Page 52 of King of Pain (Damaged Hearts #1)

You’re the Inspiration

Chance

The phone rings twice before Liz picks up.

“McDonald.”

“Liz, it’s Chance Sullivan.”

“Chance!” Her tone shifts from business to warmth instantly. “My brother told me you’d be calling. Said you’re looking to get into the art world.”

I chuckle, rubbing the back of my neck. “Yeah, something like that. He mentioned you might have an internship opportunity?”

“For you? Of course. I don’t take just anyone under my tutelage, but given you’re practically family and Murph’s colorful insistence that you’re stupidly fucking talented —his words exactly—I’d be happy to have you atMuse. I could use the help, honestly.”

Hearing her say that eases a little of the anxiety in my chest. “I really appreciate it.”

Liz hums on the other end. “So, when do I get to see your work?”

My stomach twists. Showing my work is…personal.It’s one thing to paint in solitude, another entirely to expose it to someone. Especially someone as respected as her.

Plus, Liz isn’t just a renowned gallery owner.

She’sMurph’s sister.She’s been part of The Doves family for as long as I can remember.

She was never a member, but was always looked after as one.

It was The Doves that relocated her here to get her away from themonstershe was married to.

I remember the night Murph got the call—how he went still, eyes dark with rage.

Three days later, Liz was here, starting over with a new life, a new business, and her now ex-husband was in traction for several months recovering from two broken legs. Message received.

She’s family.

And now,I’m about to let her see the part of me I’ve never let anyone except Murph see.

“I, uh, have a shipment arriving this afternoon,” I finally say. “Most of my pieces from the past few years. Maybe once I get them unpacked, you could stop by?”

“Perfect,” she says without hesitation. “We’ll set something up after you get settled in here at the gallery.”

A knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts.

“That might be them now,” I tell her.

“Go take care of your art. We’ll talk soon.”

We hang up, and I pull the door open to find two delivery guys standing there, clipboard in hand.

“Got a shipment for a Chance Sullivan?”

“That’s me,” I confirm, stepping aside. “Come on in. You can stack them in this room.”

I lead them through the condo, pointing to the empty space I cleared in the second bedroom. They move carefully, setting down the canvases with practiced ease. Once they finish, I sign the paperwork and thank them before shutting the door behind them.

This is it.

Exhaling, I pour myself a glass of whiskey and step into the spare room, slowly unwrapping each canvas.

And there he is.

Anthony.

Every single painting is ofhim.

His eyes, hazel with flecks of green. The curve of his lips, the intensity of his gaze. The way his strong body looks in the light. I painted everything I could remember, trying to hold onto what I was afraid might slip away.

For three years, the only thing I could paint washim. Three years of pouring my memories onto canvas, trying to capture the way hefelt.How much Imissed him.

How much Ilove him.

Every brushstroke, every shadow, every highlight. It was all Ant. It was what kept me sane. It was what kept me going.

My fingers trail over one of my favorites; the one of him sitting on our old couch, Guinness curled up in his lap, his head tilted back in laughter. I painted it from the image burned into my brain like a permanent tattoo.

I take a step back, letting my eyes sweep over the couple dozen variations of his face staring back at me. Maybe one day, I’ll work up the courage to show him.

Needing a distraction and deciding I’m hungry, I head to the kitchen and pull out a steak, letting it come to room temperature while I prep the rest. I heat a cast-iron skillet, adding a drizzle of oil, then season the steak generously with salt and pepper.

While it sears, I toss some broccoli in a separate pan with garlic, olive oil, and a pinch of red pepper flakes.

I flip the steak, watching the crust form, then lower the heat and add a pat of butter, some fresh thyme, and a smashed garlic clove.

Tilting the pan, I baste the steak in the melted butter, letting the aroma fill the kitchen.

Yeah, I picked up a thing or two watching Ant in the kitchen for months. How could I not watch him?

It turns out perfect—medium rare, just how I like it. I plate everything and pour myself a glass of wine.

But it’s missing something.

If Ant were here, he’d be in his element—probably making some kind of wild mushroom sauce for the steak, plating it like we were at a five-star restaurant. Instead of broccoli, he’d have made his risotto he knows I love.

The thought makes me ache.

I miss him so fucking much.

I grab my phone and look at his text from earlier today. He sent it five minutes after I had dropped him my address for tomorrow.

Ant: Right next to my office? Really? You’re going to explain yourself tomorrow, Sullivan.

I chuckle to myself, shaking my head.

He’s bringing Little G by tomorrow.

I’m a bundle of nervous energy, my excitement barely contained. After three years apart, I’ll finally get to spend time with both of them. The thought makes it impossible to sit still. Every nerve in my body is buzzing, anticipation thrumming under my skin like a live wire.

I already know I’m going to need to hit the gym first thing in the morning, if only to burn off some of this energy and keep myself from pacing a hole in the damn floor. Maybe if I exhaust myself enough, time won’t feel like it’s dragging.

But let’s be real—there’s no way in hell I’ll be able to think about anything else.

After cleaning up the kitchen, I settle onto the couch and flip on Vision Quest.

The second it starts, my mind drifts to that night—Ant’s excitement, his insistence, the way hewatched me while I experienced it for the first time.

I don’t even make it halfway before the wine kicks in and sleep claims me, thoughts of Ant woven through my dreams.

The rhythmic slap of my sneakers against the pavement keeps me steady as I push through the final city block of my run home from the gym.

The morning air is crisp, cooling the sweat slicking my skin as I near my building.

My mind should be blank, focused on my breathing—but it’s not. It’s focused on him.

He’ll be here soon. In my space. I’m done with parking lot conversations.

I’m so wound up I could barely focus at the gym. I powered through a brutal leg workout, did a zillion burpees, and still, it wasn’t enough to shake the nerves rattling in my chest.

I reach my condo building, bypassing the elevator entirely and opting for the stairs instead. I take the stairs two at a time, needing to work off the last bit of jitters before I see them.

Inside, I head straight for the fridge, grabbing a cold bottle of water and downing half of it in one go. The bottle sweats against my palm as I take a breath, rolling my shoulders.

This shouldn’t feel like the biggest moment of my life.

But it does.

I sigh, peeling off my shirt and tossing it onto a bar stool as I head toward my bedroom. I need a shower before they get—

A knock at the door stops me mid-step.

I frown, grabbing my phone off the counter.10:33 a.m.

He’s early.Nearly a half-hour early.

I make my way to the door and pull it open, my heart slamming against my ribs when I see him.

Ant.

Standing there, a leash in hand, Little G at his side.

His hazel eyes darken as they drag down my torso, lingering on the sweat still clinging to my skin. The heat in his gazeburnsthrough me.

“You did that on purpose,”he accuses, stepping inside.

I bite back a grin and crouch down instead, shifting my focus to Little G. “Hey, bud.”

He hesitates, his little brows pinched as he sniffs the air, unsure. I extend a hand, letting himfigure it out.It only takes a second before his nose twitches, his body tensing, unsure—

And then, heloses his damn mind.

High-pitched whines and wiggling andpure, unfiltered joyradiate from his body as he lunges forward, paws scrambling up my chest.

“Hi, buddy! Yes, I missed you too,” I laugh, catching him as he practically climbs me. His tongueattacksmy face, tail wagging so hard his entire body shakes. “So fucking much.”

I hold him closer, my throat tightening. Three years. Three years. And he still loves me like I never left. We really don’t deserve dogs.

I glance up at Ant, emotion thick in my voice. “Thank you.”

His expression softens. “You're welcome. I know you love him.”

I swallow thickly and stand, Little G still wiggling at my feet.

Ant's eyes drop back down to my torso.

I smirk. Oh, this will be fun.

“Now,” I ask, tilting my head, “what did I do on purpose?”

Ant blinks, dragging his gaze back up to mine. “You knew damn well what you were doing answering the door like—”

He gestures erratically at me, waving his hand up and down my body. “That.”

I chuckle. “Normally, I would take credit for that kind of move, and while I love having your eyes on me, this was purely innocent.”

Ant narrows his eyes. “Mmhmm.”

“By my calculations, Pacini, you were nearly half an hour early,” I say, reaching down to give Little G more scratches. “I just got back from the gym.”

Ant crosses his arms.“Fine. Whatever.But can you put a shirt on?”

I grin. “Actually, I'm all sweaty. Why don't you and Little G make yourselves at home, and I'll rinse off quick before I visit with him?”

Ant waves me off, barely suppressing a smile. “Yeah, okay.Go.”