Chapter Thirteen
Kinsley
“I promised I would tell you, and I’m doing that.”
“How do you feel?”
“Peachy.”
Colt should be irritated at my evasive and petulant tone, but he’s used to me. “What did Detective Beaumont say?
“They’ve put in another appeal. A judge is reviewing it.”
“It could go back to court?”
My shoulder lifts in a half-hearted shrug. “It was a courtesy call. Even if the judge agrees to the appeal, it will take months to get through the system.”
“That’s not very reassuring.” His fist tightens on his mug. His eyes close briefly as he pulls himself together. “We’ll do whatever it takes to make sure it’s thrown out.”
“They have more money than we do.”
“We have the law on our side.”
“When has the law ever beaten money,” I drawl. “We’re lucky the jury saw through her act and locked her up as it is. That might not happen again.”
“I’ll call him and tell him to liaise with me.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not about to let her inside my head again.”
“She put you through a lot.”
My instinct is to lash out, but Colt isn’t my enemy. He’s trying to help.
“Do they know where you are?”
“They can afford to pay an entire army of investigators to find me. That isn’t what this is about.
Her family knows she’s a fucking lunatic, they just want her out of that place.
Detective Beaumont said if they push it too hard, they could screw her up even more and have her put in a real prison.
You know, by proving she isn’t incapable of standing trial, then doing it all over again. ”
“It’s worrying,” Colt says, squeezing my hand.
“If anything, I bet Eloise is against it. She’s smart and calculating, she’ll know this is a risk. Her family is doing this to save face. They think they can get her out.”
Colt frowns, but I ignore it. This was all supposed to be over.
The first thing I did when I left Raven’s bar was go home and have more alcohol, then smashed the glass out of sheer frustration.
I cut my hand in the process of cleaning it and bled all over one of my drawings that was on the table where it happened.
Another drawing of Rebel I shouldn’t be doing. I had stared at that, distracted from the current problem. Then I trailed my finger through the wetness, using the blood to create shadows on his face and throat, which is fucked up as hell.
“You can take his number, talk to him if you have to, but I’m not worried.”
His words don’t match up to the way he looks at me. “Whatever you feel is best. I’m here for you.”
“My head is in a better place.” I have half-convinced myself that is true. I want Colt to be at ease, not worrying about me all over again. “Being here helps.”
Reckless decisions have dogged my past, getting involved with stupid men and using sex to forget. At least I’m not like my mom and didn’t turn to drugs to cope with what Eloise put me through.
“The rain has quit. I’m going to get started on the mural.”
Colt wants to talk some more, but he knows me too well and heads out after he takes the detective’s number. I grab everything I need, glancing at the bloody portrait, then go outside.
I’ve already run the idea for the mural past Colt. At first, I thought he’d be against it, considering it depicts the garden where Lucifer first tempted Eve. It’s more subtle than the idea sounds, and he came around to it once I showed him a concept sketch.
My plan is to start on the lighter side of the mural, so it doesn’t get people’s backs up seeing the snake in the garden.
After a couple of hours it gets too dark to work, even with the light I’ve hooked up. I’m on edge after the call from LA and jump out of my skin when a woman approaches. I almost throw the spray can at her.
“Holy shit, it’s just me.”
“Katrina?”
“Yeah. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, sorry. You snuck up on me. I get in the zone when I’m working.”
I set the spray can down and watch her staring at the wall. It’s hard to make out what it is right now, and her frown says she isn’t impressed. I get it, at this point it looks more like graffiti than a painting.
“Do you know what is going on with the bar?” She points across the street.
Instead of telling her Rebel made Raven close the bar because of the strange man I saw, I shrug my shoulders. If she’d called Raven, she’d know that, which means she is here for someone else. I should bow out of that mess.
She’s welcome to him.
As if my thoughts conjured him, the door to the clubhouse opens and Rebel walks out, looking all pissed off and sexy. So much for the idea of backing off. My pussy clenches at the sight of him. And as if some weird, un-nameable connection grows, his eyes find me.
The cut on my hand starts throbbing.
Rebel was turned on when we drew blood from each other. I should run from that fact alone.
Beside me, Katrina’s back straightens, and she licks her lips, she’s gearing herself up to approach him. My throat aches, so I ignore them both and turn around to tidy my things away. I already know what Rebel is going to say as he walks toward us.
Before he gets to our side of the street, Katrina is moving toward him. From my crouched position, I continue putting my spray cans into the large canvas bag, watching their interaction.
They’re talking too low for me to hear. From his expression as he speaks and the set of her shoulders, he’s telling her to leave. When Katrina heads off in the opposite direction to the church, her steps are angry, and she looks back at me as I stand up, hauling the bag up onto my shoulder.
She is not happy at all when Rebel comes over and takes the bag out of my hand.
“What are you doing?”
“Aren’t you tired of this dance?”
My glance cuts to Katrina, who has stopped by her car and is watching us over the roof.
“Do you let all your conquests down so brutally?”
“You tell me.” He smirks, but his expression turns serious. “Inside.”
“That was where I was going as soon as I saw your ornery ass coming over.”
The car door slams behind us, but Rebel doesn’t care, his full attention is on me. Why am I getting a bad feeling about this?
He follows me back to the annex and inside because he is still carrying the bag of spray paints.
“You need to be careful,” I tell him.
“About what?”
Turning and putting my hands on my hips, we’re both well aware what I’m referring to. Rebel ignores it and sets my bag down, but he pauses, staring at the table.
Oh shit.
He picks up the sketchpad, his gaze focused on the drawing. I freeze in place, freaking the hell out as he trails a finger over the surface of the paper. He is impossible to read at first, then he shows his surprise, followed by a little anger, his jaw is ticking as he clenches his teeth.
Maybe I should give him a moment alone with it. Leaving sounds like the right idea. I step away, but he turns to face me, freezing me in place, the pad still in his hand.
Any usual quip I’d fire back gets lodged in my throat.
“What is this?”
“Um…When I’m stressed, I draw the things that interest me.”
Damn, wrong choice of words.
“I interest you?” he arches a brow.
“Your face does. Not your personality.”
He looks back at the portrait, holding the pad closer. His nostrils flare and his eyes lift, giving his expression a sinister cast, but there is no intent behind it. He’s not angry, he’s intrigued. And something else, which becomes apparent with his next words that come out low and husky.
“Is that blood?”
How does he know that?
“I know what dried blood looks like, and I can see your fingerprints in it.”
“That doesn’t mean its blood.”
“Why are you lying?” His gaze drops to the band-aid around my finger. “Do you do that all the time?” A shake of my head makes his muscles tighten. “Is this the only drawing?” Another shake.
Rebel looks around, and when he sees the short hallway, he walks toward it, daring me to stop him.
What would be the point now? He’s seen it, and it’s not like every painting in that room is him. In fact, when he curses, a sly smile creeps over my lips. He’s seen the second portrait I’ve been working on.
“Kinsley!”
I’m not about to go running just because he called. I count to ten, he doesn’t shout again, so this seems like a pointless standoff. It’s getting hot, so I tug off my hoodie and toss it on the table, then head to the art room.
Surprising me, Rebel isn’t standing in front of the portrait of Stryker, he’s looking at the one of him. I’ve taken some liberties, and he is bare down to the crack of how I imagine his ass. In the portrait, he is side-on, staring off to the side, his brow furrowed.
“This isn’t what I look like,” he says without looking at me.
I lean against the doorframe, contemplating his words. I’m confident in my work and my abilities.
One of my specialties in college was the human form and portraiture. The gallery events I’ve held in LA have had nothing but praise for my portraits.
Rebel tosses the pad at the table I’ve dragged in here to sit at when I’m sketching, and before I can say anything else, he strips off his leather cut, then drags his T-shirt over his head.
He looks over his shoulder, but I’m not paying any attention to his face anymore, I’m staring at the tattoo that covers his entire back.
It is a portrait of the back of a soldier facing a setting sun.
In the distance, there are crosses, like at memorial fields for fallen soldiers.
There is far more detail than my brain can take in, it’s stunning.
My breath catches, and my hand reaches out to touch it, but I pause before my making contact.
The reds, browns, and ochres of the sun are the only colors in the image. Being able to draw like that is amazing, being able to tattoo it is something else entirely. Then he turns to face me, in all his bare-chested glory.
The tattoos on his pectoral muscles aren’t as crisp as the one on his back and there are words swirling in the one on the left side. The same person did not do these tattoos.
He has flames tattooed on his hips, in that delicious V dipping beneath his jeans. I didn’t notice them the last time he was here because his jeans weren’t pulled back far enough.