5. Chapter Four
Chapter Four
JULIAN
The glass of scotch in my grasp has turned warm as I stare out into the lobby of my gallery.
Some attendees take their time viewing my paintings, their eyes roaming slowly over the canvas like a soft caress.
Others offer no more than a mere glance, more amazed by the number of paintings than their quality.
Then there’s the long-hypnotized stare and an upturned nose when they finally think they found the meaning behind the acrylic.
I don’t mind the attention on my work, so long as it is hardly focused on me.
If I could have it my way, I’d rather if the world didn’t know the face behind my pseudonym, Julesian.
I understand that people prefer to know the creator of the work they admire or hate.
They have an intense need to know if the hidden face behind the angry strikes of a paintbrush is worthy.
The longer I stand here, I feel the last couple of weeks slowly crashing into me, exhaustion hitting me tenfold.
It’s mainly from spending one of those weeks in Washington D.C.
meeting with investors for the foundation I’ve been working toward building for the last few years.
My least favorite thing to do is negotiate, but unfortunately, it comes with the territory.
A week before that, I was in Florida attending a charity event that a wise man would’ve stayed far away from.
Except, I’ve never been one when it comes to women.
The sound of distant laughter steals my attention. I turn my head and my eyes land on a blonde woman wearing a tight midnight blue dress. She’s been watching me; I sensed her stare the moment I entered the gallery about fifteen minutes ago.
I knew women found me attractive. I wasn’t oblivious to the gawking, and some days I enjoyed it while other days I hated the feel of so many eyes on my skin.
One woman even told me that I was hot enough to look at, hot enough to fuck, but too hot to settle down with—not the type to love. Granted, I was nineteen, but that’s the sort of thing a person remembers.
Maybe I’ve only ever set myself up for failure, but that doesn’t settle the fact that it’s twisted something inside of me that I’m not sure can ever be untangled.
To me, painting has always been an intimate touch without the physical.
People could fall in love with my mind without even realizing it.
Rolling my shoulders, I force the useless thoughts from my mind and avert my attention from the woman, not wanting her to get the wrong idea.
I’ve grown tired of the one-night stands and have lately started to crave something more.
It’s unfortunate because anyone in their right mind wouldn’t wrap themselves up with a soul like mine.
It’s a wretched, broken thing passed down to me through generations. I’m scrap—leftovers.
I’m thirty-two years old.
Most people have been married for years and have at least one kid on their hip by now. It’s not that I want those things right now, but I still hold out a secret hope about having a family of my own in the future.
My phone vibrates in the pocket of my jacket, but I ignore it, and instead settle for another sip of my scotch.
I already know it’s Abigail. She’s been pestering me all day since I let her know I was coming back a few days earlier than planned.
One of the investors blew me off, and a sponsor fell through.
Each time it doesn’t go as expected, it’s a physical blow to the chest. I thought I’d be used to it by now, but it never gets easier.
“Hello,” a soft feminine voice purrs into my right ear.
I look over to find the blonde woman from the bar staring up at me with bedroom eyes. Those eyes used to work on me, but eventually, they all started to look and feel the same. After years of playing cat and mouse, I’ve grown bored at the prospect of meaningless hookups.
“Sorry, sweetheart, not tonight.” I’m too exhausted to care if I’m being an asshole as I walk in the opposite direction of the disappointed expression she gives me. I finally spot the familiar face that is Carter Westwood—the entire loathsome reason I’m here.
His beige suit stands out. Whatever he’s saying has him talking with his hands like a bozo. His laugh cracks through the air and I immediately know he’s been indulging in the complimentary champagne.
“I need to talk to you,” I state and when his dark eyes slide to mine, they widen in surprise.
“Julian?” He presses his hand to his eyebrow before pointing his index finger at his chest. “Talk. . .to me? Wh-what about?”
I narrow my eyes as the circle of people he was entertaining disperses. Carter doesn’t stutter. . . ever . My eyes briefly slide down to find a short brunette woman latched onto his arm, staring at him with a frown on her face.
“Wait, so you’re both named Julian?” she asks slowly.
I roll my eyes at the drunk idiot. “What have you told this poor woman?”
“Shh,” he tells her, bringing her hand up to his mouth to kiss the back of it. “You are absolutely radiant in that dress, Greer.”
She beams at the compliment, the rest forgotten. Great .
I rein in a sigh. “I tried calling you eight times. I need your key to my place; the airline lost my luggage.”
He blinks at me and then shakes his head. “Shit. Yeah, of course.” Pulling out a ring of keys from his pocket, he flips through several of them before finding mine. Unhooking it, he tosses it to me.
I catch it against my chest. “Next time, I’d appreciate it if you answered my call instead of forcing me to track you down.”
He blows out a breath, his cheeks puffing out as he nudges the woman with his elbow. “He needs to get laid,” he whispers or rather attempts to. “That’s why he’s so grouchy.”
The woman covers her mouth to hide her giggle as I remain unamused.
“Carter,” I warn, hoping he sees I’m in no mood for his usual antics.
It’s my fault for befriending him. We first met at the height of his baseball career, though it was brief, and we weren’t friends after that.
I heard about the end of his career on the news.
His entire world was pulled out from beneath his feet.
He fell into a womanizing disposition and hasn’t left it since.
There’s been several tabloid articles with his name and face in them.
I’d found him later in my art gallery doing a piss-poor job trying to impress a client. Feeling empathetic, I stepped in and after he finalized the deal, the bastard just wouldn’t leave me alone.
The fiend himself leans over to whisper something in the woman’s ear. With a nod, she grabs his face, pulling him in for a deep, messy kiss before leaving us alone.
Wiping his mouth, he appraises me. Dropping his hand, concern crosses his features. “I take it that it didn’t go well?”
“Could have gone better,” I say tightly and take another sip of the bitter liquid in my glass.
He claps me on the shoulder. “You’ll get them next time.”
“There will be no next time.”
Frowning, he asks, “What do you mean?”
I sigh harshly, resisting the urge to run a hand through my hair in aggravation. “I mean, they want nothing to do with it.” Nothing to do with me.
“Pretentious fuckers,” he grits out. “Did they say why?”
I shrug. “Did they have to?”
“It’s a good idea, Havord.” I can hear the sincerity of his statement in his tone, and it means a lot to me. I wish it was enough. “They’ll realize it as soon as they remove the stick that’s wedged up their asses from riding their high horses.”
The corner of my mouth twitches and I can feel the weight lessen on my shoulders. It is a good idea. I would have loved the opportunity to have a future laid out before me when I came out of the system. The first few years were the hardest of my life as I struggled to find my footing in the world.
I never want anyone to go through what I did. Many kids that come out of the system are alone entirely. I was lucky enough to have Abigail.
I didn’t know what it was truly like to have a family that was full of unconditional love—not until Abigail and Michael adopted Lily.
Not until my family became the people that never gave up on me even while I was at my worst. It’s why I’ll never give up on any of them even if they piss me off to no end.
“I appreciate that, I really do,” I tell him.
“And the other thing?” he asks, rocking back on his feet, looking unsure if he should be averting his eyes to enhance subtlety.
“What other thing?”
“The thing that starts and ends with a W.”
I mentally brush off his insinuation as my eyes browse the gallery.
They land on a boy tugging on his mother’s dress to get her attention.
Without looking at him, she hands him a piece of candy.
He snatches it greedily before taking off in a run, which earns him many annoyed looks as he weaves in and out of the crowd. “It was fine.”
His brows nearly reach his hairline. “Fine?”
I watch the boy reach his destination across the room—a young girl sits with her hands in her head, and it looks as if she’s been crying.
The boy taps her shoulder to get her attention and her head lifts, splotchy eyes meeting his.
When he extends the piece of candy, she smiles at him as she takes it.
“She’s never been better,” I tell him honestly.
“And what about you?”
I toss him an exasperated look. “I knew what it was when we started.” It’s not exactly easy telling someone you love them and then watching them go and love somebody else, but I’ve learned to accept the truth for what it is.
Willow and I were both hiding from a painful past and found brief comfort in each other’s skin.
It was never meant to be more. People like her always find their way back to where they came from.
I went to the charity event for a different reason than my very annoying best friend believes. I didn’t go with the intention to fight for Willow Vensling. I went out of curiosity .