Page 8

Pearl

Anchor and his guys had peeled off not long after giving us the run of the place, back to wherever it was they met and talked in secret grunts and intense stares. Probably doing important club things. Or leaning against their bikes and looking like they were in the middle of a gritty photo shoot.

I stood with my hands on my hips, and my eyes scanned the haunted house fa?ade again. It was still intimidating in the daylight, though less terrifying and more rundown. The chipping paint, crooked shutters, and fake mold along the roofline gave it charm, in the same way a three-legged taxidermy cat might.

“You’re gonna have your hands full,”

Jake muttered, stepping up beside me.

“Speak for yourself,”

I shot back with a grin.

“You’re painting that whole south wall, remember?”

Jake snorted.

“Right. Forgot I agreed to a death sentence.”

Brian wandered over with a clipboard in hand and adjusted his ball cap.

“It’s not that bad. Structurally sound, at least.”

“Because that’s what matters in a haunted house,”

Molly added, smirking.

“People don’t care if it’s haunted, as long as the shingles don’t fall on their heads.”

Dad stood a few paces away, hands in his pockets, watching us with a quiet smile.

“You okay with us starting without you barking orders, old man?”

I asked, teasing.

He shrugged.

“I’m not the creative lead this time. This one’s all you, Pearl. You’ve got the vision.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d said it, but hearing it still hit a little different every time. Dad had built Brush Masters from the ground up, one house and building at a time. For him to step back and let me run a job this size was a big deal. Maybe even bigger than I’d let myself realize.

I looked around at the crew again. Jake and Brian were arguing about scaffolding already, Molly was snapping photos for reference, and Bernice… well, Bernice was perched on a crate like some kind of wise, retired owl.

At eighty years old, she’d been painting longer than the rest of us had been alive. She didn’t move fast, but when she painted, it was like watching someone write poetry with a brush.

“This place gives me the willies,”

Molly said as she pushed her sunglasses on top of her head.

“And those guys with the bikes? I don’t know, Pearl. They kinda scare me.”

“They kinda scare everyone,”

Jake said.

“But they’re also probably the reason no one messes with this place.”

“Or disappeared into the lake,”

Brian added, too cheerfully.

I gave them a look.

“Guys. Focus.”

“Oh, we’re focused,”

Jake said, nudging Brian.

“We’re focused on not getting shanked by a dude named Skull.”

“They’re not going to shank anyone,”

I muttered and ran my fingers along my braid.

“They’re just... intense.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now?”

Molly asked.

“Because that Anchor guy? He looked like he could bench press a car and still have enough left in him to glare someone into a coma.”

I ignored the tiny flip in my stomach at the mention of his name.

“Yeah, and he was looking at you like you were the damn sundae bar at a biker buffet,”

Bernice piped up from her seat, drawing everyone’s attention.

I turned. “What?”

“You heard me,”

she said, pulling a stick of gum from her pocket and unwrapped it with slow precision.

“That man looked at you like he was five seconds from licking whipped cream off your—”

“Bernice!”

She smirked and popped the gum in her mouth.

“Don’t get shy now, girl. I may be old, but my eyes still work. He wasn’t just being polite.”

I waved a hand like I could shoo her words away.

“The only reason he was talking to me is because he’s the guy in charge.”

“Prez,”

Bernice corrected.

Everyone looked at her.

I blinked.

“Wait. How do you know that?”

“Yeah,”

Brian said, crossing his arms.

“Since when do you know club lingo?”

Bernice shrugged.

“I’ve lived a few lives, sweetheart. And more than one of them involved leather, danger, and a whole lotta engine grease.”

Jake made a choking sound that was probably him trying not to laugh.

“Are you saying you dated a biker?”

Bernice didn’t answer. Just smirked and blew a bubble.

Molly looked equal parts horrified and impressed.

I rubbed my temples.

“Okay, can we focus, please? We’ve got two weeks, tops, to pull off a full redesign, outside and inside. I’ve got ideas, but it’s going to take all of us.”

Dad clapped his hands once.

“Alright, team. You heard the boss. Let’s get moving.”

Jake and Brian wandered off toward the supply truck to start unloading ladders and brushes. Molly headed for the porch with her camera. Bernice didn’t move. She never did until she was damn good and ready.

I stepped away from the group for a moment and took in the house again. Its creaking windows, warped siding, and looming rooflines. It really was amazing, in a decrepit, horror-movie sort of way. And if I let myself admit it… yeah, I kind of loved it.

And Anchor?

Damn it. I was still thinking about him.

The way he’d stood in the doorway of the cabin with his arms crossed over his broad chest and his eyes raking over me like he already knew what I looked like out of my clothes. He hadn’t been overly flirty. Just... confident. Quietly intense. The kind of man who didn’t need to talk a lot because the weight of him said enough.

And he was good-looking. Objectively, dangerously good-looking. With that short dark hair, the hard edge of his jawline, and the tattoos that disappeared beneath his shirt sleeves. The kind of man who could ruin your life and then offer to help clean up the mess afterward.

I wasn’t afraid of him, not exactly. If anything, I was afraid of how much I wanted him to look at me like that again.

But it didn’t matter. This was a job. A project. I was here to paint, not drool over the man running the show.

Still… Bernice wasn’t wrong. He had looked at me. And unless my radar was completely off, I wasn’t the only one feeling something.

I sighed, shook it off, and went to grab my sketchpad from the truck.

Time to work.