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“Those aren’t photographs,” I tell her, the corner of my mouth kicking up when her features settle into a dubious frown. “And I’m still in the market for a model—” Forgetting every promise I made Damien yesterday, I take a step toward her, giving her a quick flash of teeth. “if you’re interested.” Like I knew they would, her cheeks flood with color and I feel my cock twitch in response. Making her blush is becoming my new favorite thing to do.
“You don’t need me.” Laughing a little, she drags her backpack off the counter and slings one of its straps over her shoulder. “You’re doing just fine in the model department.”
Need and want are two entirely different things, Sunshine.
Since saying it out loud would probably push me into bear mace territory, I somehow manage miracle number three and keep it to myself. “Okay, but you can keep studying. No more staring. I’ll leave you alone—” I hold up two fingers and give her a solemn nod. “scout’s honor.”
“I don’t know anything about you James Bravebird, but I know for a damn fact you were never a boy scout.” She gives me an exasperated laugh that loosens a knot I had no idea was tied in my stomach. “I downloaded the rest of the lecture. I can find a place to hide out and finish up later.”
Hide out?
Before I can ask, she gives me a cautious smile. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning,” she says, nervous fingers tightening and relaxing on the shoulder strap of her bag. “If that’s still okay with you.”
Sunshine, if you’re not here when I wake up, I’m liable to go looking for you.
Instead of saying it out loud, I give her a flat, low-watt smile. “Yeah—it’s still okay with me.”
“Okay...” She gives me a nod like the matter is settled before heading for the back door. “Do us both a favor—remember to turn off the lights and if you’re going to sleep on the couch, try to wear pants.”
FOURTEEN
Wentworth
After watching Kaitlyn ride away on a black and white paint, I spend the rest of the morning on the front porch, in the chair I fell asleep in, enjoying the quiet and the rest of my coffee with my sketchbook, roughing out things that catch my eye. The lake and dock across the loose gravel drive. The sharp peaks of the ridgeline behind it, reflected on the water. What I’m pretty sure is a dog watching me from the opposite shore.
More than one rough sketch of Kaitlyn. The way she looked yesterday, determined and more than a little apprehensive, standing on the porch when Damien and I pulled into the drive. The way she looked when I opened my eyes this morning to find her looking down at me—curious and aroused. The way she looked when I came downstairs after my shower, sitting at the kitchen counter, surrounded by books. Focused and intent.
I draw her over and over. Again and again while I sit here alone, in a quiet so deafening I’m almost able to convince myself that I’m the last man on earth, which is new for me because I’m almost never alone.
Back home in Boston, I’m surrounded by people, almost 24/7. The noise is unbearable. It’s one of the reasons I left. My dumb ass thought that moving to the other side of the country for college would solve the problem. It took me about thirty seconds to realize that I am who I am wherever I go.
Except here.
Here, I’m James Bravebird, Damien’s asshole little brother. No one wants anything from me. Expects me to be someone I don’t know how to be. Wouldn’t want to be, even if I did.
I don’t know why you insist on wasting your talent on such a tasteless medium, Wentworth.
That’s what my mother said to me when I came home last year for my summer tattoo apprenticeship. We met for our annual dinner at my father’s restaurant at her insistence. I made the mistake of telling her that after graduation, I planned on returning to Boston and putting my business degree to use by opening my own tattoo shop. She laughed like I told her the funniest joke she ever heard until she realized I was actually serious.
“What about Hawthorne International?” She looks at me like I just told her I have a very terminal and very contagious disease.
“I can do both,” I tell her with a shrug. “The company is practically on auto-pilot. Aside from monthly meetings with the board of directors, there’s not much for me to do there, day-to-day. I need something to keep me busy.”
“You’re a Hawthorne and the CEO of a multi-billion-dollar hotel empire. You want busy? Buy a yacht.” She says it like I need a reminder. Like I might be too slow and stupid to understand the circumstances of my birth.
“I’m aware of who I am,” I tell her, suddenly weary of the whole conversation. “As such, I fail to see how I choose to spend my time is any of your concern.”
Now she looks at me like I just spit on her. “I’ll never understand what I did to you and your sister to deserve such embarrassment. She’s little more than a juvenile delinquent with a bottomless credit card, while you settle on tattooing people for a living, of all things. You’re a Hawthorne, for Christ’s sake. I don’t know why you insist on wasting your talent on such a tasteless medium, Wentworth.”
That was the last time I talked to her.
I understood, even while Delilah was telling me about our mother’s reaction to my current situation, that it wasn’t about protecting me. It was and always will be about protecting the Hawthorne name. The billions of dollars that rests beneath it.
If I’m found guilty of what Lexi’s accusing me of, even if it’s just in the court of public opinion, it will spell disaster for Hawthorne International which could put an end to the life of privilege and leisure she’s lived since the day she was born. Our mother may not love her children but she loves the money our grandparents left us in control of. As far as Astrid is concerned, it’s practically the same thing.
Sketchbook full and coffee cup empty, I head back inside. Tossing my portfolio on the counter, I rinse my cup and put it in the dishwasher. Checking the fridge without much hope, I’m surprised to find it almost completely stocked with everything from a basic variety of fruits and veggies. Bread and lunchmeat. Eggs and milk. There’s even bacon and a package of what looks like really nice ribeyes. Checking the cabinets, I find more basics. Peanut butter and coffee. Saltines and a few cans of soup.
Which explains why Kaitlyn was here last night. She brought me groceries like she promised. Feeling like an asshole for the way I’ve been acting, I slather a piece of bread with peanut butter and wrap it around a hastily peeled banana. Jamming it in my mouth, I wash it down with milk straight from the carton.