26. Chapter 26
Chapter 26
T he freeway cut through golden hills as Isaac wound his way north, the sun spilling low across the Pacific, tinting everything in molten light. The ocean was a flash of silver on his left, the highway stretching long and impatient before him. The A/C fought the creeping heat. Traffic had started thickening around Dana Point—by San Clemente, it was a crawl.
He had the windows down anyway. Salt air, open road, old punk rock humming low through his speakers.
His ribs still ached—three hours in a truck didn’t help that—but he needed this drive. Needed the motion. San Diego was closing in on him. He couldn’t sit still anymore.
His phone buzzed in the console tray. Mom.
He sighed, hit answer on the truck’s Bluetooth.
“Hey, Ma.”
“Hi, honey.” Janice Rayleigh’s warm voice filled the cab. “How are you feeling? How’s the healing?”
Isaac squinted against the light, flexed his hand on the wheel. “Could be better, but I’m getting there.”
There was a pause. “Are you driving?”
He smirked. “Yeah.”
“Isaac. Isn’t that a little too early?”
“Mom.”
“You know I just want you to be okay.”
He let out a breath. “I know.”
Another pause. Then her voice brightened. “Well, are you coming up here? To Signal Hill?”
He hesitated. “Actually… yeah. I’m headed up now.”
“Oh! Are you coming to Rosie’s show tonight?”
Isaac blinked. “What show?”
There was a rustling sound, like she was walking across the kitchen. His dad, Tom, spoke up faintly in the background—something about the Dodgers game. Janice shushed him.
“She’s got an event tonight in Malibu. Some fancy art show. I saw it on her newsletter. It’s part of that collector series. What’s his name… Gregory something?”
“Greg Taylor?” Isaac muttered, scowling out the windshield.
“Yes, that’s it!” she said.
“Good for her,” he said. Motherfucker better not touch her.
“Rosie’s one of the headliners. Can you believe it?”
Yeah. He could. But he didn’t say that. His grip on the wheel tightened. So she was in Malibu. Right now. Being celebrated. Surrounded by a bunch of rich assholes in suits. Don’t like that.
His mother kept going, gentle and cheerful. “If you’re already headed up, don’t bother with a hotel, sweetheart. Just come home. I’ll make up the guest bed for you.”
He groaned. “Mom, I’m not sharing a room with Noah again.”
“You won’t!” she laughed. “He’s got a girlfriend now. He’s over there most nights. I hardly see him.”
He smirked despite himself. “Jesus. Noah’s got a girlfriend?”
“He’s trying to make it work,” she said. “Like someone else I know should be.”
Isaac rolled his eyes. “Not now, Ma.”
“You’re staying here,” she said firmly. “That’s final. I’ll put fresh sheets on.”
He let out a long, theatrical sigh. “Fiiiiine.”
Janice softened. “Good. I miss you, baby.”
“I miss you too.”
He clicked off the call, leaned his elbow out the window, and stared at the westward horizon as the traffic inched forward. Rosie was out there, being a star, and he hadn’t even known. Not until his mom told him.
Uninvited? Maybe.
But showing up? Yeah. He was doing that.
She could hate him later.
He flipped on his signal. Took the exit toward Malibu.
Time to crash a gala.
* * * * *
Isaac’s knuckles tightened around the steering wheel as he navigated the Pacific Coast Highway, the sun dipping low over the ocean, casting a golden hue across the water. The rhythmic crashing of waves against the shore was a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing within him. The drive from San Diego to Malibu had been a blend of scenic beauty and relentless traffic, each mile giving him ample time to wrestle with his thoughts.
As he approached the venue—a sprawling, modern estate perched atop a cliff—he couldn’t help but feel a pang of unease. The kind of place that screamed exclusivity, with its minimalist architecture and valet attendants dressed in crisp uniforms. He pulled his truck into the makeshift parking area, gravel crunching under the tires, and killed the engine.
Glancing at his reflection in the rearview mirror, Isaac removed his worn ball cap, attempting to tame his unruly black hair. The tattoos on his neck and peeking from under his black t-shirt sleeves and his rugged demeanor were a stark contrast to the likely attendees of this soirée. But maybe, just maybe, he could pass as one of the avant-garde artists—those who thrived on defying convention.
He chuckled to himself, the idea both amusing and nerve-wracking. “Time to channel my inner punk,” he said, stepping out of the truck and into the cool evening air.
Approaching the entrance, he observed guests adorned in designer attire, their laughter melodic yet tinged with pretension. Security personnel flanked the doorway, their expressions a blend of boredom and scrutiny. Isaac straightened his posture, adopting an air of entitlement he’d seen countless times but rarely embodied. Confidence is key.
With a casual nod to the doorman and a mumbled mention of being “with the exhibit,” he slipped past the velvet ropes and into the lion’s den.
Inside, the ambiance was both intoxicating and overwhelming. Walls adorned with contemporary art pieces, the soft hum of classical music intertwined with the clinking of champagne flutes. Isaac’s eyes scanned the room, searching for Rosie amidst the sea of patrons.
Spotting her near one of her installations, Isaac slowed to a full stop.
And holy fuck.
Rosie wasn’t just in her element—she was transcendent.
She stood in a pool of soft gallery light, one hand curled loosely around a wine glass, the other gesturing as she spoke to a group of sharp-dressed art-world types. Her voice carried just enough to be melodic, confident, thoughtful. Professional. Elegant. Untouchable.
But it wasn’t the voice that stopped him.
It was the dress.
Silky. Deep blue. No back.
Minimalist, but clinging to her like it was custom-made. The satin shimmered when she moved, catching the curve of her waist, the dip of her spine, the line of her shoulder blades. Her dark hair was down in soft, clean waves, and without her usual glasses, her bright blue eyes looked sharper, more vivid—like they could see right through him.
Her lips were painted red.
Fuck.
She looked like she’d stepped off the page of a 1950s pin-up spread—gorgeous, self-possessed, quietly lethal.
And Isaac’s body reacted before his brain caught up.
Throbbing.
Just like that.
Instant. Undeniable. Fucking inconvenient.
He swallowed hard, jaw flexing.
When did this happen?
When had he stopped seeing her as his childhood best friend and started seeing her as…
This?
This woman.
This stunning, luminous, glittering force.
He couldn’t walk over now.
He needed a second.
Needed to collect himself, reset, get his head right before he said something he couldn’t unsay.
Because she wasn’t Rosie-the-girl-next-door anymore.
Not tonight.
Tonight, she was the star of the fucking show.
And for the first time in his life, he felt completely out of his league.
Isaac pulled his gaze away and exhaled. Okay, he was doing this. Time to get settled. He made his way to the bar. The bartender, dressed in a crisp white shirt and black vest, raised an eyebrow as Isaac approached.
“Whiskey, neat,” Isaac ordered, his voice steady despite the turmoil within.
The bartender nodded, pouring the amber liquid into a glass and sliding it over. Isaac took it with a curt nod, downing it in one go. The burn was immediate, a welcome distraction from the ache in his ribs—a lingering souvenir from the dive accident. The pain meds dulled the discomfort, but combined with the alcohol, they cast a hazy veil over his senses.
Ignoring the warning bells in his mind about mixing substances, he ordered another. And another. Each drink blurred the edges of his anxiety, replacing it with a misguided bravado.
Emboldened, he approached a cluster of attendees near one of Rosie’s pieces—a striking abstract that commanded attention. They turned as he joined them, their expressions a mix of curiosity and polite interest.
“Stunning, isn’t it?” Isaac remarked, gesturing to the artwork.
“Indeed,” a woman replied, her tone cultured. “Are you familiar with the artist?”
He flashed a grin, the alcohol loosening his tongue. “You could say that. We’ve shared studio space for years. Part of the same collective.”.
“Really?” another man chimed in, adjusting his glasses. “Which medium do you specialize in?”
Isaac’s mind raced, grasping for artistic jargon he’d picked up over time. “Mixed media, mostly. A blend of sculpture and digital installations. Exploring the dichotomy of human existence and technology.”
It sounded pretentious enough to be believable.
They nodded appreciatively, the conversation flowing with ease. Isaac regaled them with fabricated tales of artistic endeavors, each more elaborate than the last. He reveled in the attention, the laughter, the way they hung on his words.
But beneath the surface, a storm brewed. The combination of alcohol and medication muddled his thoughts, blurring the line between reality and the persona he’d adopted.