Chapter Seven
Kinsley
Most of the imperfections on the wall are gone, so I’m ready to get the base layer of paint on. It took a couple of days for the cement to set and a lot of sanding to get it smooth. Now I can focus on getting the design right.
I tried to run a few things past Colt last night, but he trusts me to make it work.
For the last couple of days, my brain has been occupied with filling my sketchpad with portraits of a man I shouldn’t let into my brain at all. And it’s not Stryker, even though he still fascinates me.
It's irritating Rebel has the kind of face that gets my creativity all fired up. It’s so vivid in my mind that I can’t help pouring it all out on paper. I’ve even prepped a canvas, which is insanity.
Maybe to take my mind off visiting my uncle. From what Colt’s told me, the last couple of years he’s deteriorated to the point he doesn’t recognize anyone but his caregivers.
What is he going to think of me? A man I adored. A man of unending patience and tolerance who put up with my attitude and talked me through tough times, guiding me without ever judging me.
That man is no longer there. I left it far too long to let him know that without him, my life could have turned out differently. He even forgave his sister for the things she did, unlike me, who flat-out refused to think about her at all.
It’s where Colt gets his compassion from. He’s like his father in a lot of ways, and it hurts his heart talking about how his dad only sees him as a priest who visits the memory care facility to chat with patients.
“Stop staring at me.”
“I’m sorry,” I mumble and drag my eyes away.
“I promise, Kins, I’m okay.”
We sit in silence for all of fifteen seconds. “How can you be okay?”
“Because there is nothing anyone can do about it. In his heart, he remembers me, his brain blocks it out.”
“I’m not sure that’s how dementia works, Colt.”
“It’s been difficult, but I’m at peace with it. He’s happy despite the illness. Whatever makes him happy makes me happy.”
“How can you be so… accepting?”
“It’s God’s will.”
Here we go. I sigh and look through the windshield as we head closer to the care home where Uncle Joe has spent the last two years.
Once it got too hard for Colt to care for him.
He was given pastoral control of the church a few months after Joe was hospitalized.
It’s like a prison where he is, both his new home and inside his mind.
It drives me crazy to think about it. Colt has always been accepting of things when they go wrong. His cup overflows, whereas mine is mostly dry.
It’s too easy to say it’s ‘God’s will’. It’s a horrible, shitty disease that takes far too many people, and I’m dreading this.
Colt’s hands tighten on the wheel as we pull into the parking lot. There is tension in his brow as he makes his way up the steps, guiding me into what is a pleasant building.
I was expecting some kind of hospital-type environment, like something out of 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest', which, now that I think of it, is kind of stupid. This isn’t a mental health facility. No one is getting lobotomies here. I hope.
Colt signs us in, and everyone seems happy to see him. I don’t miss how a few of the younger staff members’ eyes linger a little too long. It’s gross, regardless of how he looks. He is wearing his collar.
I’m focusing on the wrong things. It’s all an attempt to prepare myself. Colt leads us to a bright red door with a bell, which he rings.
“Is he locked in?”
“No, everyone has access to the room, his carer and medical staff. This is to make residents feel as though they have independence. Kins, are you alright?”
“I’m scared,” I admit.
He takes my hand, his quiet reassuring smile should calm me, but it makes me feel worse. The man who opens the door looks like Uncle Joe, he’s just older, frailer, and his eyes are distant with a moment of confusion as he stares at Colt.
“Oh, the priest is here, the one who comes and visits. I haven’t seen you in years.”
Colt visits once a week. “That’s right, Joe. May we come in?”
“We?” he turns to look at me, and his eyes widen, recognition making him smile wide.
Oh Jesus, does he know who I am? This will break Colt’s heart, even if he hides it.
“Annabeth, I can’t believe you’re here. It’s been so long since I saw your beautiful face.”
My heart drops like lead into my feet. I want to tell him no, I am not Annabeth.
“Father… uh,” Joe looks away, even as he grabs my hand.
“Call me Colton,” my cousin says, dismissing Joe’s confusion.
“Yes, yes, that’s it,” he beams and takes my hand. “Have you met my sister, Annabeth?”
I could cry as Colt goes along with it. He told me that is the best way. Trying to convince him otherwise agitates him.
I listen as he reminisces about the things he used to do with my mom when they were kids. It kills me that I look like her when she was my age, and it’s triggered memories for him.
All I want to do is tell him she wasn’t the person he is describing. She was a shitty person, a terrible mother, and she stole from and treated Joe like a piece of crap for years.
It’s even more heartbreaking than I expected. Especially when every fifteen minutes or so, he acts like he is seeing my mom for the first time in years. It’s jarring, and I struggle to fight back tears.
Colt dotes on him, gets him what he needs, talks in a soothing voice that calms him when he gets muddled. He does it all, knowing that his father has no idea who he is. How is he not a shattered mess?
After half an hour, I have to excuse myself, apologizing to Colt who nods in understanding as I choke back the ball of emotion and hurry out of the room.
In my hurry to get out, I get lost in the miles of corridors, the doors to faux apartments making my heart hurt even more. Eventually, I run into the woman from reception who sees how I’m fighting tears and directs me to a garden. She offers tissues and says she will let Colt know.
He finds me there twenty minutes later, when I’ve stopped crying but have been lost in the horror of my childhood memories for too long.
“You alright?” He sits beside me.
“How do you do it?”
“I’ve had two years to get used to it,” he takes my hand. “It wasn’t easy at first, Kins. It hurt seeing him forget me. Now I take pleasure in getting to know him not as his son, but as someone he finds comfort in.”
“You’re a better person than me. I almost told him more than once not to call me that.”
“That must have been difficult to hear.”
“It’s not fair that he remembers her at a time in her life when she was a good person. She doesn’t deserve that. Not after everything she did.”
He squeezes my hand, knowing he will never convince me to forgive her or my father.
“He’s never mentioned her until he saw you.”
“Thanks for the reminder that I look like the bitch.”
“Kins.”
“Don’t get all priestly on me now, Colt. Let me be bitter and miserable.”
“What if I don’t want to see you that way?”
I can’t help it. It took me years to get past the abandonment and fear I’d lived during my younger life in that apartment with them.
“You’re getting your life together. You have wonderful talent and people who love you.”
“The bright side of life is your thing.”
“Open your heart and let it be yours. The only thing standing in your way is you.”
Easy for him to say. We sit in the garden a little longer, then make the journey back home. Well, back to his church and my temporary abode.
We separate after I assure him I’m okay and will see him for dinner later. Then I hurry inside and go straight to the canvas and draw.
Sketching out his face shouldn’t bring me comfort, but my mind focuses on that, shutting out all the bad memories. He is someone I have very conflicting and worrying feelings about.
Watching his handsome face come to life makes me mad, it overrides the sadness and makes me steadier, which is so damn fucked up, but I need it. That tension and raw anger gives me something else to think about, something to push out what happened.
I’m so lost in creating his image, I forget to go for dinner, but Colt leaves me alone.
It’s a big mistake when I change and head over to the Blackhawk bar, but I do it anyway, because my self-destructive tendencies have woken up. He isn’t here, which is no big surprise. There are plenty of men to choose from, any of these guys would do to sate this need that’s growing inside me.
I just want to lose myself, shut out this shit in a way only sex can. A cute guy with dark, wavy hair and pretty blue eyes comes over when I stare long enough to show I’m interested.
He has swagger, but it’s not the effortless way Rebel moves, who doesn’t need to put on a show to attract women. Stop comparing them, this isn’t about him.
We don’t chat long before I make it clear what I want by running my hand up his leg, he jerks a little when I get close to his junk, which gets the message and makes his jeans bulge.
I don’t look at anyone else when I get off the stool and make sure he is following me. It will mean nothing, but it is the best way of quieting the noise in my head.
There is no time wasted when we step outside, I pull him in and kiss him, my hands in his hair. His roam down my back and over my ass, squeezing me and pressing his erection against me. He’s got a lot going on down there. We need to get to my bed as soon as possible.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
The quiet rage in that voice stops us both, and I tilt my head to see Rebel glaring at us. The man lets his arms drop and turns around.
“Hey, Rebel. Is something wrong?”
“Yes, there is something wrong. Go inside, Cipher.”
“Wait, you can’t-” I start.
“Now.”
Seriously? The ass gives me an apologetic look, with a touch of irritation, but he doesn’t stand up to Rebel. This is bullshit.
Now he is pussy blocking me?
“Are you drunk?” Rebel steps closer once Cipher has gone inside without a look back.
“You think I got drunk and went looking for dick?” Part of that is true. “I’ve had one drink and am in full control of my faculties, and you are an asshole.”
I push past him and cross the street. What the hell am I supposed to do now? I really need to buy a new vibrator. Having not packed one when I came back to Baltimore, because I’m living in a church, was a dumb mistake.
“You were going to take a stranger back to your apartment?”
“Why are you following me? And hypocrite much? How many women have you had one-night stands with?” I eye him, the bastard looks even sexier when he is pissed. “And why are you so angry?” I demand, stopping and putting my hands on my hips. “You don’t control me.”
“No,” he smirks. “But I control them.”
“Ugh, you’re a dictator.” I spin around again and head behind the wall.
“A dictator, are you for real?”
“Go away. You’re always getting up in my business.”
“No, I want to know what you’re doing?”
“Why?” I look over my shoulder as I reach the door and unlock it. “You control them as far as the club is concerned, but you’re not their daddy. You don’t control who they put their dicks in.”
His jaw clenches. That landed, but there is more to the way he is looking at me. Oh God, did he get off on me saying daddy?
“Are you drunk?” he repeats.
“Why do you think I’m drunk? I wanted to have sex, and there were plenty of willing guys over there. It was going great until you showed up.” I walk into the annex. Before I can shut the door, he follows me inside. “Excuse me, who invited you in?”
“I don’t need an invitation.”
“You don’t get a say in what I do or who I fuck.”
He doesn’t say anything, just takes up all the oxygen in the room and out of my lungs, standing there all angry and beautiful.
I want to draw him.
“What is it with you?” I ask, genuinely curious. “Why do I get under your skin enough that you ruin my plans?”
“You’re not under my skin.”
“Following me over here says otherwise.”
“You let me in.”
No, I didn’t… Technically. Well, I didn’t stop him.
We both go quiet, staring at each other. My chest heaves in a failed attempt to hide the rapid beat of my heart. I don’t like him, he held a gun to my chest, he’s rude and obnoxious, he thinks he can speak to people any way he wants. Why the hell would I want him anywhere near me?
“I don’t like you.”
“Good to know,” he says, staring me down.
“You ruined my plans.”
“You’ll get over it.”
“I wanted to get fucked.”
That shuts him up, only the flare of his nostrils and a slight move in his shoulders tells me how that affected him.
He gathers himself and narrows his eyes. “Don’t think I’ll be stepping into his place.”
“I wasn’t going to ask you to,” I snap back, heat flooding my chest and creeping up my neck. I so was tempted to ask him.
How desperate am I? The moment is lost now. As usual in my interactions with this dick, everything goes to shit.
“Why did you want to get fucked?”
My throat closes and I almost choke. All my game and bravado have fled the building. “Why does anyone want to get fucked?” I arch a brow.
He smirks. He thinks he’s clever trying to get me riled up. Well, two can play that game. If he’s driven my prospect away, I’m going to take matters into my own hands, literally. He followed me in here, he can deal with it.
Moving backward, I lean against the wall. He watches me, his eyes never leaving mine, even as the drag of my zipper echoes around the room. He fights lowering his gaze as I push my hand inside my jeans and under the waistband of my panties.
What am I doing? This is insane, but the challenge in his eyes makes me press my fingertips on my clit, and that one touch is like a live wire sparking. Not just because of my fingers rolling over it, but the way he is watching me.
The hunger but restraint on his face, the tendons in his neck flexing and tightening. It makes me feel powerful. He thinks he has control over those men in his club, but he has no power here.
Of course, he could walk away, and then I’ll feel dumb, but I don’t let those thoughts intrude, instead, I press a finger inside and let out a whimper. I’m so wet, if my jeans and panties were gone, it would be running down my leg.
“Really?”
“If this is the only way to get what I need,” I say, licking my lips.
Rebel shakes his head and takes a step away, as if he’s about to leave. Fuck him, I tip my head back and close my eyes, moving my fingers faster. I can smell his aftershave, hear the rustle of leather as he moves.
This silence is different, he hasn’t left, he’s paused. I resist the urge to peek my eyes open and check.
His hand slams the wall beside my head, making me jump. The heat of his body and his scent surround me. I don’t stop, and I don’t open my eyes. Not even when his warm breath caresses the side of my face, and the low rumble of his voice fills my ear.
“Move your hand, little villain.”
My eyes snap open and lock on him, and with a stern tone, I say, “Make me.”