Page 31 of Sinful as They Come (Sinful Trilogy #1)

“I don’t believe that.” He eyed me up and down again, his disgust with me looking like it was growing by the second. “Her boyfriend can’t be too happy with you. Especially after what you did to him last year.”

“What’s his name again?”

“You don’t remember the name of the boy you sent to the hospital? The quarterback of your school’s own football team?”

“I don’t really watch much football…”

“Yes, you, uh… paint ,” Joe carried on with amusement in his eyes. “I’m sure Holly thinks you’re very talented.”

It was obvious he thought my art didn’t mean shit. He wasn’t being subtle about that. But I was used to people thinking very little of me, anyway.

“I’m not fucking your daughter,” I told him bluntly. “If that’s what you’re afraid of.”

Joe blinked at me. He hadn’t been expecting that. “What did you just say to me?”

“You goin’ deaf over there, Pops?” I asked him lowly. “You worried I’m gonna corrupt your little princess or something? Who knows, maybe she’ll like it?”

“You little—” Joe started, but he quickly stopped thanks to Eric bellowing from the top of the stairs.

“Here you go, Sawyer!” Eric called out, waving a stack of money around in his hand. “Sorry for the wait! I also have that issue of The Chronicle. You should read the article! But thank you for coming over. Will you be selling any more of your pieces?”

“Maybe,” I muttered, wrapping my fingers around the crisp notes as I stuck the newspaper under my arm. Giving it a quick count to make sure he wasn’t ripping me off, I shoved the cash into my jeans pocket. Joe had cooled off, but I could still feel his eyes on me as I moved.

But I wasn’t afraid of him. My eyes stared right into his, and I took joy in the way he was scrutinizing me. I was everything he would have told Holly to stay away from. I was the criminal. The bad boy. The troublemaker. Sawyer Westbrook was bad news.

“Guess I’ll see Holly tomorrow at school,” I said to Joe with a crooked grin. “Can’t wait.” I gave him a wink before turning around and leaving.

I got my cash. Good.

But most importantly, I made my point.

***

Brodie wasn’t home when I got back. Dad was gone as well – probably out getting drunk somewhere. Either way, I was thankful I could finally get some rest.

I tossed the newspaper on to my bedside table, kicked my shoes off, made sure my cash was hidden away in my box, and quickly slumped into bed with a loud sigh. There was no way I could tell my dad about the money. He’d spent it in an hour – and not on rent and food and bills.

Letting out a sharp breath, the bright yellow papers to my side caught my attention. Holly’s newspaper. I still hadn’t read that article about me. She must have written some good shit, because I somehow managed to get a sale.

My tongue clicked. I didn’t want to read it. I didn’t want to care about what Holly had to say about me. But I snatched the school paper off my table and flicked through a few pages until I saw my name. I saw a clear photo of my painting with a few paragraphs below it.

Sawyer Westbrook knows how to make faraway lands feel close.

He erases that distance. His work makes you feel the heat: you feel the sun and the warm air and the dry land.

It’s everything. The best thing about Westbrook’s work is how easily it takes you away.

There’s a spark there. The warm colors, the brightness, the vibrant elements: they all come together to create a piece that feels oh so special .

Westbrook creates a lot of pieces like this. It’s the kind of art that makes you feel like you’re right there, getting lost in endless hills and an afternoon sun that never ends. He captures nature at its best: an unstoppable force that’s always there to bring you comfort.

Britton High has a lot of artists - but Westbrook often takes the cake as our best and brightest. His works captures the true beauty of nature, of a world that can often feel so far away these days with our busy lives.

But Westbrook goes against the grain and gives audiences what they truly want.

We feel the force of his work: whether he’s painting an endless blue sky or a quiet, untouched farm at the corner of the earth.

It’s safe to say that he knows what he’s doing when he gets a paint brush in his hand, and that art class at Britton High is only the beginning for him.

The future is bright for Sawyer Westbrook. Just like his paintings.

I couldn’t help it when I smiled. It was a wide smile that I should have had some fucking self-control over.

But I had never heard anyone say something so damn nice about my art.

It was the nicest thing anyone had said about me fucking ever .

I had been expecting something bitter on Holly’s part.

She hated me so much that I thought I’d be able to feel it through her words.

But no. It was the opposite. Not many people had showed me compassion in my lifetime. I had wound after wound that hadn’t quite healed and probably never would. I was used to being seen as nothing as trailer park trash – as some liked to put it.

But Holly had written about me like I was a real artist. Like she believed in me, like she thought I could get somewhere. And I already had a sale thanks to her. Six hundred bucks. It was a week’s work for some people. But that was my rent and food money right there.

I read the article again and my smile didn’t go away. Jesus, how the hell did Holly Sutton have the power to make me grin without her even being in the same room as me? There was a stupid, fluttering feeling in my chest that I quickly pushed away as I forced myself to my feet.

It was just an article. Just some stupid words.

She probably wrote nice shit about everyone.

I quickly flicked through the other pages and took in the other articles she had written.

Maybe I was too cocky for my own good, but I could have sworn Holly had reserved her sweetest words for me and my art.

I heard the front door slam open and I knew instantly that it was my dad. I shut my eyes and sighed; the moment had been quickly ruined.

“You home?” he grumbled.

“Yeah!” I called out to him. “What do you want?”

“Nothing. Was just hoping you weren’t fucking here!”

“Asshole,” I muttered.

I carefully ripped the article about me out of The Chronicle and folded it up as neatly as I could.

Then I yanked the metal box from under my bed and flipped open the lid.

I laid the piece of paper in there carefully – right next to the photo of my mom.

If Brodie ever found out what I had done, I’d deny it.

But until then… I’d keep that bright yellow piece of paper right there with my other precious things.