Page 43 of Forgotten Comeback (Parisi Family #5)

Chapter

Forty-Two

Taylor

Gavin hasn’t called or texted since he stormed out, and I resist checking my phone again for like the hundredth time.

The paint shimmers on my canvas as I examine my work.

Huh. There’s something about the maid of honor I don’t like.

Examining her from several angles, I decide she’s not deranged enough.

A really cool idea pops into my mind. It’s either going to play out beautifully, or it will ruin the entire piece.

Grabbing a little scrub brush I use to clean paint from underneath my nails, hold my breath, and gently move the bristles down the maid of honor’s face. She’s now distorted, almost like her face is melting. It’s the closest thing to capturing what dissociation feels like.

Is this life imitating art?

Mentally, I check in with myself. Yes, I had a mini panic attack earlier, and yes, I’m still anxious, but who wouldn’t be after a mob boss threatens you? And Gavin’s disappeared doing…whatever the hell he’s doing.

Grabbing my phone, I send him a text.

What the hell is happening?

No response.

Please let me know you’re okay.

His silence does nothing to quell my anxiety. Gavin could easily take Fabio in a fair fight, but I know damn well that nothing about it would be fair.

Trying to put Gavin out of my mind, I snap a pic of my latest piece and upload it to social media.

The bride is hidden out of frame, only her veil fluttering in the foreground.

Her maid of honor levitates in the background, clutching a bouquet of dead roses, with ghastly figures circling above her like vultures waiting to pick her carcass.

“Maid of Dishonor,” by Taylor McKenna.

Pulling up my audiobook, I press play as I tidy up my workspace.

You’re going to sit in the corner and watch me eat Sister’s pussy because you’re such a bad boy. Aren’t you, Father?

The ferris wheel “incident” pops into my mind.

What if I miss women?

Then we’ll find out if I have a cluck kink.

“Seriously, no more of this book!” I lunge for my phone, turning it off.

Ignoring the tingling between my legs, I mentally lay out the case against Gavin. The man has brought nothing but disaster to my life.

And inspired me to paint again.

And gifted me the studio of my dreams.

And unlocked new kinks.

And makes me laugh.

And for better or worse, has brought excitement to my life.

“Ugh!” I fling a paintbrush in the sink, scrubbing the bristles a little too vigorously.

My phone lights up, and I dry off my hands before racing across the room to grab it. Not Gavin, but Kat.

Make that multiple messages from Kat.

What happened to you?

A guard told me you left…

Whoops, I’m a bit tipsy. Did you tell me bye? Cause I swear you didn’t tell me bye…

Oh my gosh, I just opened my gift! So amazing! I didn’t even know you were painting again. I’d love to have a portrait of me and my husband!

Rage bubbles in my chest, and my fingers pound out an angry response before I can check myself.

Your husband is a bigger psychopath than Dominic, and that’s saying something, considering your ex was going to rape me that night!

!!! The only reason Dominic didn’t is because Gavin saved me.

I’m not one of the family’s own, and I don’t fucking want to be.

No truth serum or other poisonous substances needed! !!!!!!!

Not waiting for her response, I toss my phone. “Arrrrrrrrrr!”

With my hands on top of my head, I walk a few laps around my studio to cool off. How Kat and I got here, damned if I know.

My phone notifies, and I tentatively cross the room, grabbing it. Kat’s sent a reply, but that’s not the message I open.

My girl’s worried about me. That’s sweet. All body parts accounted for, especially your favorite part, my…

With a ridiculous grin on my face, I fire off a text before Gavin can finish his.

Marry your dick already and be done with it.

He doesn’t reply, which is disappointing.

The realization hits me like a paint can to the side of the head. I’ve fucked around and caught feelings for this man—a man with more secrets than all the three-letter agencies combined.

My palm lands on my forehead. It’s true: I am more susceptible to fuckboy charm than I thought.

With a frustrated growl, I toss my phone and get back to cleaning my brushes. Everything is now in its place, I go to flip off the light, when my phone notifies.

Ignore it, I plead with myself, but of course I don’t listen. Drying my hands, I hustle over and grab my phone, my jaw falling to the floor.

Gavin’s sent a dick pick, with a bow tie around his length. On the pad of his index finger, he’s drawn a smiley face, with the tip of his finger covered in a tissue veil.

Speak now or forever hold your peace.