered to her lips.
Fuck me, her timing couldn’t be any worse. She’ll probably be next on my shit list, right behind a certain asshole who’s always on the top of it.
“And you?” I ask, trying to keep the same level of enthusiasm.
“Close.” She side-eyes me.
“Good,” I reply, not entirely sure what she wants from me. It’s never pleasant when we’re talking among ourselves, and I don’t have the patience for her tonight. I’m already fuming so much on the inside I’m not sure how collected I can remain. But I do what I was taught to do in these situations—I grin and bear it.
She’s wearing a black, fitted dress with black heels, and her dark hair is pulled back in a low ponytail that cascades down her back. She goes to say something else, but someone walks over and asks her a question. I couldn’t be more grateful for their interruption.
I glance once more at her piece before I circulate through the rest of the room. I’m always more interested to see the upcoming artists and their styles. I enjoy finding the small faults and revisiting my own years of polishing a talent that, to some degree, will never be perfect.
I spot a woman around my age with someone I assume is her mother, admiring one of my pieces. It’d be nice to have my mother here, but I learned a long time ago to keep my worlds separate. Whenever Lena Love walks into a room, people notice. And I don’t mind at all when my mother takes the spotlight. In fact, I prefer it. But I know it makes her uncomfortable when it happens at my events because she wants the light to be on me. People also create a narrative that I could’ve only come so far because of her influence so I realized it’s easier to draw a line between the two things I love most in this world.
“Hope.” I turn back to Kylie, who is give me a narrow-eyed once-over. Without her saying a word, I know she’s thinking of some bitchy comment. In public, though, she’s usually well-behaved, but if she can slip an underhanded comment in, she will. She knows how to hold her composure, but I know when the shift happens inside her. People are predictable if nothing else. “Next week, don’t wear that.” She looks down at my dress and shakes her head disapprovingly before walking away.
There it is.
I look down at my purple dress. I like it; it’s one of my mother’s. I do love going through my mother’s closet and stealing her dresses. She has exquisite and expensive taste. Jealousy is a bitch, and Kylie is both jealous and a bitch.
Kylie mingles with the crowd, hyping up our joint show next week. Tonight was just a taste of what’s to come, and no matter how much I don’t want to see her again so soon, I’ll have to.
Lucky for her, I’m only obsessed with ruining one person’s life right now. And it’s not hers.