Chapter 22
Levi
Life was a ticking clock. Every second since she came apart in the tub was another moment closer to our inevitable collision. As transparent as always, Claire made her desire clear. Claire as ever.
“She’d like that pun,” I said out loud as I sanded an edge.
It had been three long and hard days, with emphasis on the hard, since I watched her get herself off. The most wonderful sight in the world. Not true; the most wonderful sight would be watching me sliding in and out of her tight body as my fingers got her off. That would be the only thing that could top it. Once I’d admitted the fantasies—and to be fair and very mature about it, she started it—it was like they couldn’t be contained. In the past seventy hours, I had imagined every possible position we could put our mouths and bodies in with the tenacity and creativity of a teenage boy.
And every second of every day stretched longer and longer. Every morning, I woke up rock hard and spilled into my hand with hollow satisfaction. Every night, I worked until I passed out. I purposely pushed myself physically so no thoughts were possible. So I wouldn’t march down to the Little Cabin to ask for what she offered so easily.
I had to make a decision soon. I picked up my phone. Or maybe I didn’t. I put it back down.
Pace. If ever there was a time I needed the opinion of the man who was arguably far better with women, it was now.
But then. There was a part of me that cherished what had happened in the bathroom. Watching Claire had been gifted to me, her brazen forwardness always a gift but a private one. Plus, I could almost hear his warning; having had his heart broken before, Pace wouldn’t understand how I could fall for Claire so simply, an instinctual decision that had been made without me. It was a decision that couldn’t be changed. The feelings I had for her weren’t rational or easily explained, and Pace hadn’t understood. My friend cared that I would be hurt when she left. Now, it was a matter of how much hurt could be avoided. How would I get out of this alive?
I preferred to be stuck in this state of immobilization. I was better here. No quick movements to scare her away.
We wanted each other; that was not the problem. The problem was, I wanted more than that.
There was a knock on the workshop wall, even though the metal door was open.
As always, my entire body became more aware the moment I saw her.
“Hey,” she said when she must have observed the tension gather in me. Big strong man, so afraid of the little brunette with a larger-than-life smile. “I come in peace,” she added and just like that, like always, I was disarmed by her.
I smiled at my planer as I set it on the bench and pushed up my safety goggles. “Come on in.”
I wouldn’t have to make the decision after all. The moment I saw her, it all became obvious. She was here. And for once, all of me was on the same page.
I was tired of fighting my desire to be near her. She moved to one of the stools near the tall bench, tugging her sweater down over her hands and wrapping herself up. She wore tight leggings and a sweater despite the cold. I went to the main door and tugged it down to keep out most of the chilly air. It always got hot when I was working, but the temperature at this time of night dipped low.
My feet brought me to stand in front of her. Her focus was blurred, eyes wide in a thousand-yard stare.
“Claire?” I asked.
She straightened and blinked, turning her head in my direction, but her eyes still locked on some distant point. I frowned, noticing that she was more disheveled than I’d seen her. Her eyes were bloodshot, her hair piled on her head, and a pale pallor to her cheeks. She had warned me that she was different when she was in research mode, but it was startling to see firsthand. An air of anxiety hummed in the air around her, in the jumping of her leg and the short nails bitten to the quick. Her gaze kept moving around the room, avoiding me.
“Claire,” I said more firmly and rested my hands on her shoulders.
She finally met my eyes. They cleared their haze, and she took me in for the first time. I was aware that I only wore my loose work khakis and a white tee, clinging to my sweating body. They moved over me and she swallowed.
“How are you?” she asked, voice high and tight.
Whatever was on her mind, she was trying hard to delay the inevitable. That made me nervous. There was no conversation Claire wasn’t perfectly willing to barrel straight through. I stepped back, crossing my arms to lean against the workbench opposite her.
Maybe she hadn’t come here to take things to the next level; maybe she was here to stop us from going down the physical path that seemed inevitable only seconds ago.
I wished I hadn’t set down my tool so I could keep my hands busy and avoid making eye contact.
“I’m fine. I haven’t seen you around much,” I said and cursed myself for the stiff and awkward small talk. This was why we both agreed it was a waste of time.
“I’ve been working,” she said, eyes going foggy again as she checked out to wherever she went.
I nodded. “I wondered where you disappeared to.” Then I wondered if that gave too much away. So I quickly added, “New story?”
She straightened, a hint of her usual clarity returning to her distracted and rapidly moving eyes.
“Yeah. That’s why I’m here.” She tugged her bottom lip in to chew on it. “I actually found out something, and it’s a lot to take in.”
“Ah.” I gripped the bench behind me.
Claire’s stomach made a loud rumble, and she quickly wrapped her hands around her middle.
“Are you hungry?” Had we even shared a meal since the fall festival? That didn’t seem right. That’s what she was missing. Wining and dining. That’s what she deserved. “Want some food?”
Her face went slack, like the mention of food made her nauseated. “No. I’m just—ignore that. It’s nerves.”
The visits in town, the nervous fidgeting, the researching; it all clicked into place. All at once, I knew why she was here. I knew what she discovered.
I ground my molars as grim determination sharpened her features, and she forced herself to meet my gaze.
My palms grew sweaty, and the edges of my vision blurred.
“I found out something.” I shook my head as she started talking. “I thought that there was something familiar about Lily’s, uh, your mom’s work. I couldn’t shake it.”
I turned my back. I gripped the edge of the workbench. I felt the earth tilting. Come on, get it together.
Distantly, Claire’s words filtered in, though I tried to block them out. “There’s this guy who’s famous in my world, well, my world adjacent. I know he’s a travel photographer who built a name for himself. Richard Stanley.”
The ringing in my ears began then. The muscles of my shoulders were high and tight. “Claire,” I growled.
If she heard me, it didn’t stop the obviously rehearsed words. “He-he first popped up around the same time that your mother was starting to make a name for herself in the art world. It’s become obvious in my research, albeit still in its initial stages, that this man ”—here, her words sharpened with disgust—“plagiarized not only your mother’s work stylistically, but in some cases actually stole some of her shots. Based on some negatives that I have uncovered. Levi, I’m so sorry.”
My eyes were squeezed shut. I winced away when her hand came to rest on my shoulder. “Did you hear me?” she asked lightly.
“I heard you.” My voice cracked.
“I know this is probably awful to hear about your mother. The injustice of it all makes me sick. This-this sleazebag has gone on to have a career riding the coattails of works that are not his own. Yet he continues to use that earlier success to this day, no doubt financially as well, for these past thirty years.”
I took steadying breaths in and out. “Leave it,” I growled out the words. My throat was raw with the restraint I used.
“But the silver lining in all this is that I have started compiling a pretty credible case against him. I think, with a few more weeks, maybe more, of work, I can really have something here. I already pitched the idea to my editor.”
“You what?” I spun, barely reining in my anger as the words burst out of me.
She blanched, reeling back. “No names or details, of course.” She held her hands up in a soothing gesture. “I wanted to talk to you first.”
“You need to leave it, Claire,” I said slowly and flatly.
Her eyebrows contorted in hurt confusion. “Didn’t you hear me? I have proof. I could write the story. Your mother deserves justice.”
“Jesus, Claire, I said leave it!” This time, I did shout.
Her shoulders rose and fell in anger. “Leave it? Are you kidding me?”
“I should have known the second I showed you that room that it wouldn’t be enough to share this part of myself with you. You couldn’t just accept the piece of myself that I offered. You had to keep going and going.”
Her eyes were moving all around, trying to put pieces together, trying to catch up. “I wasn’t trying to pry. I recognized something about her style. I thought—I thought you would want to know this about your mother. I thought you would be upset, sure, but you want me to leave it?”
“That is what I said.” The fear. The sadness. The helplessness. They all clawed up my throat. It made me feel like I’d swallowed scalding coffee, burning me from the inside out. But more than anything, the anger, the pure unadulterated rage that lit up every cell, making me want to scream and flip the workbench, rip it from the hardware securing it, and throw it across the room like something out of a horror movie.
“Just like that?” Her head was shaking as she spoke. “I thought you would want to know that this snake of a man was stealing her work. I thought you would want to know the truth.”
My chest was hammering; I imagined my features were twisted in a terrifying snarl as I spat the next words out at her. “I know who he is. I know all about everything he did.” I tossed out my arms. Hands flexing to keep from grabbing and breaking something. “I know because he’s my bastard father.” I huffed a humorless laugh as her eyes went wide in horror. “Or I guess it’s more realistic to say I’m his bastard son.”