Page 21 of One Bad Knight
A redhead who’d gone overboard with the lip fillers chimed in. “He’s hot in that blue-collar kind of way, where you know he’d throw you around and lick you in places none of our husbands would be willing.”
My spine stiffened. My brain and body warred with the thought of him doing those things to one of these women, tumbled in with the fantasy of him doing those things to me. I couldn’t even pretend with the judge anymore, but he had plenty of others nodding and smiling at his tale.
Fantasies aside, I hated how they cheapened Gatsby to some sex object to be used. But that’s how the people in these circles were. They pasted on shiny smiles until they could find out what you could do for them. This was the world my family on my father’s side had been entrenched in for generations, but sometimes it almost physically hurt to be at these things.
My father said my mother loved the parties, but I mainly had memories of her retreating to the kitchen with the caterers, kicking off her heels, and sharing bits of naan or milk chocolate pieces with me while I sat in her lap.
Jacinda scoffed. “Of course, he only has eyes for the young girl who looks like a Victoria’s Secret model. Though she fancies herself some kind of artist, playing with paints like she’s Picasso. I don’t know why John has indulged her this long. She could at least use her looks to help further his cause instead of finger painting all day long.”
I stiffened when I realized they were talking about me. My eyes flew back to the judge, pretending to be engrossed again though I couldn’t hear a word he was saying now.
The redhead said, “She’s young and beautiful like one of the little knobby-kneed fillies we breed, butIcould teach him things. Things that would make his toes curl, and hump like a beast.”
Unable to take another second, I walked away to get out of earshot. The way they wanted to tear into Gatsby reminded me of a bunch of horny hyenas.
A sick feeling churned in my stomach as their words still followed me. It was true that I’d been approached to do modeling many times, but I far preferred to be behind a canvas in my own world than in front of a camera without my clothes on.
Those women didn’t know me. I wasn’t finger painting; I had my own gallery show tomorrow.
Still, the imposter syndrome began to snake into my being, infiltrating me with doubt.
Who did I think I was to make art and show it off like I was something? Everyone here thought I was a childish joke.
I’d already known what people thought of me, but hearing it made it even harder to escape.
I looked up and found Gatsby’s gaze lasered in on me. He looked at me like he knew. Like he knew the awful things I’d just heard and how desperately lonely it made me. Like he knew I was holding on by a mere thread in a crowd of people who suspected nothing.
The intensity in his eyes cut through the air. It said, I know you are about to fall, but I will catch you and take you away from anything that causes you pain.
It ripped the breath right out of my chest to have my most private torture seen. The ache in my heart doubled.
From the opposite side of the Garden, Gatsby was a magnet. Only he and I could feel the understanding pulsating in the space between. It felt like someone would notice at any moment, but the people around us continued to drink and chat without any concept that the man across the party was rocking my entire foundation simply by seeing me.
It was powerful, addictive, and it took everything in me not to run into his arms and let him take me away from everything. Even myself. Turning my gaze down to the bright pink tulips lining the path, I took in a deep breath, forcing the urge to pass.
When I looked up, Gatsby was gone. Disappeared again. The ache in my belly yawned open, threatening to swallow me.
God, I really was a dumb little helpless girl.
My therapist was going to have a heyday with this one.
But I wouldn’t be sharing this. My emotion choked out logic like a WWE wrestler. It was as secret and special as that box that still sat hidden under my bed. I truly had reverted to that romantic little girl who fell for the boy outside her window.
Now the question was, would he show up outside my window again tonight?
9
Gatsby
It would be so easy to cut her throat. To let the warmth of her blood slip over my hands like it had so many times before.
The thought instantly made me ill. I was a sick, twisted bastard.
Kat’s champagne-colored silk chemise rode up, revealing her taut stomach, making my mouth water and my fists clench. Her dark hair fanned against the pristine white pillow.
Did something sick inside me want to kill the thing I wanted most of all? Or did I fear that someone or something else could so easily infiltrate her bedroom, melt into the shadows like I had, and take her from this world?
Arm raised over her head, Kat’s eyes were tensed around the corners, even in sleep. The same expression of concentration when she was in her studio. Not the moments when she was furiously painting. No, this was the expression she wore when she stared at her canvas for hours without lifting a finger, listening to her music on those absurdly big, pink headphones with cat ears. What I would give to know what she listened to in those moments as she created images in her mind that would transfer to her fingertips.