Chapter 21
twenty-one
“Okay, seriously,” Claire says, throwing down her cards with a triumphant grin. “Full house, ladies. Pay up.”
I groan as I watch my stash of mini candy bars dwindle even further. At this rate, I’ll be leaving Sasha’s place empty-handed. Not that I’m complaining. After the week I’ve had, girls’ night is exactly what I needed.
“You’re definitely counting cards,” I accuse, tossing a mini Twix across the table.
Claire winks, gathering her winnings with a sweep of her arm. “It’s not my fault you all have such obvious tells.”
“I don’t have a tell,” Noia protests, curling a strand of hair around her finger.
“You literally twist your hair around your finger when you have a good hand,” Reyna points out, and we all burst out laughing as Noia’s hand freezes mid-twirl.
Sasha shuffles the deck, a lock of red hair falling over one eye. “So, Lizzy, how’s your new neighbor situation working out? Any more run-ins with Hollywood’s sexiest bad boy?”
I haven’t seen or spoken to Rowan in a couple of days.
Not since our literal run-in at Bean & Co.
My guess is he’s busy filming. I have heard him coming and going a couple of times though.
Even caught myself waiting for the sound of his footsteps.
Not that I’d ever admit it to these crazy chicks. I’d never hear the end of it.
When I told them at brunch the other day what went down with Rowan in the hallway, Sasha almost choked on her mimosa. With her having had a similar situation with Jax, she found that tidbit of information more than hilarious.
I roll my eyes, reaching for my beer. “How about we don’t call him that.”
“But he is sexy,” Noia says, waggling her eyebrows. “Like, objectively speaking.”
“Objectively speaking, I’d rather not talk about him,” I mutter, but I know my friends too well to think even for a second they’ll drop it.
“Might as well give it up,” Claire prods, unwrapping a mini York Peppermint Patty. “You’ve been avoiding the subject all night. And you know we’re not gonna let up until you do.”
Resigned, I let out an exasperated sigh, picking at the label on my beer bottle. “There’s nothing to tell. I’ve been actively avoiding him, and it’s been working out great so far.”
“For how long, though?” Sasha asks, dealing the cards. “Kinda hard when you live across the hall from each other.”
“I’m very good at avoiding people when I want to,” I snark defensively, snatching the cards she tosses my way off the table.
“Yeah, because that’s healthy,” Reyna snorts.
“If you’re so adamant about not having him around, maybe you should figure out a way to get him so annoyed that he’d rather go back to sleeping on your brother’s couch, instead of living across the hall,” Sasha suggests, eyeing her cards with a smirk.
I consider her idea for a moment. “What, like blasting death metal at three in the morning?”
“Or,” Noia chimes in, “you could just talk to him like an adult, like he offered, and get some closure.”
“Whose side are you on?” I ask, shooting her a glare.
“Yours, obviously,” she says, arranging her cards. “But I also think you’re being a bit stubborn.”
“I’m not being stubborn.” I protest. “I’m protecting myself.”
Claire leans in, purple hair framing her heart-shaped face. “From what, exactly? The possibility of finding out he actually had a good reason for leaving without saying goodbye?” she asks, her eyes softening.
“No,” I snap. “From the possibility of being stupid enough to fall for him again.”
Now that my bottle is empty, I feel the sudden urge for something stronger. Reaching across the table, I grab the bottle of bourbon Sasha’s been drinking and take a swig.
The table goes quiet. Sasha reaches over and squeezes my arm.
“Honey, maybe talking to him would help you finally move on,” she suggests gently. “You’ve been carrying this around for far too long.”
“I just don’t want to deal with his bullshit excuses,” I insist, voice wavering.
“Fair enough,” Reyna says, taking a sip of her wine. “But you know what they say about the best kind of revenge...”
“Oh, yeah? Tell me, Rey. What’s the best kind of revenge?” I deadpan with a quirk of an eyebrow.
“Getting laid,” she corrects with a wicked grin. “When was the last time you had a good bounce, Liz?”
Heat rushes to my face. “That’s none of your business.”
It’s been almost a year. Whatever. I’ve been busy, okay?
“So... quite a while then,” Noia teases.
I throw a mini packet of peanut M&M’s at her head, which she dodges easily, laughing.
Tossing a card down on the table, I sigh. “Well, if you must know, my poor hoo-ha is practically spitting out dust.”
All of my friends burst out laughing.
“What about Carter?” Sasha suggests as she swipes tears of laughter from her eyes. “He’s clearly into you.”
Downing another mouthful of bourbon, I shake my head. “I don’t mix business with pleasure. Besides, he’s my apprentice. I need a better way to drive Rowan out.”
“You could get a pet tarantula,” Reyna suggests, grinning wickedly. “Let it loose in his apartment.”
That makes me snort. Rowan would have a freaking heart attack.
“Just be super loud during sex,” Claire suggests, examining her cards. “With multiple partners. Screaming out their names.”
She says those words so casually, it makes me spit my bourbon back into the glass Sasha handed me in annoyance after my second swig from the bottle. “I’d need to actually be having sex for that to work.”
“I’ve got it!” Noia slaps the table, making us all jump. “Bagpipes.”
“Where the hell would I get bagpipes?” I ask, laughing despite myself.
“ delivers everything,” she shrugs. “Or you could take up the violin. The screeching alone would drive anyone crazy.”
“What about something more subtle?” Reyna muses. “Like, you could start leaving weird stuff outside his door. Creepy dolls. Random notes. Make him think the place is haunted. Or,” she says, drawing out the words, “that he has a stalker.”
“Ooh, I like that,” I say, warming to the idea. “I could play some creepy whispers and scratching noises through the wall at night.”
“Earlier you mentioned blasting your music,” Sasha suggests. “Why don’t you start with that?”
I nod slowly. “That could work. A little late night metal just might do the trick.”
Girls’ night ends a little earlier than usual. Sasha has a client first thing in the morning, Claire has inventory to do, Noia’s got an early meeting with her editor about her latest romance novel, and Reyna has a shift at Lakeside Fire, Search & Rescue.
I’ve been meaning to ask Reyna about what went down between her and my brother last year. We’ve gotten to know each other a little better over the past couple of months now that she’s been coming to our weekly get-togethers.
From what she’s told us, he’s put her on opposite shifts from his. If there’s one thing I know about my brother? My guess is that he’s trying to keep her as far away from him as possible. Which tells me Logan likes her way more than he’s letting on.
“This was exactly what I needed,” I say, giving Sasha a hug at the door. “Thanks for hosting.”
“Any time,” she replies, stifling a yawn. “Let me know how Operation: Fuck With Rowan Cole goes.”
I flip her off, which just makes her laugh harder as I head out to my car.
The drive home is quiet, with the streets mostly empty at this time of night.
My mind filters through all the different ways I could make Rowan’s life miserable enough that he’d want to move out.
The bagpipe idea is ridiculous but tempting.
Maybe I’ll just start with loud music and see how that goes.
When I pull into my parking spot, I notice his rental car is gone. Probably still at work. Perfect. I can get settled in and prepare my little welcome-home surprise.
My apartment is quiet. Slash is hiding in his favorite log, sleeping.
I toss my keys onto the counter and kick off my boots, padding barefoot to the kitchen to grab a glass of water.
And that’s when I hear it—the distinctive sound of the building’s outside door slamming shut, followed by footsteps on the stairs. My heart immediately kicks into overdrive.
The steps get louder as they approach, slowing down until they reach my door and stop.
I freeze, glass halfway to my lips, barely breathing as I strain to listen.
One second passes. Two. Ten.
Is he going to knock?
Fuckin’-A. My heart is hammering.
But then I hear the sound of keys jingling, followed by his door opening and closing across the hall.
I blow out a breath and set my glass down on the counter. What the hell was that about? Why did he pause outside my door?
The thought of him standing there, contemplating whether to knock or not, sends a weird flutter through my stomach that I absolutely refuse to acknowledge.
“Nope. Don’t go there, Iz,” I mutter to myself.
I glance at the clock. It’s just after midnight. Plenty of time to start implementing my plan. I should give him time to get comfortable first. Let him think it’s going to be a nice, quiet night before unleashing sonic hell.
My stomach growls. Time to raid the fridge. Cracking a few eggs into a bowl, I whisk them with a splash of milk, and throw in some diced peppers and cheese. Within minutes, the aroma of my makeshift omelet fills the kitchen as I flip it in the pan.
I slide it onto a plate and grab a fork, adding a couple slices of toast on the side and take a seat at the island.
As I eat, I keep glancing toward my studio area where a half-finished canvas waits.
The piece is for an upcoming charity auction.
It’s a swirl of blues and greens that’s supposed to represent the feeling of being underwater during a hurricane, but it’s missing something vital.
Some spark of life or emotion that I haven’t been able to capture quite yet.
Tonight feels like the perfect time to work on it, especially since I already plan on being loud and obnoxious. Might as well make it a productive night.
After I finish eating, I rinse my plate and set it in the sink. Then, peeling away my jeans and top, I kick them into a corner. The cool air feels good against my skin after being out all evening.
I dig through my dresser for my favorite pair of pajama boy shorts—black with little red skulls—and slip them on. My paint-splattered apron is hanging on a hook by my easel, and I put it on, not even bothering with a top. I like to be comfortable while I paint.
Twisting my long, black hair up on top of my head, I secure it with a blue bandana that matches the streaks running through it. A few tendrils escape to frame my face, but that’s fine. As long as my hair stays out of the paint, I’m good.
Snatching my phone, I pull up my playlist, connecting it to the speakers hidden in the ceiling.
With a wicked grin, I crank the volume all the way up.
The opening guitar riffs to “Desperate” by Vixen blast through my apartment, and I can’t help but appreciate the irony of the song choice as I set up my paints.
“There you go, walking away like you did before. But I know, I know you’ll be back, back for more….” the lead singer wails as I squeeze dollops of crimson, cerulean blue, and titanium white, onto my palette.
The music vibrates through the floorboards and the walls as I pick up a large, flat brush, dipping it into the blue and sweeping it across the canvas in bold, confident strokes. I lose myself in the rhythm, my body swaying to the beat as I work.
“Sorry not sorry, neighbor,” I snicker with a smirk, imagining Rowan across the hall, tossing and turning, trying to sleep after a long day of filming.
Splashes of red contrast sharply with the cool blues and greens. My brush moves faster as the chorus kicks in again, and I find myself singing along at the top of my lungs, not giving a shit if anyone hears.
“THERE ARE NO VICTIMS, JUST VOLUNTEERS!!!” I belt out, emphasizing each word with a fresh stroke. The music pulses around me, and I feel alive, electric, powerful.
Acrylic splatters across my overalls and skin, little flecks of color marking me as I mark the canvas. I’ve always been a messy painter—I consider it part of my process. The paint on my skin is like a badge of honor, proof that I’ve poured myself into my work.
Twenty minutes in and I’m fully immersed, Operation: Fuck with Rowan Cole becoming almost an afterthought.
As the music shifts to Metallica’s “Enter Sandman,” I start adding intricate details to what’s becoming one of my best pieces yet.
The water scene has transformed, becoming darker, more mysterious, with hints of something lurking beneath the surface—something powerful and untamed.
Just as I’m dipping back into the cerulean blue, a hand clamps down on my shoulder, making me whirl around screaming in terror.
I have just enough time to see a glowering Rowan right before his expression instantly turns to surprise when I bitchslap him across the face with my paintbrush, leaving a glob of blue paint in its wake.