Wild at Heart (11 page)

“Jesus.” I exhaled sharply.

Arianna’s sympathetic green eyes bore into me. “Try not to take it too seriously. You know he’s just pushing a political agenda.”

“Yeah. At my expense.” I scanned the article, recognizing the reporter’s name as one of my father’s biggest supporters. His loyalty was surely purchased, and he was a devoted partisan of the McKinley camp. “God. Did you read this crap? He comes off as such a caring, devoted father. And I am made out to be some drug addict that broke his heart and endangered our family’s strong bond.”

I laughed. What else could I do? All of New York—and the entire country, for that matter—were reading lies about me spread by my own father. If I didn’t laugh, I’d cry, and I’d already done too much of that lately.

It is thanks to the Mayor’s devotion and support that his youngest daughter is now able to lead a healthy, fulfilling life. Miss McKinley is off to Harvard Law next semester…

“My life is a fucking joke.” Groaning, I chucked the paper across the room. “The good news is that now the rest of the world knows it, too.”

“We all have parental issues. Mind you, the worst mine have ever done was show my ex embarrassing baby photos.” She wrinkled her nose. “Sorry. I’m not making this better, am I?”

“It’s not your job to make it better.” I placed my hand on her arm and gave her a gentle squeeze. “It’s my job to live with it, I guess.”

My father had threatened that I would regret not participating in his campaign. If this was a warning shot, I hated to think of what was still to come.

“I was in rehab,” I said. “The things about my father searching high and low to find the best place for me are lies—he was livid when reports of my stay surfaced—but the stuff about my trouble—”

“Reagan, you don’t have to tell me anything.”

I nodded. “I know. But as my boss—”

“As your boss I know that you have one hell of an eye for talent. You’re also pretty damn good at making heads and tails of all those international contracts,” she said. “And as your friend, I really don’t give a shit.” The tension in my muscles eased as she added, “But if you need anything…”

“Thank you,” I said with a warm smile. “I’m doing okay.” It was a battle I was still fighting every day, but AA meetings and private sessions with my new therapist helped. Especially now, when it would’ve been so easy to go back to being the old Reagan.

“Good. Because, speaking as your boss again, I need you to take contracts over to our next artist later today.”

“Oh,” I said.
Oh, no.
Dare. “You don’t want to do it?”

“I wish, but I have a meeting and this can’t wait.” She grinned slyly, a mischievous twinkle appearing in her eyes as she winked. I felt my stomach turn. “God, Reagan.” She sighed dreamily. “You need to see his paintings to believe them! They’re like nothing I’ve laid eyes on before. The colors, the style, the
subjects
. The ARTIST.”

I knew all too well. I lived and breathed Dare’s art. Hell, I lived and breathed Dare.

I forced my lips to turn up even though it hurt to keep smiling. Despite our friendship and her obsession with Dare, I hadn’t been able to tell Arianna that I knew him. The wound from our last fight was too recent, too raw, and I feared I wouldn’t be able to handle all the questions she was bound to have.

“I need you to head over to his studio in Queens this afternoon,” she said as she handed me a manila folder. “If we’re going to put on this impromptu show, I need these forms signed ASAP.”

Shit.

Two weeks had passed since Dare and I last spoke. Two weeks of me
somehow
holding it together. Mostly by working twice as many hours as I was supposed to, and spending my nights researching the shit out of everything I could possibly think of to find another way to get rid of the threat of Dare’s dad.

I’d even called my father again and demanded he throw Daren back in jail. He’d had the audacity to laugh like it was a freaking joke, and said he’d made an offer and if I was willing to take it, I should let him know. Then he hung up on me.

I spent time in the library looking into cases where minors were charged as an accessory to a crime, and what I found wasn’t encouraging. Dare could be charged.

After I got home at night, I either helped Rex or went to group meetings, and ignored my parents’ calls for family campaign obligations.

I was doing fine—okay, that was a big, fat lie—but at least I wasn’t unraveling completely.

The last thing I needed right now was to actually see Dare. It was enough that I had to listen to Arianna gush about him. His unrivaled talent. The allure of his eyes. Things she would like to do to his body. That tortured, brooding artist vibe he exuded. Thanks to her—well, thanks to Dare—I was officially a tortured, brooding curator’s assistant.

I’d resisted the temptation to drown myself in the comfortable oblivions I knew pills and alcohol would bring. I constantly fought the itch that was always there, buzzing under my skin, teasing and inciting me on. It was a hell of a battle, but I was doing it. Slowly. Painfully.

Yes, I’d gotten sober for
us
, but I was staying sober for
me
.

Minute by minute. Hour by hour. Day by day.

However, I wasn’t sure if I had enough strength to see Dare and walk away. He wasn’t just a drug. He was my everything.

He didn’t know I was working at the gallery again, so I had a feeling my showing up was not going to be a welcome surprise. God, there was nothing about this that didn’t suck.

“You sure you don’t want to go?” I asked again, then forced the next words out. “I know how much you enjoyed your last visit.”

“It’s true.” Arianna giggled. “I did. And I wish I could, but I can’t miss this meeting.”

“Alright, fine.” I sighed. “I’ll do it.”

Even if it fucking killed me.

fourteen

“I
s this okay?” Liz asked for the hundredth time. “Am I okay?”

“Yes,” I said. “Just keep still. Everything is great.” It was the furthest thing from the truth. The painting was a fucking mess.

In fact, the entire two-hour session had been a pain in the ass.

She kept moving, readjusting her red dress and shifting position in front of the studio’s floor-to-ceiling windows, which messed with my continuity and lighting. If this had been a personal project instead of a commissioned job, I would’ve sent her packing long ago. But Rex had referred the family to me and they were well-paying clients, so I agreed to do a portrait of their twenty-something daughter.

This girl was my hardest subject to date. But that had a lot to do with the fact that I’d been overexerting myself. Mornings I was working under Rex’s guidance, and painting the portrait in the afternoons. My hands were pushed to the limit, constantly aching, but Rex was convinced that the more I used them, the better they would get. And though my style had changed, he believed it was a change for the better. In fact, I’d never seen him so worked up about my stuff before.

Still, I had yet to jump on the bandwagon.

Right now, I was kicking myself for all that time I spent in Amsterdam not painting. Here I was killing myself to paint, desperate to get back to where I was, frustrated as hell that everything hurt and nothing came out the way I wanted, and I couldn’t believe I’d wasted so much time.

“How’s the picture?” Liz shifted in her seat and smiled brightly. “Does it look pretty? Do
I
look pretty?”

I surveyed the canvas in front of me. Was she beautiful? Sure. Long brown hair, symmetrical facial features, toned body. But everything about her was unremarkable. Uninspiring.

Then again, I’d felt that way about everyone I’d painted since Ree.

Some artists never found their muse. Just like some people never knew true love. Somehow, I’d lucked into both and managed to fuck them up at once.

Being without Ree was like being forced to survive without a vital organ. She was my fucking heart. And now I was on life support again.

By my own doing.

Because of my father.

I needed to get my hands on the bastard. I’d been searching for Stanzi for weeks now and I was no closer than when I started.

“Did you hear what I just said?” The girl was speaking—
again
—drawing my attention back to her face. “Could we take a quick break?” she asked. “I need to freshen up my make-up.”

“Again?” The lighting was finally right.

“I feel all shiny and gross.”

“It’s fine. I can take the shine down.” She was pouting now, so I just shrugged. “Sure. Go ahead.” What the hell did I care?

As she disappeared into the back of the studio, I made my way to my workbench and swiped my phone off the counter, scanning my missed calls and most recent messages.

No Stanzi.

Fuck.

If I knew where the worm was hiding, I’d dig him out myself. But he’d always been a coward, which was probably the only reason he was still breathing.

I threw my phone down and turned toward the coffee pot, but a movement in the hall caught my attention. Liz had apparently lost her dress in the bathroom and was now in the process of removing her bra.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“I saw the paintings in your back room,” she said, slowly peeling off the straps as she continued to walk toward me. “I want you to do one of me. Just like that girl with the long, blonde hair. I want one exactly like that.”

My jaw tightened. She’d been snooping, had seen my paintings of Ree. The ones I’d kept from Arianna that were not going to be in the upcoming show. Opening a crate full of images of the girl you loved but couldn’t be with was one hell of a kick to the balls, so I did the only sane thing that I could think of and shoved them into the back room.

The last thing I needed right now was a nosy client dropping her underwear. A client whose daddy was paying for a
clothed
portrait.

“You need to put your dress back on,” I said. “I’m not going to paint you naked.”

She frowned. “Why not?”

“Because that’s not what I was hired to do.” I shrugged.

“Fine.” She stuck out her bottom lip as she stopped in front of me. “Then
I’m
hiring you. Make me look just like her.”

You can never be her
, I wanted to say. “I’m sorry. I’m not painting nudes at the moment.”

“What?” Her gray eyes narrowed. “Wait. Do you only paint the girls you sleep with?”

“Yeah.” I lied.

She arched an eyebrow. “So?”

“
No
.”

Clearly not used to people refusing her, she wove her fingers through the belt loop of my jeans and lowered herself onto her knees, a haughty grin playing across her lips. “I’ll pay you double what the blonde paid.”

Christ Almighty. What was her idea of currency?

I wrapped my fingers around her wrists and gently tugged her back up. “The
blonde
is my girlfriend,” I said. “And if she were here, she’d tell you to put on your fucking dress and go. Now.” At this point, I didn’t give a shit if I was going to lose the damn paycheck from her father. I just wanted her gone.

Too late. Just as I lifted Liz to her feet, the door of the studio swung wide open.

“Hello?” Ree walked inside, clutching a manila folder to her chest as she surveyed the loft. She froze, her mouth popping open before she quickly pressed her lips together. The pain in her eyes sliced through me like a sharp dagger.

Damn it.

“Oh, shit,” Liz said. Recognition flashed across her face as her hands sprang away from my pants. “It’s not what it looks like. I swear.”

Ree turned to me. “I think it’s exactly what it looks like,” she said coolly.

I didn’t correct her.

I was too pissed that she was standing in my studio. That she’d found out where I lived. That she was deliberately putting herself in danger because she was too fucking stubborn to stay out of it when I told her to.

And from the look on her face, she was just as pissed at me.

Yet even amidst all the chaos and anger, I could feel the hum between us, pulling us together time and time again.

A crazy, stupid love that might not be enough to save us this time around.

fifteen