My mother buried her sadness in pills, becoming the caricature of a once-great singer.
My father tried to alleviate his with material things. Business ventures, vacations, jewelry, models, and cars. Anything money could buy, Sonny James wanted it delivered to our home.
Me, well. I didn’t know what the fuck to do with my sadness. No one wanted to acknowledge it, because doing so was like admitting something inside of us was broken.
So I kept it close.
Bottled it up, then tucked it behind my rib cage like hidden treasure.
Leave something buried long enough, and eventually it’ll wash back up, waterlogged and sandy and worse off than if you’d just dealt with it in the first place.
I toss a peppermint candy at the glass door again, and this time Caleb’s face appears from behind a covered canvas. He frowns, pursing his lips when he sees me, like he isn’t sure if he wants to answer or not.
After a minute, he finally trudges over like the good little boy he is. Flipping the lock on the door, he yanks it open, crossing his arms over his chest.
“What do you want?”
Pushing to my feet, I close the lighter and stuff it in my pocket. “Can’t a guy come visit his favorite artist?”
“I’m not an artist. And I’m not your favorite anything.” He moves back as I walk inside, taking in the rows of displays in the little room.
Six individual glass cases line the middle of the floor, with the covered canvas standing at the back. Others hang on the wall, a macabre representation of still life here in the Rockies, and a spinning display showcases different native artifacts.
“That’s not entirely true,” I say, walking over to inspect a landscape of the lake just outside. “You’re my favorite nuisance.”
Rolling his eyes, Caleb walks to the back corner, slipping behind a tall receptionist desk. He’s folding pamphlets, fingers moving with ease, and I’m once again overtaken by jealousy at the thought of those being anywhere near Riley.
“If you’re not an artist, why do you own an art gallery?”
“Do you have to create art in order to appreciate it?” He pauses, glancing up at me. “Wouldn’t that defeat the entire purpose of your career, if the only people who could own music were also the ones who play it?”
“Well, enjoying music and owning a recording studio are vastly different things.”
I shake a peppermint from my jeans pocket, popping it out of the wrapper and into my mouth. He watches the movement with cold, calculating eyes—so different from when he’s around her, that I have no doubt about his feelings.
“It belonged to my grandfather years ago. He left it to me in his will.”
“Seems an odd thing to leave a man who doesn’t care about art.”
“Again, I care about it. I’m just not an artist.”
The covered canvas in the back catches my attention for a second, and I cock my head to one side, letting my gaze slide to his.
He clears his throat, adjusting the collar of the light-blue button-down he has on.
“In any case, I’m also not officially open right now. This is supposed to be by appointment only, and I have a showing in twenty minutes. You should probably leave.”
Instead of listening, though, I make my way to his desk, settling my forearms on top of the dark wood surface. Caleb doesn’t spare me a glance as I loom over him, and the lack of attention irritates me.
The lack of respect from him, in general, is infuriating, although part of me feels like I’m more bothered by the fact that he gets the soft, genuine side of Riley, and all I get are the bits I scrape from her.
“What’s the nature of your relationship with Angel?” I bite out the last word, hating that I have to use it.
His brows lift. “None of your business, apparently. If she didn’t tell you about it, then I don’t feel I should betray her judgment.”
“Maybe I want to hear it from you.”
“Why? Don’t you trust her?” A smirk pulls at the side of his mouth. “What do you want me to say? That I’ve fallen asleep to the sound of her screaming my name practically every night she’s been here? That some days, it hurts to shower, because the sting from where her nails raked down my back the night before is almost too much to bear?”
My fingers curl around the edge of the desk, heat boiling inside my chest.
“I could tell you those things. Fuck, what I wouldn’t give to be able to. But they’d be lies.” He shrugs, folding pamphlet after pamphlet, creasing the pages perfectly and stacking them to his right. “Truth is, I barely know her. She keeps herself locked up tight, and the chains around her heart are damn near impenetrable.”
Blowing out a breath, I sag against the desk. “Tell me about it.”
Caleb doesn’t say anything for several beats. The only sound is that of the papers shuffling and the soft tones of instrumental jazz trickling in from somewhere.
Grabbing the back of his neck with one hand, Caleb stops what he’s doing and meets my gaze. “I’ve spent a lot of time wishing those beautiful blue eyes of hers would acknowledge my feelings. That she’d, I don’t know… wake up one day and realize I could help her. Keep her safe from whatever it is she’s running from.”
Fire rages in my stomach, its flames rolling up my sternum and singeing my throat. The rings on my fingers feel heavy, leaden as they curl into my palms, trying to listen without wanting to rip his jugular out.
“But, ah… that’s not gonna happen. She doesn’t look at me like I’m the answer to her problems.” He clears his throat once, twice, then returns to his task. “She doesn’t look at me the way she looks at you.”
His words fill me with a mixture of disbelief and misery, and a notable absence of happiness. They twist inside me like poisonous vines, racing to see which can reach my heart first.
Because I’m not the solution to Riley’s problems.
I’m the root cause.
Pushing away from the desk, I cast one last glance at the canvas hidden beneath a plastic tarp. Suspicion pulses inside me, and I reach out before Caleb can stop me, ripping the cover away with a single swipe of my hand.
My jaw clenches so hard I can almost feel my teeth cracking. I stare at the white expanse, taking in the soft, feminine lines, the oceanic blue eyes, the pink hair that takes up the sides and top corners.
But there’s no scarring. No imperfections that make it her.
Still, its essence is haunting. Alluringly simplistic, yet somehow bold and intoxicating with its depth.
Pressing my lips together, I turn to look at Caleb. “Not an artist, huh?”
His nostrils flare, but he doesn’t answer. I wonder when the last time he looked at the painting was—last night? Months ago?
The look in his eyes holds the evidence of a recent wound, so it must not have been long.
Sliding my wallet from my pocket, I take the blank checkbook from the back and slide it onto the counter. “I’ll buy it.”
34
Huddling down lower under my covers, I roll to my side, keeping my phone against my ear.
“What do you mean the security people never showed up?”
Kal’s voice is stern, too loud in the dark quiet of my bedroom.
I flex my toes under the mass of blankets on top of me. “No one ever came to install more cameras. I don’t know how to explain that better.”