Page 12 of Sinful Skulls (Rebel Skull MC #9)

Chapter Eleven

Daisy

T he coffee maker is getting slower and slower, I swear. I’ve been scouring the internet for the past two days. Day and night. I don’t know how long I’ve been awake. My mind drifts to the final evening I fell asleep on Henry’s couch. Was that the last time I slept? I’m not sure.

I force him from my thoughts as my cup finishes filling.

I sit cross-legged on the bed and stare out the window. It looks hot out there. I wouldn’t know; I haven’t left the hotel since I arrived. My lids blink slowly, but I feel my heart beating fast in my chest. The headache I’ve been battling constantly digs behind my eyes.

I’ve managed to sift through all of my dad’s female students, and I think I know which one is my mother. She’s an artist in California. She even has her own gallery.

I open the laptop, my eyes blurry as I flip through her artwork again. There’s no denying it’s her. It’s not just the technique that’s similar to mine, but it’s also what she chooses to paint.

My fingers trace the ropes she’s painted over the woman’s skin. The way it dimples the flesh of her curves is exquisite. I wonder if my mother used a model, or does this image stem from her imagination alone like mine sometimes does?

No one was supposed to see my paintings … but if this is my mother, she’s more courageous than me. She doesn’t hide her dark side. Her paintings are a mixture of light and dark. She’s an amazing artist.

It just has to be her.

I fall back onto the mattress and force my eyes closed, but yet again sleep evades me.

Maybe I’ll call her. Yes, that’s what I’ll do.

I’ll be straight forward with her.

I have to.

Because if I don’t fall asleep soon, I think I might die from being awake too long. I wonder what the world record is for not sleeping.

I sit up to Google the answer and then count on my fingers. The world record is eleven days.

I’m still good.

My feet carry me around the room without any real destination. I’m pacing. I stop and look at her online gallery again. Danielle is her name. She’s married with two kids … I stare at an old family photo of them. She’s beautiful. I try to find myself in her, but I don’t see any similarities.

Hours pass as I sit on the bathroom counter, gazing at my reflection.

I try to sleep a few more times before finally giving in and calling her. She may be the only chance I have to rest.

When I call her studio, her husband answers.

I can tell right away he isn’t going to let me speak to her.

I mean, I understand why. I’m not making much sense at the moment, but I manage to get out that I know her science teacher was my father, and I believe her to be my mother.

I tell him why I’ve come to that conclusion.

Well, not exactly why, but I did tell him I painted in a similar style to hers.

He was quiet while he listened, and when I finished, he said he would return my call within twenty-four hours.

I’m hanging my head over the edge of the bed in an attempt to ease the ache at the base of my skull when my phone rings.

“Hello. It’s her, isn’t it?” I ask before even checking to see who it is.

Henry chuckles darkly on the other end of the line. “You’re looking for her,” he deduces quietly to himself. Or me, I’m not sure which.

I don’t say anything, but for some reason I remain on the line.

“I’m not angry with you, Daisy. I understand everything is a little overwhelming right now.” When I remain quiet, he continues, “Please come back to Paris.”

“No,” I whisper, glancing over my shoulder, fully expecting him to be behind me.

I jump at the sound of his voice over the receiver.

“I should have waited to tell you, but I was excited when you arrived,” he coaxes.

My stomach turns, questioning his excitement. Was it simply because I am family and we share a dark creative side, or was it more sinister than that?

He undressed me.

I bite my knuckles to keep from screaming.

“Okay. Okay,” he says, finally accepting my refusal. “If you change your mind …”

I cut him off. “I won’t.” My thumb presses the end call button.

The phone rings again. I answer it abruptly, pulling it to my face. “I’m never coming back!” I yell.

“Daisy? Daisy, are you okay?” It’s Anthony. The man married to my birth mother.

“I’m … I’m fine. I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Daisy, my wife and I would like to meet with you. Would you be interested in that?”

“Yes, oh god, yes!” I say, jumping from the bed. If she wants to meet me, she must be my mother.

“Daisy, I don’t want to get your hopes up. My wife is not your mother,” he admits bluntly.

I drop to the floor. No!

“We might be able to help you find her, though.”

When I remain quiet, he continues.

“Danielle is out of town for a few days, but she would like to meet you as soon as she returns.”

“Um, I’m in Reno. I don’t know how long I’ll be here.”

“I’ll pay for your room. Just stay where you’re at. Text me the name of the hotel and the address as soon as we end this call. We’ll be there Saturday at three.”

“If she’s not my mom, why are you coming?”

“Because we want to help.”

I pull my computer to my lap and flip through her paintings.

“Daisy, are you still there?” Anthony asks, pulling me from my thoughts.

“Yeah, I’m still here. I’ll see you then.” I hang up the phone, dropping it to the floor.

I’m pacing the room again when I begin to hear voices. They’re whispering. My fingers wrap around the skull ring that hangs from my necklace. I strain my ears and close my eyes, trying to focus on what the voices are saying.

Maybe I’m dying. No. I’m not dying. I’m just going crazy.

I begin to cry. I’m so fucking exhausted. I fall to the floor and hold my head in my hands. “I don’t know what to do. Please tell me what to do,” I plead while rocking myself.

The necklace around my neck comes undone, and the skull ring rolls across the floor. I pick up the necklace and wrap my hand around it.

The woman who gave it to me said it was a sign an angel was near.

An angel.

My dark angel.

Angels fight demons, don’t they?

I scoop up the ring and press it to my lips. The whispers are only getting louder and louder. I can’t take it anymore! I need help.

My hands shake as I sit on the bed, struggling with my phone.

Wait. I’ve already messaged him? Why don’t I remember that? I sent it two hours ago. I’m losing my mind.

Me: I’m in Reno. You’re not far from here, are you? Do you want to meet up for a drink?

A few seconds later, he returned my text.

Brody: Shoot me an address and I’ll be there in a couple of hours.

My knee bounces. Why did I ask him out for drinks?! God, I’m such a mess. I can’t go out.

Oh no. I even sent him my hotel information. I must be insane!

The whispers begin again, assuring me that I’m spot on with my self-diagnosis.

Again, his response was immediate.

Brody: See you soon.

He’ll be here soon. I put a chair in front of the alarm clock and sit down in front of it.

Okay, how much time do I have to pull myself together?

My body rocks back and forth as the red numbers morph into a language I can’t decode.

An hour? No, that wouldn’t be right. I sent him the message two hours ago. I blink, shaking my head.

My brain is playing tricks on me.

My frustration builds as I try to work out in my mind how long it will take him to get here. He said two hours.

So soon, right?

My dark angel will be here soon.

Someone knocks on the door.

Oh no! That’s too soon!