Page 14 of The Maverick (WaterFyre Rising #7)

CHAPTER TWELVE

VANESSA

I woke up the next day full of vigor. Usually, I’d have slept in on a Saturday, but curiosity burned in me.

I blamed it on the dream I had about my future fake husband.

It wasn’t the dream I expected. A fake marriage and a quick wedding had muddled my mind.

So my subconscious mind devised a sexy wedding night that could never happen.

I shivered as the vivid dream replayed in my head.

Attikus had been covered in edible paint, and I was the artist spreading it around his body with my hands, mouth, and tongue.

“Stop thinking about it.” I patted my cheeks, horrified at myself for thinking it was real. “It’s never going to happen. You’re just stressed, and you’re releasing it through a dream.” There had to be a psychological explanation for this. I’d find it later. “Coffee, my best friend. Where are you?”

Shoving the annoyance aside, I washed up, twisted my dark hair into a messy bun, and applied moisturizer to my face.

While the coffee brewed, I dressed in a cotton T-shirt I’d designed a while ago when I had more time on my hands.

It showed a little cute sprout with a smiling face, holding a sign that read The Beginning of Everything .

The soft T-shirt had been worn too many times.

It had two holes on the side seams. Paint splatter covered the once-white T-shirt.

I pulled on cotton pants that also had paint splatter—my outfit to wear when I needed time in my art studio.

Today was one of those days. I felt the call to paint—to release untamed emotions.

With my phone and coffee in tow, I slipped on my old sneakers, grabbed my keys, left my one-bedroom apartment, and walked down to the first floor.

I walked past three other art studios to reach mine, which was at the end of the hallway.

I unlocked my studio, which was the largest studio with three tall windows that allowed sufficient sunlight.

Lighting was essential to painting. My studio neighbor, Adam, was a sculptor by night and worked as a plumber by day.

Most artists had a day job to pay for their passions.

I was one of the fortunate few who could do it full time. But it wasn’t always like this.

What’s your true passion?

My love for painting had developed over time.

It had been an interest, a hobby I was good at.

But my passion had always been the world of plants.

I sipped my coffee, savored the flavor, and felt the caffeine energize me.

Today, the coffee was more of a comforting friend instead of an energizer.

The orgasm from last night was something I’d never experienced. It still hummed in me.

After sipping more coffee, I swiveled my chair to face the residential street full of parked cars.

A jogger strode by with his dog. An older woman walked with her friend across the street.

Life seemed simple for these people. If only mine were like that.

I prayed for a day when stress didn’t tug at me.

I’d steal a few minutes this morning to research Attikus Mount. What was his personality? What did he like or dislike? I had to know the man I was going to marry, right? Even if it wasn’t a real marriage, I had to know who I was attached to for the next few months.

Had he committed any crimes? What were his ex-girlfriends like? Where did he go to school? I typed in hisname, and to my surprise, there wasn’t a lot of information about him.

There were pictures of him at his museum and a few at a farm or warehouse full of plants.

The farm interested me. After reading the article on Healthy Horizon and checking out their website, I developed a newfound respect for him due to his innovative indoor and outdoor farming practices.

Most of the images were from the present day or a few years ago.

Nothing dating back to ten years or earlier. Why?

In almost all the pictures, he didn’t smile. I tried looking for pictures of him and his family, and nothing showed up. I couldn’t find Gigi or Ellen Mount. Maybe they had different last names. Who were these people? Were they frauds? Shit. Had I inserted myself into a fraudulent family?

My phone rang, yanking my attention away from the Mount family. My heart raced when The Women’s Facility flashed on my screen.

“Hi, M? !” Excitement filled my voice.

“Hi, baby. How are you?” Mom didn’t sound stressed.

Every time we spoke, we were careful with our words. Phone calls between my mom and her lawyer were the exception to being recorded.

“I’m well. Is everything okay with you?” I’d been so worried something horrific had happened to her.

“I’m okay. I saw on the news about that horrific event at the art gallery. Be careful.”

“I will. Don’t worry. The authorities are investigating.”

“Good. I can’t wait to see you. I miss the grilled pork bánh mì so much.”

Our secret code for the escape was bánh mì , which was a popular Vietnamese sub.

“I’ll buy you five of them. Rest up. You’ll get to enjoy them soon.”

“Are you sure? Don’t stress about it. We can just go out to eat to celebrate.”

“No stress at all, M?. ” My voice cracked. “I miss you too. I’m so sorry.”

“Stop,” she said firmly. Though my mother didn’t get to finish college, she was the smartest and strongest person I knew. I admired her perseverance. “You’re worth it. You have a beautiful life ahead of you. Make me proud.”

“I will.” We caught up for a few more minutes until her twenty minutes were up.

“I’ll visit you soon,” I said, even though she didn’t like me visiting her. She said prison wasn’t a place she wanted her daughter to be near.

I sat back, wiped the tears from my eyes, and gathered myself.

When my emotions settled, I took out the commission piece that needed a varnish. I smiled at Three Roads Diverged in a Dark Wood . I had taken this commission from the twenty I’d received because of the buyer’s concise description on the request form.

Something dark but offers hope. A crossroad that leads somewhere.

The description and the long delivery time made it an attractive option. I had over a year to create it and appreciated the extra time. Edgar Moore added nothing else, so I had free range to create something extraordinary from his description.

Three Roads Diverged in a Dark Wood was inspired by a poem I read in middle school by Robert Frost: The Road Not Taken .

In his poem, the person had two options to choose from.

In my painting, there were three options.

Why? Because aside from the lovely and ugly roads in front of me, there was also one that I created on my own.

The third road was a reality that came to fruition as a result of it.

No one presented it to me—that was the difference.

When I finished the varnish, I placed it inside a makeshift tent I created in the far corner of the studio. The tent kept the dust from falling onto the varnish.I’d send it off this week, and Edgar would pay the balance.

With this payment, I could fulfill the two million dollars to Leo Rossi, who owned the Bread and Butter restaurant in Boston.

I met him at a party when one of my clients offered me a ticket to an exclusive club.

I thought I’d network for more potential clients, but I overheard the two men discussing how to break someone out of prison.

The conversations at that club terrified me.

Crimes were negotiated and conducted there.

I was one of them when I hired Leo to extract my mom.

I’d driven up to Boston to visit him at his restaurant.

Did I fear he’d take my money and not help me?

Yes. So I took detailed notes about him and his restaurant in case something happened to me.

But Leo was my only hope. He’d sold me a believable plan.

Leo claimed he knew people in The Women’s Facility who could make the extraction go smoothly.

Research on The Women’s Facility revealed that three inmates had escaped successfully.

The information was swept under the rug.

He also claimed he knew someone from the media and the governor’s office who would help him keep everything out of the public eye.

Two million dollars was a lot of money, but I’d pay anything for my mother’s freedom. I also had to save up so we could move elsewhere to start over. Buy a house and live a simple life.

Feeling accomplished, I grabbed my sketchbook to brainstorm ideas for the First Lady.

I held my pencil and drew quick sketches, but none of them called to me.

I found a few pictures of Madeline Claude-Collins to inspire me, but I wasn’t in the mood.

Sometimes, art had its own mind. I couldn’t force it.

The most extraordinary art was usually created when it came naturally.

Putting the sketchbook down, I filled the water pitcher and watered the plants on the metal rack and windowsill.

If I had become a botanist or a horticulturist, I wouldn’t have made enough money to help my mom.

The salary couldn’t compare to what I could demand for my original art.

However, I worked for the American Horticultural Society, documenting data while painting on the side until my art sold well.

When Nessa Lambert became popular, Vanessa Lam stepped to the side.

I open the letter and jump with joy! Harvard University has offered me a full scholarship for my masters in their Botany Program. Tears stream down my face as I hold the letter to my chest.

M? is going to be thrilled! This is a huge financial relief for us. She doesn’t make a lot of money as the front desk receptionist for a hair salon. She also volunteers at local shelters. It’s been hard the past four years because I was in Maine for college and only came home during the summer.