Chapter 7
HOLLISTER
The moment I see them together across the gallery, I know it’s going to be more of the same crap from the gala.
And I’m not in the mood for another night that ends in tears.
So I move fast. Edging into the picture-taking chaos before things spiral.
Dom always gets grumpy, or hell, downright asshole-ish, when the cameras start flashing and the heat from the lights kicks in.
He claims it’s the bulbs, but I don’t buy it. It’s something else. Some sensory thing he’s probably already diagnosed himself with, but won’t admit out loud. Too proud. Too Dom.
All I know is, if I don’t get over there now, he’s going to blow, just like he always does. And she’ll be the one who catches it. Again. That’s not happening. Not tonight. Not if I can help it.
I wedge myself in between them. He grunts and mutters something under his breath while the beautiful Babs takes a couple of steps over to let me in. Her perfume wafts under my nose, and damn if it’s not a straight shot to my cock.
I grab both of them, hauling them into my side as my tux jacket awkwardly gaps. Babs, with her keen eye, flicks the button to loosen it from the hole, letting it fall naturally for the perfect pictures.
“Dom, I’m just here for the glamour shots with your mom.”
My smile is bright, with the flashbulbs almost blinding as they capture two legendary families intertwined at this event. It happens, but not nearly as often as the gossip magazines would like.
Dom shoves against me, pissed. I shield the impact with my body, knowing it’s coming, and I don't want to topple Babs over at her own event.
“Go to hell,” he grumbles under his breath.
I laugh.
Babs leans into me, not intimately as I would hope, but more a closeness that aligns with our shared love of art. On the other hand, Dom stands with hands clasped in front of him, looking more like a prisoner of my affection than an active participant. I’d be offended if I didn’t know him so well.
“Okay, that’s enough bullshit. I’m out of here.”
He raises a hand to block the flashes. It dims some but not all. He turns his back to the wall of photographers, glares at my arm still around his mom.
“And you can stop fucking touching her now.”
“Chill, man.”
I don’t move my hand. Babs moves away. Surging forward to caress the side of his arm with a surprising softness as if to soothe him before he blows up or storms out.
It’s the first time in a very long time that I can recall her reaching out to him.
Not that I blame her. He’s a prickly pear, who would want to?
It takes me back, realizing there is a yearning to make amends for whatever happened to get them to this point. Dom flinches, his gaze slides from me to her, scowling. She doesn’t see it. Her name is called by someone seeking her attention. A moment she missed. But I didn’t.
I always assumed they were unfixable. Damage done and that sort of thing. Now I realize, there’s something there. Something that needs to be fixed. And I’m bound and determined to be the one to fix it.
Fix them.
“I guess you’re staying? You’re into all this shit anyway.”
His mood changes quickly, less pissed. Trying to relate.
“Am I into supporting artists and their works? Yes, I am.”
I let my condescending tone fly. He can handle it.
“Don’t bullshit me. You know what I’m talking about, Mr. Pre-Law. Ever tell your father about not wanting to go to Harvard Law and pursuing your art?”
I glance away, regretting the moment overly observant Dom spotted a notebook hanging out of my motorcycle bag when I failed to zip it up. He snatched it up and was flipping through it before I could get it away from him. He never brings it up, so I assume that his steel-trapped mind forgot.
My fucking mistake.
“Chicken shitted out, huh? Well, if I ever need a lawyer, I won’t be calling you.”
He punches the shit out of my chest, smirks, and turns on his heel, cutting a path to the exit.
Nonchalant and full of intent, leaving me battling the sudden mindfuck of wondering why he went after my jugular so fucking hard and then left.
I rub the stinging spot, still sore from this morning’s workout with the twins.
The crowd forms back around his departure as if he had never been here.
I gaze toward where she went. She didn’t turn back.
Didn’t even see the way he looked at her, but I did.
And now I’m standing here with the press fading, the socialites refilling their glasses, the director pretending not to watch the room like a hawk. And I feel more out of place than ever.
Not because I don’t belong.
I always belong.
That’s the problem.
I play the part. Flash the smile, shake the hands, and take the photos.
But now I don’t feel like being seen. I snag two flutes of champagne from a passing tray and move through the throngs of people and halls of curated art to a side door marked PRIVATE STAFF ONLY.
I push it open with my elbow and slip outside.
The cool air hits like a balm. The museum’s back veranda is quiet. Dimly lit. A stone path winds through hedges and sculpture bases. No one’s out here. No curated lighting. Just the faint thump of bass from the main room and the low murmur of voices behind heavy doors.
Perfect.
I lean back against the column and take a sip from one flute before setting the second on the ledge beside me. I don’t know why I brought two. For her? For me? Who knows.
I close my eyes and exhale.
The air smells like old stone, spring air, and something floral drifting from one of the hedge rows. I let the glass hang from my fingers, tapping it lightly against my thigh. The bubbles sting a little on the back of my throat.
I’m a gala guy. A tennis guy. Now an art gallery guy.
All for her. The ghost of her perfume clings to my jacket, and a growing, painful ache in my chest that has nothing to do with Dom’s punch.
Just the way she looked at him and the way she didn’t look back at me.
Maybe I’m pushing this thing, wanting something that she doesn’t want.
Forcing an agenda that doesn’t work for her beyond harmless flirting when bored or trapped at these types of events.
Twice I have sought her out tonight. Twice, she has intentionally walked away.
Maybe I’m a fool for thinking this is more than what it is.
A casual and careless flirtationship. I’ve had them before. Used them as a mild distraction when bored, horny, or restless. But Babs is none of those things, so I don’t know why I’m so twisted up over what this is. Which is basically nothing.
I open my eyes, finish the golden bubbly liquid, and set the glass down.
No longer interested in drinking the second glass.
The cold stone column bites into my back.
My head tilts to stare up at the darkening sky above the hedges.
Wondering what the hell I’m doing, chasing a woman I shouldn’t be chasing.
I drew her. I shouldn’t have, but I did. That night she cried, and I couldn’t sleep. Too wound up from us and her. The time flew by as I tried to get every line correct until dawn, and I had a finished piece. Not a caricature, but a charcoal sketch.
I reach for my phone in my breast pocket, needing to see her again.
In this safe medium. Safe away from wandering eyes and high society whispers.
I swipe past texts, emails, all the bullshit notifications waiting to be ignored.
Then I pull up the hidden folder. The one nobody knows about.
The one I password-protected years ago after a certain nosy friend flipped through a few pages that slipped from my bag.
It's my real work. My passion and something I’d love to pursue.
My thumb swipes photo after photo. Shots I took of sketches before I hid them away, or my dad destroyed the originals.
Some full sheets, some torn corners of napkins or hotel notepads.
Athletes, politicians, celebrities. Faces I grew up watching at fundraisers and benefit dinners, all reduced to lines and exaggeration.
Big teeth.
Bigger egos.
Eyes that always give them away.
There’s one of a senator with a smug face and wild hair that still makes me laugh. A pop star mid-performance, lips cartoonishly oversized and wrapped around a mic. A news anchor with a neck too long, spine too straight. But the eyes, that’s always where I get them right.
Caricatures have never been just comedy to me.
It’s a character study. It’s truth. Exaggerated, sure, but stripped down.
I pause on a drawing of Dom I snapped in the library two years ago.
Something he still doesn’t know about. He was hunched over a stack of science books, helmet on the table next to him, the vape twisted between his fingers.
The scowl. The posture. The exact way he blocks out the world, like it’s too bright to deal with, still makes me grin. I swipe again. More sketches. More ghosts of moments no one ever saw. Hundreds of them, all photographed under shitty dorm lighting or the overhead glare of my apartment kitchen.
There’s something comforting about it, like proof I was there. That I saw them. That I didn’t just pass through those events invisibly.
Until I get to her.
Barbara.
Not Babs.
Not in this drawing. She’s still and stunning. Wrecked and vulnerable in the most beautiful way. For my eyes only that night and now. Forever memorialized. Trying to harness the magic of that night.
It poured out of me that night after the gala, when the house was dark, and her perfume still clung to my skin like some ghost refusing to let go.
She’s sitting on the couch, her gown draped perfectly around her.
Back slightly curved, one hand limp in her lap, the other bracing the side of her head like her own grief was too much to hold upright.