The buzz of the evening doesn’t wear off for hours, and I keep on sketching until just before two. I’d had enough foresight to pick up an extra canvas, so I’ll do all the early work at home and only take it to his creepy bedroom when I have to. I just need to make sure Ava doesn’t come across it while it’s still here; that would be awkward, in the extreme.
In the morning, I hide the sketches in the bottom drawer of my dresser and delete my internet history, just in case.
As I arrive at the colonnaded monument to the absurd, butterflies start in my stomach. Please don’t let me see Kelso. Or at very least don’t let me see him alone. I’m here to paint as fast as I can and collect my money.
The workmen have left the front door ajar, and I tiptoe into the entrance lobby. My canvas is still propped on the easel off to the side. Good, no one has moved my stuff. I like everything to be organized in a certain way.
I’ve decided on an ancient Greek temple scene for the lobby, to echo the columns on this oversized house. Except I’m depicting the temple as it stands today: in ruins. Will the irony be lost on Kelso? Probably.
Using the image of the temple that Gordon printed out for me, I go over it one last time with my pencil. My goal is to crank out one of these paintings a week, and it’s already Wednesday so this one is late. Though, to be fair, I didn’t get much done Monday or Tuesday because of Kelso.
It’s nearly ten and I still haven’t seen any sign of another person. Which suits me just fine.
Enough with the sketching, I decide it’s time to slap some paint on this canvas. The dollar amount hits me once again: five-whole-thousand dollars for this one painting! The mere thought brightens my mood, and I hum as I go about getting my paints laid out.
The doorbell rings, though the door is still ajar. I ignore it and carry on preparing my paints. Kelso will no doubt appear, and with any luck he’ll be too busy answering the door to hassle me.
A few moments pass and no one comes. Should I answer it? I wouldn’t know what to say to the kind of person who would want to come here.
A few seconds later, there’s a firm knocking, which pushes the ajar door all the way open. My mouth drops.
Lawson stands in the doorframe, dressed in a dark blue suit tailored to his muscular frame. Wow. For a moment I forget about the oppression of the workers that the suit represents and enjoy the view. He looks seriously hot, made hotter by the fact that I know underneath the material is all that ink.
His brow furrows and he looks at me sideways. He appears as confused as I am.
“Hi,” I say, half greeting, half questioning.
“What are you doing here?” he snaps.
“Yeah, I’m wondering the same.”
“Why are you here?”
“Nice to see you too.”
“Huh?”
“It’s what you usually say when you run into someone?”
Lawson peers around, but no one else has come.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says in a hushed tone, walking toward me.
“I’ve been commissioned to create paintings for Kelso Wilson.” I take a step back, my hands on my hips.
“Kelso Wilson is scum. You need to stay away from him.”
“I’m here to do a job. An artist job for good money, plus a funded gallery show.”
“So?”
“So, this is what I want to do! It’s been my dream since I was five years old.”
“Kelso is nothing but trouble.”
“How do you know that? How do you know him? What are you even doing here?”
He holds my gaze with his and says, “He used to be my business partner.”
My arms drop to my sides while I struggle to understand what he said. I give up and say, “I don’t understand.”
“We were business partners. I’m Lawson Heywood.” When he utters his name an explosion goes off in my head.
Lawson Heywood. Of the worldwide hotel chain Heywoods. Even I know that.
A rich bastard.
Fuck.
And I trash-talked the rich right to his face. Repeatedly. Mortified, my cheeks burn and my stomach twists. I step backwards, knocking over my paints. The crash echoes around the entrance hall.
Spilled Paint
(Lawson)
I reach out to steady Skye. My hands grab her elbows, and I hold her firmly.
This wasn’t the way I wanted to tell her I’m one of these horrible rich people she seems to hate so much.
When I arrived here this morning, she was the absolute last person I expected to find in Kelso’s half-finished house. The asshole can’t even finish his own house on time. I’ll be sure to point that out to him.
Right now, I need to figure out a way to convince Skye to leave. I know Kelso, he won’t keep his hands off her for long, whether he has her consent or not. Not that any of his antics would ever make it into the newspapers; he must’ve spent more money in buying women’s silence than he has on this house.