Rush (Gods #2)(37)

       
           



       

My dad was not happy when I told him. His exact words were, "That's fucking bullshit."

Then, he ranted a little, and I let him. Honestly, it's nice to see him  showing me that he cares about me even if it did take such a shitty  thing to happen for him to start doing so.

Do I want to drink?

More than anything.

I've had bad days, but I've handled them.

As well as painting, I've gotten back into my yoga. I let it slide a little when Ares and I started dating.

Now that I'm single … I'm reverting to life pre-Ares, just not as desperately pathetic.

Okay, it's a little pathetic. I've gotten reacquainted with my good buddy Netflix.

I've still got Dexter on there, waiting for me to watch the next  episode … but it wouldn't feel right, watching it without Ares sitting  here beside me. So, I removed it from my list.

Maybe, one day, I'll be able to watch it alone.

But that day isn't today-or anytime soon.

But I'm not being a total loser all the time. I've been spending a lot  of time with my dad. Okay, that is sad. But I think he's trying to make  things up to me, all his past failings, and I'm more than happy to let  him.

He's the only family I've got left.

I also spoke to Luke. He called and apologized for telling Ares what had really happened to me that night.

But I understood. He cares about me as a friend, and honestly, when you  don't have that many people who care about you, you hold on to the ones  you do have.

Ares cares about you, that annoying voice in my head whispers.

Yeah, well, if he did really care, then he would've believed me when I told him the truth.

And, now, I'm arguing with myself.

Great.

I push open the door to the art store. I've run out of a few oil colors and need to stock up.

I walk inside, smiling at the girl behind the counter. Her hair is long and dyed different colors, like unicorn hair.

It's cool.

Not that I'd ever have the balls to dye my hair like that.

I've just walked down the aisle where the oil paints I use are when I hear my name being called.

"Arianna Petrelli?"

I turn at the voice, and a smile breaks out on my face. "Declan Wiseman."

Dec and I used to go to art college together.

"How the hell are you doing?" he asks as he comes over to give me a hug.

"I'm good." I smile at him as I pull away.

"It's been how long since we last saw each other?"

The sad thing is, I can't actually remember the last time I saw him.  Because most of those years and the subsequent ones blend together.

"Too long," I say instead.

"Hey, you fancy having a coffee? There's a coffee shop a few doors down."

"I'd love that." I smile again. "Just let me grab these paints, and then I'm good."

I get what I need, and we head to the counter together. Dec pays for his  charcoals. He does charcoal drawings, and from my memory, they are  amazing.

I pay for my paints, and then we head out of the store together and take the short walk to the coffee shop.

We order coffees, and Dec insists on paying for mine. Then, we take a seat by the window.

"So, what are you up to nowadays?" Dec asks me. No hint that he's seen the news stories about me recently or earlier this year.

"I was working for a gallery there for a few years, but I, um … lost my  job … and … " I pick my coffee cup up, sipping it, delaying my words. Be  truthful, Ari. Stop hiding who you are. I put my cup down and look up at  him. "The truth is, I had a drinking problem, and I got in some trouble  earlier this year, as I had an accident while drunk-driving, so I had  to go into rehab, and I lost my job at the gallery."

Surprisingly, his expression doesn't change. "Shit," he says. "But you're doing okay now?"

"Yeah." I smile. It's a little forced because the reality is, I'm not  doing great. I have this huge hole in my chest where Ares used to be.  "I'm eight months sober."

"That's great," he says, smiling. "My older brother has been to rehab a few times. Opiate addiction," he explains.

"Is he okay now?" I ask sympathetically because I know it's hard for  those who deal with the addiction, but it's equally as hard for those  people's loved ones who have to watch them destroy themselves.

"He's four months clean at the moment. But my mom and I have been down  this road with him before. So, we're just hoping it sticks this time."

I nod, understanding.

"So, what are you doing for work at the moment?" he asks, sipping his coffee.                       
       
           



       

"I'm working for my dad."

"He coaches the Giants, right?"

"Yeah. I'm currently an assistant to the team."

"Sounds good."

"Not really." I shake my head. The guy I love is the quarterback, and  we're no longer together because he doesn't trust me. "I mean, it's a  job. But it's not what I want to do with my life."

"You want to paint?"

"Yeah … I mean, even just working back in a gallery would be amazing, but after the DUI, I can't get anyone to hire me."

"My mom has a gallery, you know."

"Wow. Really?"

"Yeah. It's fairly new. She opened it eighteen months ago, but it's  doing well, and she is always keen to showcase new talent. And she  doesn't discriminate against people with former addictions." He grins,  and I smile. "I can set you up with a meeting with her, show her your  portfolio, if you'd be interested?"

"Interested? Are you nuts?" I laugh. "It's taking everything to keep me  in my seat right now and not grab you and hug the hell out of you."

He laughs. "So, should I take that as a yes?"

I nod manically. "You can take that as a massively huge yes."





It's a bright, sunny afternoon as I walk along the sidewalk, heading for  Nuu Fine Art, my heavy portfolio bag carrying the two paintings I've  brought with me to show Dec's mom, Moira Wiseman.

After coffee with Dec yesterday, we exchanged numbers and went our  separate ways. I didn't expect to hear from him right away, but he  texted me later that day and said his mom would see me today.

Cue my freak out.

I'm dressed in a black shirtdress that sits just above my knees and has a  cute bow that ties at the neck. I've got cute beige-colored high-heeled  sandals on my feet. Makeup is natural, hair down and wavy.

I want to make a good impression.

I reach the building and stop outside to stare up at it.

It's a metal-and-glass-front building. Light and airy. Some of the works are visible from the window. Paintings and sculptures.

Taking a deep breath, I push the door open and walk inside. Soft music  is playing in the background. I walk up to the reception desk.

A pretty girl around my age with poker-straight, shoulder-length blonde  hair and striking blue eyes-which, for a moment, remind me of  Ares-smiles at me. "Hi, can I help you?" she asks.

"Yes. Hi. I'm here to see Moira Wiseman. My name is Arianna Petrelli. I have an appointment."

"Of course." She gives me a friendly smile. "Moira's expecting you. Follow me."

She comes out from around the reception desk and leads me through the  gallery, which is a hell of a lot bigger than I was expecting. She opens  a door, taking me into the back area, which has countless paintings  stacked up-some wrapped, some not. And maybe twenty varying sculptures  are all lined up, either waiting for delivery to a customer or ready to  go out for display, I'm guessing.

She reaches a door, knocks once, and opens it. "Moira, Arianna Petrelli is here to see you."

Moira Wiseman looks to be in her early fifties. She has short black hair and a strikingly attractive face.

She stands from her chair and comes around the desk, holding her hand  out to shake mine. "Arianna, it's so good to meet you. Declan has told  me all about you."

I don't worry or panic about what she knows about me because her older  son has his struggles, too, and Dec told me that she doesn't judge a  person. Only their work.

I slip my hand into hers and give it a firm but friendly shake, clutching my portfolio bag containing some of my paintings.

"It's good to meet you, too," I tell her.

"Would you like something to drink?" she asks me. "Coffee?"

"Coffee's great," I tell her.

"Ebony, could you bring us some coffee, please?" Moira addresses the girl from reception.

"Of course."

She closes the door, and Moira tells me to take a seat.

I lower my bag to the floor, leaning it against the chair beside me.

God, I'm so nervous that my insides are shaking, but I'm trying to exude  calmness on the outside. I'm not sure if I'm pulling it off though.

"Thank you for seeing me," I tell her.

"Oh, no problem at all." She waves me off. "Declan was raving about your  paintings, and he had me keen to see them. Only, I said to him, ‘If  this girl is so good, then why the hell didn't you tell me about her  before?'" She laughs, and I do, too. "Men, eh?" she adds, and I agree.