That airborne feeling stops abruptly when I hit the pavement with a thud and my body starts creaming in protest. The screams are silent since I can’t make a sound past the low grunts that scrape up my raw, bloody throat and whistle past my bleeding, split lips.
After that phone call they were trying to get me to make—hence the state of my broken body since I refused till they gave me no choice—they hit me so hard that I screamed my throat raw and bleeding.
That’s not the problem I have, though, and certainly not why I’m praying for death even though I should be glad right now. I’m afraid and hurting right now because I know deep in my heart that Jared Lane is coming for me and I don’t want him to.
He can’t. I don’t want him to see me and look at me like I’m a traitor, because the truth is that I am a traitor and a liar and a fucking cheat and I deserve his scorn and whatever he throws at me.
I deserve that and worse after what I’ve done to the man I love and the rest of the Lane family. Well, the good side, at least.
Right now I would give just about anything to have a redo, because I would never have allowed myself to do the things I’ve done and lied that way if not to save myself.
I had a choice, but I made the wrong one, and now I’m lying in a dirty alley in the middle of New Orleans—bloody, broken, and possibly half dead, and all I can think about as my head starts pounding and I feel the weakness that has been trying to overcome me for hours, is that I would rather die here in this alley right now than see one minute of hurt and disappointment on Jared’s face.
I guess the Lord must finally be listening to me, because a minute after that prayer I feel something deep inside me swell and pop with a burst of pain, and then I’m floating into space, only half conscious when I hear the squealing tires and the sound of pounding feet.
I feel nothing at all when a set of arms lifts me and I hear yelling and cursing.
All I feel right now is peace and the sure certainty that I’m dying and I won’t ever have to deal with the fear and pain ever again.
My only regret would be never having told Jared Lane that he’s the first and only man I ever loved.
The light I see at the end of the tunnel is creeping closer, and the voices shouting around me are growing dimmer by the second.
I should probably try to fight so I can give Jared his message, but right now, as all the pain disappears and all I feel is peace, I can’t find the will to care.
~~~
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RED LOVE
Chapter One
The Metropolitan Museum of Art is my favorite place in the world, hands down. I love everything about it, from the steps at the entrance to the crowds of people vying to see the art.
I visit at least once a month without fail and never cease to be spellbound by everything all over again, nevermind how many times I’ve been. My favorite painting is Monet’s Sunflowers.
It’s the happiest painting I’ve ever seen, or at least, it makes me happy every time I see it.
My college professor despaired of my one-dimensional view of art the whole time he’d been cursed with me and my uninspired ass. He said my interpretation of art is skewed, flat, and altogether too happy when faced with a world of possibilities.
All I know is that I love creating something that is happy and colorful, something that brings joy to those who see it. And I love flowers.
Sue me.
It’s as I’m leaving that I make the quick decision to pop into the gift store, even though I know I won’t find the print I’ve been looking for. Every time I come here I’m disappointed. I never get my print of the Sunflowers.
Last year Mom had bought me a tote of the Water Lilies for Christmas. I don’t have the heart to tell her it’s not what I wanted, so I’d aaahhhed and held it aloft and then gone home and hung it from a hook to store extra brush rags.
“It’s a beauty, this one,” I hear from somewhere to my left.
I look back over my shoulder to see a man and what looks like Heidi Klum’s twin sister cooing about a dark blob that’s masquerading as art but is actually a one-way trip to depression. The guy is…hotter than hell, with black hair and a set of lips that make me wish I’d brought my sketchpad and pencils.
I no longer do that after the last time I’d lost track of time and been asked to leave at closing time. But, and I hate to say this, with the super love I have for landscapes, I want to do something with this man that will dominate the canvas.