35. Hope
CHAPTER 35
Hope
I avoid Braxton for two weeks after the funeral. Candice has canceled most of my shows and appearances, which, despite the circumstances, I’m grateful for. She’s waiting for the media coverage from Kylie’s murder to die down. Apparently, more police have been brought into the investigation. At least, that’s what the press says anyway.
Every time Braxton’s face appears on the TV, I want to throw the remote at it. I don’t. Especially if my mother is watching for my reaction. But every time I see him, he looks more tired and gaunt. The fucker is going to wither into nothing before I get to kill him myself.
After the funeral, Hawke warned me away from Braxton. Despite his best efforts at teaching me creative ways to kill someone, even though I still insist on shooting Braxton, he specifically told me now is not the time to get involved with the detective. There’s too much buzz around him now. I’m certain Hawke wouldn’t hesitate on a kill, no matter who it is. But I know he doesn’t think my first kill will go smoothly or without evidence being left behind.
Kylie’s boyfriend has been taken into custody. Apparently, evidence is stacking up against him. And due to my upbringing, I wonder if they’re facts or if someone is paying money to make the issue go away.
Nothing in this world is what it seems anymore.
The same night Kylie was murdered, the body of the man with the green mohawk who’d bumped into Ivy was found at Lucy’s. The body had been removed from the alley so quickly that I doubt anyone saw it, but the question remained among the group as to who did it. It could literally be anyone. And much to Eli’s disgust, the cameras in the alley had been tampered with.
It’s all a bit of a fucking mess right now. And for the first time in a long time, I feel stifled creatively. Maybe it’s because my muse has been relatively silent. The photo of Kylie’s body was sent to my burner phone, but I couldn’t find the beauty in her death. It was ugly. The worst.
I keep all of this to myself, and I feel like I’m slowly shutting down. I’ve never felt this looming darkness. Like I don’t want to eat or drink. Even if I lock myself in my studio, it feels pointless.
I don’t go to the café because I’m adamant about not seeing Braxton Hero. I avoid it at all costs. Suddenly, the games we’ve playing don’t feel so fun. I just hurt, and my hatred for him for somehow imprinting this sickness within me, this longing that’s grounded without rationality, only festers.
I have cameras installed out front of my studio, so I know when he shows up. And he comes frequently. When he does, I make sure to stay inside. Some nights, I even sleep in the studio, just so I don’t run the risk of him intercepting me. I know I should tell my father or, at the very least, Hawke. But I’m determined to handle this on my own. Every storm has to blow over eventually, and when it does… I’ll finally strike.
I go to London for a week and try to clear my head. When I return, my mother happens to be home. We decide to watch a few shows together, and it’s nice.
I stopped looking for apartments when the whole Kylie thing happened. It’s not that I fear for my life, but right now, the security of being under my father’s roof brings me a sense of safety and peace, even if I’m not staying here much.
My mother is biting at the tip of her nail, and I know that usually means she’s thinking of something.
“Have you seen that detective recently?” she asks.
I simply shake my head in response.
Only the sound of the TV breaks the silence.
“Does that upset you?” she questions.
I turn to face her. “Why would it? I told you there was nothing between us.” I furrow my brow as I ask, “You really didn’t tell Dad?”
She shakes her head. “No. You told me it was nothing serious.” I didn’t say that word for word, but I don’t correct her and assure her once again it was nothing.
I don’t like lying to her, but I can’t burden her with this trouble I’ve gotten myself into. Her art is so beautiful, and mine is so ugly. My soul is tarnished in a way I don’t think a mother would truly be able to accept.
Braxton hasn’t sent back the statues a second time. I was rattled when he returned them to me the first time. If even he didn’t want to look at them, why would anyone else? That is a strange sentiment to have, considering he’s not even a critic in the industry.
I don’t know how and why everything keeps coming back to him. I feel like I’m stuck in quicksand, and I can’t get out.
Mom brushes the hair behind my ear as she says, “Hope, you know if you ever have something to tell me, you can open up to me, right? You’re my daughter, and I love you unconditionally.”
I stare into her eyes. What does she see right now? How does she view me? Can she see every tainted part of me? I shrivel at the thought. Hers is a love I can absolutely not live without.
“I know. I’m just tired, that’s all.” Another lie slips off my tongue, and I can tell by her wounded expression that she knows it, too. But better for her be hurt by a little white lie than the truth.
* * *
I can’t sleep, so I get my keys and drive to the studio. I wait in the elevator, wrapping my arms around myself and shivering from the chill of the night. I need to lose myself in creating something in order to push all of these thoughts away.
I step out of the elevator and then come to a complete stop. Braxton is sitting beside the door, his head leaning against it with his eyes closed. He’s wrapped up in a long trench coat that looks way too good on him and a beanie.
Nope. Hard pass.
I go to step back into the elevator, but the doors have already slid shut. Fuck . I hit the button rapidly, hoping the doors would open.
“Have you been avoiding me, Shortcake?” His voice carries through the small hallway, and when I turn toward him, those striking blue eyes, shadowed with dark circles, challenge me to run.
The answer to his question is absolutely yes. But it’s his direct and insufferable challenge that has me second-guessing myself on heading straight into the elevator. This is my fucking studio. Not his. I won’t back down just because this asshole plans on ruining my fucking life.
I step toward him, scowling. “You look like a squatter at my door. Leave before I call someone to remove you,” I say as I scan my key card to open my studio.
Stupid fucking idiot.
All of my anger and problems rise the moment I see him.
The moment he’s close enough for me to breathe in his fucking intoxicating cologne.
He’s clearly the problem.
I’m pissed and not surprised when the door doesn’t close behind me quickly enough, and he follows me in. I turn on the lights and the heater. The beautiful night sky is visible through the skylight.
“I have nothing to say to you,” I say matter-of-factly.
“You always seem to have plenty to say.” I can hear the hint of humor in his tone, but it’s lacking the life it once had. It offers me a slight sense of satisfaction to know that he looks as shitty as I feel.
“What are you most angry about?” he asks.
“Angry about?” I ask in disbelief, swinging around to face him. “Where the fuck does the list begin, asshole? You not only accuse me of making creepy little statues, but you then escalate it to accusing me of murder. Shouldn’t I be questioning whether you fucking her was the catalyst to her death?”
He smirks. “Are you insinuating my sex is that good?”
“You’re such a pig.”
He shrugs, and I know joking about the dead isn’t so fun, even for him. “I didn’t touch her. I didn’t kiss her. And I told her nothing more would come from it once we left the exhibition,” he says as if I need his explanation. I don’t.
“Okay, and why are you telling me this?” I question. “I clearly don’t give a fuck.”
“You clearly do, or she wouldn’t have ended up dead.”
I shake my head. “It would be so easy for you to pin all of this on me, wouldn’t it? You’d fucking love it. What a catch that would be for you, pinning all of this shit on an Ivanov.”
“It has nothing to do with your family name and everything to do with you .” He moves closer. “I came here tonight because you’ve been avoiding me.”
“No, I’ve been keeping my distance, which you should be doing too. Don’t you get it? We don’t fit. You’re torturing yourself if you actually think anything can come of this.”
He steps into my space, and my back hits one of the shelves. He hangs an arm over my head and leans into me. I don’t back down as I reluctantly look up at him. “Looks like I haven’t been the only one thinking about us, Shortcake,” he whispers, pressing his forehead to my shoulder and sighing in exhaustion.
I’m so stunned by the action that I don’t know what to do. He looks half his size as he leans against me, and I can feel his weariness as if it were an extension of my own.
“What are you doing?” I ask, unwilling to move. It has to be a trick. He’s cornering me. He probably has a recording device on him. Maybe now is my chance to kill him? Is it too soon? Too reckless? Too… much?
“I’ve missed you,” he murmurs.
I hate the way my heart flutters and my arms itch to wrap around him.
No. This is not okay. I cannot be this mad at him for over a month, only for it to dissipate into calmness just because he says one sweet thing. It doesn’t make any fucking sense.
“Accusing me of murdering people seems like a strange way to show it,” I grit.
“I thought you’d be the least bit flattered,” he says against my neck, his warm breath sending a shiver through me.
“Most women aren’t flattered by the prospect of murder, Braxton. You need to up your game if that’s your pickup line.”
“But you’re not most women, are you, Shortcake?” He raises his head and cups my cheek. I fucking hate the spell he casts on me. I’m scared to fall into this trap again, even though my body is already melting into him. But when I look into his blue eyes, I can see how tired he is. And there’s a peace I feel with him despite everything else that’s going on in the outside world.
For the first time this month, I feel like I can breathe.
Like, somehow, it’s all going to be okay.
“Come back to my place with me,” he says, and it almost sounds like a plea.
“I’m all dirty,” I reply. I still have bits of clay on me from working earlier in the day. I’d planned to take a shower but decided to spend time with my mother instead, then came back here when I wasn’t able to sleep.
“Then I’ll clean you up.”
“I can’t,” I whisper as if someone might hear us. As if my mother is waiting around the corner or one of the men in my family is ready to pounce from the shadows. I know no one has access to my cameras because I had Ivy install them, but it doesn’t matter. What we’re doing is wrong. At least, that’s what I keep trying to convince myself.
“You can. Come with me. I’ve waited for as long as I can.”
“Do you want to die? Is that what you want?” I ask incredulously.
Yes, I still plan to kill him. And I glance over at the knife I’d used earlier in the day to open boxes. It’d be so easy for me to reach over and grab it. I can imagine the color of his blood as it bleeds out, but… No, it has to be a gun.
“You know who my family is. They wouldn’t approve of you at all . My mother almost lost her shit when she asked me if there was something happening between us, and that’s saying something because she is the calmest person I know.”
“I’m not afraid of your family.”
“Well, that’s your first mistake.” I go to push him away, but he keeps his stance, barricading me in. I can’t fight him, even if I had the strength to do so. He gets me in ways that defy logic and rationality, like the ebb and flow of creating something beautiful through my sculpting. And I wonder what this thing between us would create. Would it be beautiful? Hideous? One thing I’m certain of is I don’t know how to put an end to it. I know eventually, I’ll be placing a gun to his head. But when? Am I intentionally avoiding it now?
“I’m not afraid of your family, Shortcake,” He reiterates. “Now, tell your driver to leave and get in my car.” I go to speak, but he cuts me off. “That wasn’t a request.”
My skin begins to tingle, my lips inches from his. I’m taking in his breath and cologne, all the promises of what this man can do to me only one answer away.
I swallow hard and nod.
I know I shouldn’t, but I want to.
Right now, I want to live for myself and damn the consequences even though they’re due to catch up with us.
Stealing moments with him like this is what I want. It’s what my body needs. There’s some underlying thing that I’m not entirely sure how to address. It’s something equivalent to hatred that goes hand in hand with the dark part of me he draws out so easily. Even when I try to run away from it, it’s him who makes me confront it.
Braxton smirks as he pushes off the shelf. “That’s my girl.”
Braxton waits inside the building as I approach my driver and tell him he can leave because I’ll be here longer than usual. Though he’s usually too terrified to leave my side half the time after the rumor of what happened to my last driver spread through the staff, he’s also used to me being at the studio for long hours, so the order isn’t surprising to him.
But he’s not my bodyguard, and when I tell him having him here will hinder my work, he seems torn, as if that might be another reason he might get killed, so he leaves. It’s not that my father often kills staff, but they know who they work for, which is exactly why they’re paid so highly.
Once he leaves, Braxton comes out and throws an arm over my shoulders. He kisses my temple and says, “Good girl,” as he leads me to his car.
As much as I want to fight going with him, we’re both so tired. It’s not just obvious from the gauntness of our expressions; I can feel it. I can feel him with an understanding that’s not physical.
I look up at him. He’s still wearing his beanie, and I admire the small curls that aren’t tucked back completely. I wonder if, in a different life, what we might be to one another.
“That’s my girl.” Those words make my heart flutter more than they should, and I wonder if I want to be his girl. Is that what this conflict within me is? Surely not, because that thought is entirely unwarranted. It wouldn’t make any sense since I’m literally readying myself to kill him.
Braxton opens the passenger door for me, and I slide in with a smirk on my face. Obviously, he got his car repaired after I smashed into the back of it. He’s lucky I didn’t light it on fire. I’d heard Aunt Anya had done that to several of her husband’s cars, and the idea appeals to me.
We drive in silence, which is strangely nice, and he grabs my hand and strokes his thumb over mine. There’s so much to be said between us, but nothing at all at the same time. I let the warmth of his hand around mine soothe all of my seething hate for him. It feels like whiplash. Was I pissed this month because he didn’t give me any attention, or am I so weak in my resolve that I just need to be patted a little to be tamed?
We come to a stop at his apartment building, and he comes around the car to open the door for me. Nervous energy skitters under my skin. Not only is this wrong, but I feel like I’m stepping into something that will become harder for me to walk away from each time I indulge in it. That my time spent with Braxton is damaging me in ways I might not recover from.
He offers his hand to me, but when he notices I’m not moving, he reaches in and pulls me out.
“No one is going to see us here, Shortcake,” he assures me, and it surprises me how attuned he is to my inner thoughts. Though, if he were a mind reader, he’d be running the other way.
He leads me into the building, once again holding my hand, and I stare in fascination at where we’re joined as if in a daze. Why does the only man I let lead me in any way have to be an enemy to my family?
At the start, I only cared if they found out because they’d take away my fun of killing myself. I didn’t like how closely he was sniffing around my family affairs. But lately, there’s been a flicker of concern about what they’ll do if they find out there’s something between us.
I still want to kill him, though, right? I think it’ll be the most beautiful thing, more captivating than any glass statue I’ve created. But the idea of there being no more Braxton, as much as he terrorizes me, feels… strange.
I don’t even want to think about the consequences that would follow if my family found out about us. My aunty is as ruthless, possibly even more so, than my father. She would kill him first and ask questions later, not even caring that she would have the whole police force after her.
He unlocks his apartment door with his free hand and pushes it open before pulling me in with him. It’s only then that he drops my hand as he locks the door behind us, as if silently reminding me there’s nowhere to run.
I know I can leave at any time, but my legs don’t want to carry me away from him, only toward him.
But that kind of gravitational pull is terrifying.
“Shortcake.”
“I should leave,” I tell him, a spurt of panic running through me. What am I really doing here? What are we doing?
“No, you shouldn’t,” he growls.
He fills the space between us, my chest pressing against his stomach as I look up into those crystal-blue eyes. Eyes that see me . That demand my attention. That feel like they’re giving me all of him when we’re locked away from the outside world. But they can’t make the complications between us disappear.
I take a shaky breath. He knows who my family is and says he’s not scared of them, but what if he had reason to be scared of me? In fact, it’s a little offensive that he doesn’t feel that way. But the truth of the matter is, even if we felt deeply for one another, wouldn’t he turn on me in a heartbeat?
He goes to kiss me, but I find myself resting my hand on his chest and steeling myself for my next question.
“What if I told you that I like to kill people?” I ask as he brushes his nose against mine. I try to avoid the lure of his lips, heavy with anticipation for his response. He’d betray me, wouldn’t he? As he would with my family? If I were the worst of the worst, would he still love me?
My heart stops. Love me?
“Well, that would complicate things, wouldn’t it, Shortcake? But I’ve also seen you with a gun,” he says with mirth.
“I’m serious, Braxton,” I chide, pulling back from him as much as it pains me to do so. I thought this was only physical attraction between us. But what if it’s something more? Fuck . How did I end up thinking any of this? “Is this all a game to you?”
His eyebrows furrow as he slides a hand over my cheek and cups it, his other hand resting on my collarbone. “If it were a game, wouldn’t I have caught you already?”
“Who says I wouldn’t be the one to catch you?” I bite back.
“Who says you haven’t already?”
My heart falters. Is this a lie? Is he tricking me? It’s all riddles.
“What I do know, and what I can tell you now, is that I’ve tried to keep my distance from you for the last month. But every day, every hour, you haunt my thoughts, Shortcake. You have no idea how much you’ve poisoned me with an insatiable thirst for you. That is the truth.”
It goes without saying that it’s not all of the truth. There’s only so deep we can connect without revealing our hands or damaging our careers or my family in the process. Even if I’m realizing I’m falling for the enemy, I can’t fall so hard as to hand him anything damning about my family.
My family comes first, and it breaks me little by little to know that our ending doesn’t change. Even if I care for him. Even if I’m courageous enough to admit it. It’ll still end with me holding a gun to his head.
So irrationally, irrevocably, I want to take from him as much as I can while I can.
I lean into him, pushing aside the thoughts that weigh me down. If we can’t express ourselves through words, then all we have left is our bodies. He takes me by the waist and pulls me against him. I go willingly because I very much like his hands on me. He drags me with him to the bathroom and then pushes open the door. The moment we’re inside, he removes his beanie and coat, placing them on the hook behind the door before his hands come back to me. He fingers the clips on my overalls above my breasts, then unhooks them.
Fuck. Our hands are on one another, desperately trying to undress the other as quickly as possible.
“Fuck, I’ve missed you, Shortcake,” he whispers as he kisses down my neck. I lean into him, mirroring his words but leaving them unspoken.
I kick off my shoes and step out of my overalls. I’m left wearing only a pair of panties and a black t-shirt. We separate for a second as we both try to remove his shirt. He pulls it over his head, and I step back, admiring every flex of his muscles. He really is beautiful. I could try to sculpt him for a lifetime, and would never capture every detail and sharp ridge of his perfection.
His jeans come off next, and I lick my lips with anticipation. My body is on fire like I can’t be with him soon enough. The darkness within me pacing back and forth and needing to be touched. Needing to be seen . In the way that only he ever has.
He turns the shower on and steps inside. I remove my shirt and my panties before I follow him. He shuffles back, making room for me, and my red hair falls down my back as the warm water hits my face.
His mouth is on mine in moments, kissing, biting, sucking, and drowning as we gasp for air through the spray. Swirls of brown hit the tiles of the shower floor as the bits of clay come off me. His hands are all over me, washing away the mess, and it breathes desperation into me as I do the same to him.
I need and want him. It’s been torture to only dream of him this past month. Twisting between images of kissing him and killing him. Hating him, then fucking him. But deep down, I’m beginning to understand that this hate might be something entirely different. This hate I feel, might, in fact, be love. And that hurts more than anything else could.
His mouth finds my breast, and his tongue teasingly rolls around my nipple before he begins to suck. His hands slide down my back, past my waist and hips, to my ass, where he squeezes before lifting me up.
I wrap my legs around his waist as I look down at him, cupping his cheeks. Those beautiful blue eyes. This sinfully inappropriate man. Mine . I want him to be mine. And if I can’t have him in this lifetime, then I’ll kill him so no one else can have him, and I’ll find him in the next.
“Sometimes I think you’ll look better dead,” I whisper, a confession of my depravities. I don’t know why, but I feel like I have to give him more of me because his rejection might be the thing that helps me end this completely.
He shakes his head with an arrogant smirk as he pushes back some of my wet hair. “Then should I be flattered that you keep me alive but offended that you don’t create statues of me meeting a tragic death?”
He doesn’t get it. Or maybe he’s not right in the head, either. But for the first time, I don’t deny the statues. If he’s so certain it’s me, doesn’t it mean he accepts at least part of me? Or am I being lulled into a false sense of security?
I lean forward and bite his bottom lip as I lower myself onto his cock pressing between my legs. The moment he’s inside me, I moan as I stretch to take his full size, and he presses my back against the wall as he slams home. The wet slaps echo, mixing with the sound of the water, as I ride the pure bliss. His hand wraps around my throat, and I’m reminded just as I threaten his life, he could take mine as well.
A wave of heat pools at my core, pulsing at the idea. Life and death. Danger. Consumption. It’s all the same. I don’t know why the thought of nearly dying brings me pleasure while having sex, but it does, and he’s the only man not to shun my heated desires.
If anything, he’s the one who birthed them.
He fucks me hard and long, biting my shoulders and neck, claiming me. And I want them all. I want all the marks he’s willing to give. I want him to brand me, to bruise me so irrevocably that I won’t be able to forget about this moment for days, even weeks, after. An ease settles over me as a scream rips from my lips, brought on by his forceful thrusts.
I’m broken for any other man.
I’m choosing to tie myself to him because I never want to forget this feeling.
I never want to forget Braxton Hero. Even when I try, I can’t get him out of my head. And I haven’t been the same since that fateful night four years ago.