Chapter 29
Chapter twenty-nine
ASH
Ice crashes into my lips as I down the last of my water. I fan myself a little as I wipe my mouth. They keep their house way too warm.
Pierce stabs another piece of steak with more force than necessary, his eyes locked on his plate like he has to defend it from steak thieves.
I’m all too aware of his presence across from me, that his foot is inches from mine.
I notice the way his shoulders fill out his shirt, how his fingers curl around his fork, the rhythmic muscle in his jaw that tightens with each chew.
I hate that I notice these things, like he isn’t the monster who left my brother bleeding out on our living room floor.
Liam shoves his chair back a few inches and tosses his napkin on top of his plate.
“Yo.” He lightly punches Pierce’s arm and holds out a fist. Pierce squares up with him. “One, two, three. Shoot.”
Liam’s flat hand meets Pierce’s fist.
“Ha! Paper covers rock,” Liam declares.
“Fuck,” Pierce mutters.
“I’ll be right back.” Liam stands and absently touches my shoulder. Heat flares right through my chest. Pierce stares at the exact spot on my shoulder.
“What was that about?” I ask, ignoring the heat threatening to consume me. “What did you lose?”
“I’m on dish and trash duty tonight.” Pierce’s voice sounds snotty, like he didn’t appreciate I pointed out his loss.
“Beckett doesn’t play?” I ask.
“Beckett is too pretty to do the dishes.”
“Knock it off,” Beckett laughs, then leans in toward me to share the secret. “It’s a weird competition thing between the two of them. It’s been going on since they were kids. I don’t get in the way.”
A memory claws its way up. I was a baby when my mom died, and Papa always had these weird jobs at weird hours. Reed would be the one making dinner, even if the only thing we had was peanut butter sandwiches. More often than not, Liam and Pierce would be there too.
There would always be some competition to take out the trash or clean something up.
Rock, Paper, Scissors, or they’d arm wrestle, something like that.
I’d been desperate to be included in everything they did, so I challenged Pierce to arm wrestle me.
I couldn’t have been more than six or seven.
He let me win, and when I pinned his arm, he threw himself on the ground like I’d broken it.
Liam counted him out like a pro wrestler.
Reed scooped me up to sit on his shoulders, declaring me champion of the world.
I blink tears away when Beckett’s phone breaks the strained silence and saves me. He glances at the screen and winces.
“It’s Chantel,” he says, pushing his chair back. “Gotta take this. My agent.” He pauses and dips to place a quick kiss on my temple, and I fight the urge to cling to his hand, to beg him not to leave me alone with Pierce.
The kitchen feels impossibly small now, just me and the man I’ve spent years hating. Pierce takes another swig of beer, his throat working as he swallows. I play with the last string bean on my plate, not knowing what else to do.
“More soda?” Pierce finally asks like he has to.
I shake my head, not trusting my voice. He nods once, then stands, taking his plate and Beckett’s to the sink. After a moment of paralysis, I follow with mine and Liam’s.
Pierce turns on the faucet, the rush of water filling the void between us.
I gather the remaining plates from the table, my hands trembling slightly as I stack them.
His back is to me, shoulders rigid beneath his T-shirt.
I catch myself leaning toward him just to take in his scent and quickly look away, disgusted with myself.
The logical part of my brain knows I should feel nothing but revulsion for him. This is the man who killed my brother. The man whose actions destroyed what little safety I had. But no, here I am filling my lungs with his scent.
I edge closer to the sink, stacking plates between us. His nostrils flare as I pass, like he’s trying to catch my scent despite his injured nose. He turns suddenly with a wet plate in his hands, and a wave of sudsy water sloshes right into my middle.
We both freeze, staring at the wet mark on my T-shirt.
“Shit.” Pierce snaps the towel off his shoulder and steps into me. He holds my hip and dabs at my shirt.
I should pull away, bark at him, tell him to keep his hands off me. If I move, I don’t know what’s going to happen. I can’t be going into heat, that’s impossible—it’s way too early—but that’s what my body feels like. That deep hunger, that need churning between my legs.
He looks up, the bruises under his eyes making him look pathetic and wounded and lost.
The sound of footsteps saves us both. Liam appears in the doorway, pausing when he sees us standing there, still and silent like a startled deer. His eyes narrow slightly as he takes in the scene, my wet shirt, Pierce with the towel, his hand on my hip.
“Everything okay?” he asks, voice carefully neutral.
“Fine,” Pierce says too quickly. He fumbles the dishtowel, handing it off to me like it’s evidence. “I’m just going to get the trash now.” He yanks open a cabinet under the counter and pulls out the whole trashcan.
“You can just take the bag,” Liam calls, but Pierce is already out the back door.
The moment he’s gone, I feel my entire body collapse in on itself, shoulders dropping from their tense position near my ears, lungs finally expanding to take in a full breath. Instantly, I register the absence of Pierce’s scent.
Liam watches me with those observant eyes that make me feel like he can see straight through to all my secrets.
“Pierce is in a bad mood,” Liam says finally, a hint of apology in his voice.
I look down at the damp towel in my hands and realize I’m shaking. Not from fear or even anger, but from something else entirely. Something I have no right to feel for the man who destroyed everything I loved.
“I’m fine,” I lie, and turn back to the sink full of dishes, desperate for something to do with my hands.
“I have something for you.” Liam puts his hand on my back and turns me toward the counter. His hand is warm and steady.
“We watched you drawing on that light wall today,” Liam says, moving cutting boards and utensils to the sink and then wiping his hands on the dish towel Pierce abandoned. “You have a good eye.”
Heat crawls up my neck. I didn’t think anyone was watching when I got lost in that wall of light and color. “I was just playing around.”
He pulls a sleek tablet out of a zippered pouch. “Here,” he says, setting it on the counter between us. “My old iPad. I upgraded a few months back, and this one’s just collecting dust.”
I stare at it, uncomprehending. “What?”
“You should have it.” He slides it closer to me. “For your art.”
“I don’t do art.”
He smiles in a way that completely unmakes me, like if I just listen to what he says the whole world will make sense.
“I can’t accept that.” The words come out sharper than I intend. Gifts aren’t free. Papa taught me that lesson early and often.
“It’s literally just sitting in a drawer,” Liam says with a casual shrug that doesn’t quite mask his intentness. “I’ve already transferred everything off it. It’s got Procreate installed. That’s a pretty good drawing app. And Canva too.”
“I don’t know anything about digital art.” My voice softens despite myself. The tablet gleams under the kitchen lights, tempting and terrifying all at once.
“I could show you the basics,” he offers. When I still hesitate, he adds, “Think of it as recycling. Better than it ending up in a landfill, right?”
That almost makes me smile. He’s persistent, but in a way that doesn’t set off alarm bells. Not pushing, just… holding the door open.
“Come on, just try it. This is Procreate,” he explains, tapping with a special pen on the screen. “Professional artists use it, but it’s pretty intuitive. YouTube has tons of tutorials.”
The app opens to reveal a blank canvas. Liam selects a brush from a menu on the side and draws a simple line across the screen. The mark appears instantly, flowing like real ink but without the mess. I get that same feeling I had at the museum, watching colors bloom under my fingers.
“Here,” he says, holding out the pen. “Just try a line. You can’t mess it up. There’s an undo button.”
I touch the pen to the screen and draw a tentative stroke.
It appears like magic, smooth and perfect.
It feels different from pen and paper, but in a good way.
Sometimes, I feel like the paper fights the pen.
But with this, the glass wants the pen to go fast and smooth.
I draw another line, then another, watching how they intersect and flow together.
“You can change the brush type,” Liam says, leaning in slightly to demonstrate. His shoulder brushes mine, warm through the thin fabric of my shirt. He taps through various options. “See? Pencil, ink, watercolor. Each behaves differently.”
I select a brush that mimics charcoal and make a sweeping curve across the canvas. It’s softer, with textured edges that blend and smudge.
“Woah. This is amazing.”
My mind races with possibilities. I’ve been doodling on napkins and receipts for years, never having proper supplies. Papa always said art was for people with too much time on their hands. But this? This feels like opening a door.
I lean closer to the screen as I tap around, finding a color palette and different textures. Liam adjusts the tablet so we can both see better, and I’m suddenly aware of how our arms press together, how his breath stirs the hair at my temple.
There are so many menus and options, and I have no idea what they do, so I stick with the charcoal option and the color wheel.
It’s abstract at first, then something that reminds me of Spanish moss that drips from trees begins to emerge.
I’m so absorbed that I don’t hear Beckett until his hand lands on my shoulder.
“Hey,” he says, his voice low near my ear. “That looks so cool.”
I glance up smiling, but that fades when I see his face.
“Don’t freak out,” he says, which is exactly what someone says right before they tell you something that will definitely make you freak out. He slides his phone onto the counter beside the iPad, screen glowing. “But these just got posted.”
The phone shows one of those glossy celebrity gossip blogs with too many ads.
My stomach drops when I see the headline: “Hansen’s Mystery Muse: Hockey Star’s Artsy Date Night.
” Beneath it, a series of photos from the science center.
Me with my hands moving through the air at the light wall.
Beckett watching. Another of him buying me those ridiculous space glasses, my smile wide and unguarded in a way I never allow myself to be.
“It doesn’t look like me,” I whisper, fingers hovering over the screen like I could somehow erase the images. The new haircut and makeup make me look so different from the ratty kid homeschooled in the trailer park.
“It’s not a big deal,” Beckett says quickly, squeezing my shoulder. “The article’s actually pretty nice. They’re just curious who you are.”
But it is a big deal. Papa will see this.
“I need to go,” I say, panic rising in my throat like bile. “I need to go home.”
“Whoa, hey,” Beckett says, his hands steadying me as I wobble on suddenly weak legs. “It’s just a few pictures. No one even knows your name.”
But they will. Someone will recognize me. They will see them and know exactly what I’m doing, who I’m with. The thought sends ice down my spine.
“I have to go.” My voice goes all squeaky. “Please. I need to go home.”
“I can drive you,” Liam offers, already reaching for his keys.
“No,” Beckett says quickly. “You’ve been drinking. I’ll drive.”
“Concussion,” Liam counters.
“I’ll call a car.”
He pulls out his phone again, tapping the screen while keeping one arm around me, as if he’s afraid I might bolt. He’s not wrong. This is a bad idea. This was all a bad idea.
“Ash?” Liam’s voice goes right through me and nails me to the spot. “Trust me. Everything’s going to be fine.”
I nod, almost believing him. Liam hands me the zippered case with the iPad in it. I hold on for dear life.
“Hey. Look at me. It’s really going to be okay.” Beckett’s eyes are so earnest, so sure, that for a second I almost believe him. “Is it really that bad? Being seen with me?”
The genuine hurt in his voice snaps me out of my panic spiral. “No,” I say quickly, looking up at him. “God, no. It’s not you. It’s complicated. My father… He’s protective.”
That’s the understatement of the century.
The car honks softly outside, once, twice.
“Wait.” Beckett pulls me into him and kisses me. It’s the kind of kiss that clears my head and fogs it up at the same time.
“I’ll text you,” he whispers against my lips. “Tomorrow.”
I nod, not trusting my voice. He pulls my coat around my shoulders and walks me to the car, opening the door. Before I slide in, he kisses me again, holding my face.
I break the kiss this time because if I don’t, I may never leave. Beckett shuts the door, even though I know he doesn’t want to.
I press my forehead against the cool window glass and close my eyes, wishing I could go back to that moment at the light wall, my hands moving through empty air, creating something beautiful that vanishes the instant I look away.