31. THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-ONE
Saying sorry doesn’t help.
Other than the outburst, Hunter has been deadly silent. He told me to back off in more or less words, and I didn’t listen.
I saw that fucking painting… my painting and I just lost it. In that moment, I needed his arms to shield me from the ugly truth more than anything. And now he’s pissed at me for it.
Nothing helps the unease swirling in my gut.
Nothing calms my racing heart.
I knew Caleb was a piece of shit the minute I walked in on him cheating on me with that rich guy.
I didn’t connect the dots until I broke down in Hunter’s arms. Caleb not only stole my art and used it as his own, but the guy he left me for owns that art studio.
The guy’s face was plastered on the wall beside his business license.
I want to throw up—scream—give up altogether.
This is what happens when you hope. It always gets ripped away.
Promises mean jackshit, and dreams are for assholes.
I’m that asshole for ever thinking any of it might be for me. Nothing is for me.
Nothing.
For a while, I don’t look over at Hunter. There’s no point. He’s going to find the first bus stop and dump me. I wouldn’t blame him. No one wants a freaky homeless dude stitched to their side like I’ve been.
Fighting back the urge to sniffle, I lift my head when the car stops.
Upscale and suburban, the neighborhood screams wealth. Giant houses line the street, and thick trees with orange and red leaves decorate each front yard and sidewalk. We are in a driveway.
“I didn’t know where else to go.”
Blinking, I slowly face Hunter. He looks…awful. Blood-shot eyes, pale and a little sweaty. “Is this your house?”
He nods. “Yeah. Went through the back gate because…doesn’t matter. It’s safe enough.”
“Safe?” What is he on about?
“Let me get inside, get a drink, and I’ll explain, okay?” He pleads with his eyes, no anger directed at me anymore, just fear.
“Okay.”
A weak smile, then he’s pulling into the garage.
The house itself is what anyone would expect. Two stories, complete with an attic that isn’t meant to be creepy because the house is new, but it’s still fucking creepy.
Attics are always haunted, alright?
The walls are off-white—eggshell, if I had to guess.
His living room consists of an L-shaped sectional cream couch, sitting smack dab in the center of the space.
Bone-grey carpet stops at the hardwood foyer.
He’s got a flat-screen TV one inch away from being a movie theater screen.
A few boring lamps and a glass coffee table, complete with coasters.
In other words, it’s dead in here.
His kitchen, where he disappeared to immediately, isn’t much better.
I mean, I guess it’s a nice one. Fancy marble countertops, steel fixtures, and one of those refrigerators with a touchscreen display make up most of it.
Other than the bizarre coffee pot, I don’t think any of this shit is ever used.
I lean against the wall for support, watching him pull out some whiskey and a glass tumbler. He doesn’t bother offering me any; he just pours two fingers before tossing it back in one swallow.
Hissing through his teeth, he gently sets the glass down, sighs, and faces me. “I panicked,” he says bluntly.
Those pesky two words sizzle over the tip of my tongue, needing to be said because I am sorry.
Instead, I say, “I won’t do it again.” It might appear that I’m relaxed due to my posture, but my leg hurts, so I have no choice but to stand here.
I definitely won’t be sitting down for whatever painful thing will come out of his mouth.
No, I’ll take it standing so when I have to leave, at least I’m halfway to the damn door.
His brows pinch in confusion as his head shakes. “What?”
“I had a moment of…weakness, or whatever,” I wave my hand around dismissively, “I didn’t mean to…come on to you like that. I know you said—”
“Gray, that isn’t the issue,” he cuts me off, straightening.
Side-eyeing the whiskey, he takes a few seconds to pour another but doesn’t chug it this time.
He takes two delicate sips before cupping it with both hands.
“I don’t want you ever to feel like you can’t lean on me because you can.
That’s not a problem. It was the location. ”
“So you didn’t want anyone to see me,” I say carefully, making sure I’m not misunderstanding.
“Pretty much,” he mutters and takes another sip.
“People know who I am. I’m…god, it sounds so pretentious, but I’m famous.
A political celebrity, if you will. And my dad…
” he trails off, eyes traveling to the window over the sink.
They stay in their location when he continues, “He can’t ever know about me.
What I am. What I do. It’s my biggest secret; no matter what I tell myself, I’m not ready for him to find out. I don’t think I ever will be.”
Now, it’s my turn to stare at the alcohol.
Hobbling over to it, I don’t bother asking for a glass.
Grabbing the neck, I twist the lid off and bring it to my lips.
He glances at me as I take two big gulps.
It isn’t cheap stuff, and I don’t recognize the label, so the burn catches me off guard.
Instant warmth hits my bloodstream and my head fizzles.
Quickly setting the bottle down, I fold my arms, resting my back against the counter.
“That’s a shitty way to live,” I tell him. “Locked up in the closet forever.”
“I’m used to it,” he growls bitterly, snatching the bottle back. This time, he reaches into the cupboard above me and grabs a glass. “Fair warning, I’m a chatty sonofabitch when I drink.”
When both of our servings are poured, he slides the glass to me, and I take it.
We clink the cups together and toss back the shot.
“It makes sense,” I explain after my throat stops burning.
“But what’s the worst thing that can happen, Hunter?
You have your own house and career—so what if he doesn’t like it? ”
“It’s not that simple.”
I want to argue that it is, but we agreed this would be a good day. Between our fucked up kiss, then my meltdown seeing my stolen art, it was already starting to darken. Now this bullshit with his secret double life? If we are getting drunk at 1 pm, we will at least do it the right way.
“Grab the bottle,” I tell him, bringing my cup and going to the living room.
As soon as my ass hits the firm couch, I prop my leg up on the coffee table.
If it bothers Hunter, he doesn’t mention it, sitting next to me.
His nearness messes with my head, but I don’t necessarily want to move.
Out of every spot on the couch, he chose the one beside me.
It seems like he wants to be near as well.
Taking that as a small win, I hold out my glass, wiggling it. He refills us, sagging as much as he can against the rock-like cushion.
“I never sit down here,” he mutters.
“Couldn’t tell,” I say dryly.
We exchange a look, with him being the first to crack a smile; then he props his legs up, too.
The liquor is loosening me up, so I press my shoulder into his, leaning on him like he said I could.
A grunt leaves his throat, his body shifting uncomfortably.
I hurry to straighten because, again , I am doing something he doesn’t like.
“This is better,” he says, surprising me when he lifts his arm and drapes it across my shoulders. The sheer weight of it has me squishing into his side. I can’t help but look at him in question. “Is this okay?”
“Well…yeah, but—”
“So that Caleb person stole your art?” he changes the subject.
Alright, we just aren’t going to acknowledge the massive elephant in the room. Got it. “Yeah,” I say, wiggling my hips to get more comfortable. It’s a futile attempt, but I do try.
Both of us are in our jackets, but the gentle brush of his fingertips over my bicep sends little jolts of excitement through my stomach. Needing the courage to survive this intimacy, I take a decent-sized sip.
“How did that happen?” he prompts.
“Honestly? Because I let it.” I shrug. “He was my first…relationship. The kind that lasts more than a couple of weeks. I thought—it doesn’t matter, but he asked me to paint that.
I’m not the best with an actual brush. It’s been a long time since I had access to it.
But I wanted to make him happy—wanted to make sure he didn’t lose interest. So I made it for him.
The paint wasn’t even dry before I found him… with someone else.”
I spare the gory details of Caleb bent over on all fours, howling like a cat in heat, while being railed from behind.
The rich dude didn’t even bother to take his damn slacks off.
Just unzipped and went to Pound Town. As if the sight itself wasn’t devastating enough, Caleb never let me top him.
I never even got a say in how we did stuff.
It was just… ‘I need to be inside you, Gray.’ And I would do it.
But some rich guy promises money and a better life, and Caleb let him .
Hunter’s fingers dig into the meat of my arm, tugging me closer. “Was he an artist, too?”
“A shitty one. Fucker could barely draw a circle. But he liked to think he was talented.” Yeah, art is subjective, and beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but fuck Caleb.
Fuck him for breaking my heart and stealing what was mine.
“So because he lacked any skill, he used you and made you believe there was a genuine relationship to take your art?”
“I guess. And the guy he left me for owns that studio. So it’s his word against mine. Not that it matters.”
“It matters,” Hunter insists. “I’ll take care of it, alright?”
I glance up at him. “Are you going to put a hit out on him too?” My eyes narrow in a playful tease.
He laughs, shaking his head. “Do I look like I know assassins?”
My eyes flick over his body, trying to see beyond the thick pea coat he’s still wearing and button-down shirt. “It's a definite maybe.”