Phoenix (The Colton Cousins Book 1)

by Rebecca Rennick

  “Here, you can use these, too.” I hand it to her, and she looks through it.

  “I also have plenty of colored pencils, pens, and paint if you’re interested.”

  She pulls out one pencil and rolls it between her fingers, those blue eyes sparkling like ocean diamonds. I wonder what she would create given the time and materials. I’ll have to buy her a large canvas and paint. I want to see what she would create.

  “Thank you, Nix.” She breathlessly, not even looking at me but still inspecting the pouch of drawing utensils like a sack of gold she just found at the end of a rainbow.

  “You’re welcome.” The sound of my name on her lips in that husky tone has my body responding to her—in more ways than one. I want to hear her moan my name in my ear as I sink deep inside her. Focus Nix. You can’t have her. Remember your rule. Remember the consequences. Scolding myself to stop daydreaming about Clover and her sweet, sweet body, I snap myself out of it.

  Grabbing one of my favorite sketchbooks and a box of my usual pencils and pens, I start back toward the living room.

  “Come on. I’ll sketch with you.”

  We return to the couches in the warm sunshine. I have to keep my mind occupied. If I don’t, it’ll wander back to Clover and her naked underneath me.

  I need to sit down before the boner in my pants grows large enough to poke out an eye. And that’s about half a second from now because these pants leave nothing to the imagination, and I’m not exactly lacking in that big dick department.

  Quickly, I claim a seat on the couch, and Clover claims the large armchair across from me. I place the sketchbook on my lap to hide my still growing tree branch in my pants. Then I watch Clover curl her legs under her and open the book. Then she does something only a true artist would do and holds the paper to her face and takes in a large inhale. The smell of fresh paper is intoxicating to an artist. The old notebook has been discarded on the table—completely forgotten as she chooses her weapon from the fully loaded arsenal I have just armed her with.

  Completely ignoring me, she sets to work, all her focus on the paper in front of her. Watching her is mesmerizing. The intense focus and concentration. She’s in her own world. A world I’ve been to before, I know it well—for a few minutes, I simply watch her in silence. She doesn’t even notice me. But I notice her, everything about her. The way she twirls the pencil in her right hand as she sketches loosely with her left. The way her knees are drawn up, and the pad is propped against them, so I can’t see what she’s drawing, but I know it’s the sunflower girl from before.

  The way the sunshine illuminates her red hair and sets it on fire. And like Clover, I’ve now been inspired to draw. Her. I need to draw her. So, I do. Turning to a blank page in my sketchbook, I grab a pencil and a well worn-down eraser. I draw her as I see her. Three-quarter view, chin tilted down, eyes down turned to her paper. I draw nothing below her neck, just her face. The slight roundness of her cheeks, the plumpness of her cupids bow lips, and the extreme focus of her eyes. Her long silky hair drapes around her, and she has pulled it all to her right side, giving me a perfect view of her from across the small space.

  Never before have I possessed the urge to sit and stare at someone. Not one of the women I’d been with before incited such a desire. Nor had they inspired me to draw them. Not one possessed the raw beauty Clover does. I find myself taking my time when I get to her freckles. Placing every single one matching exactly to her face. They’re prominent on her cheeks and nose and the cutest damn thing I’ve ever seen.

  When I look up to check the placement, I just stop—pencil hovering over the paper at the ready. Clover has turned her face toward the sunlight streaming in through the window. Her eyes closed, and a small smile crosses her lips. She’s absorbing its warmth—I can see it sink into her—directly into her soul. This sight of her soaks into my goddamn soul. This girl, this woman, is so much more than I ever expected her to be. She’s breathtaking—I can’t move. I fear the moment I move, this frozen moment in time will disappear. I rarely feel so relaxed and calm. My life is filled with chaos and violence, not peace and tranquility. It’s not something my world produces. To feel it is almost foreign. I embrace it and let it fill me. Taking in as much of it as I can. It’s more addictive to me than drugs and vastly more difficult to obtain.

  Eventually, the moment does pass, and she returns to her drawing, and I return to mine. Solidifying her face in my mind and in my soul. Someday, maybe she’ll allow me to paint her more fully. Not fucking likely. That would mean letting her in and her letting me in. And that’ll never fucking happen.

  After what has to be hours, my stomach grumbles loudly. I never ate breakfast, and now it’s almost lunchtime. Shit. The sound attracts Clover’s attention. She looks at me as if she had no idea I’d been sitting here the entire time.

  “Oh my god, I’m sorry. I must have gotten distracted.”

  “It’s no problem. Can I see?” I nod toward her paper. She hesitates and looks from the book she clutches to me and back to the book, deciding if she should. She bites her bottom lip, and I think she’s actually going to tell me no. There’s no way she could be shy. Her work is amazing. And she walks around the house in panties that leave very fucking little to the imagination. Trust me when I say I have imagined a lot about what’s under those cotton cock blockers.

  “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” I offer without even a hint of sarcasm or sexual innuendo. I’m actually quite proud of myself for that one. She looks at me quizzically, and eventually, her curiosity wins out, and she nods.

  “Fine. But your first.”

  “Tough negotiator.”

  Leaning forward, I open my sketchbook to a page, not the one of her face but of a drawing I did the other day. I hold it out for her to see. It’s a profile view of a naked woman crouched down with dark feathered angel wings protruding from her back. Bandages are wrapped around her breasts, arms, and legs, falling to the ground along with feathers from her wings. She’s morbid but beautiful. You can’t see her face as it’s hidden behind her long limp hair.

  “Wow, it’s so…vulnerable.”

  “Vulnerable? That’s not what I expected you to say.”

  “Well, it is. Whether you want it to be or not.” She says to me, matter-of-factly. Leaving no room for argument. I wonder what she would say if she saw what I had really been drawing. Clearing my throat, I redirect the attention back to her.

  “Now yours.”

  Reluctantly at first, she hands me her book. She was drawing the sunflower girl, only now there isn’t just one flower but a bunch engulfing the entire left side of her head. Melting out of them, honey drips down her face as furry bumblebees hover around and crawl on her. More honey drips from her mouth like blood—the calm expression in her eyes, almost the acceptance of death by sweetness.

  “She’s beautiful,” It’s all I can say. Because she is. Her quiet acceptance is beautiful. “You should draw more often.”

  “I would love to, but it doesn’t exactly pay the bills.”

  “It can. My art pays mine.” She side-eyes me incredulously. “Okay, partially. Art can be a more profitable profession than you think thanks to the internet.”

  “You kind of need a computer to access the internet—you saw the extent of my art supplies. Can’t get very far with that.”

  She has a point. I haven’t seen her with any kind of electronic device either, other than that cheap ass pre-paid cellphone. A grocery store sketchbook and number two pencil aren’t going to allow her the ability to create her best work. Perhaps I could help her with that. I have plenty of money and art supplies. Maybe I could get her a laptop and a nice camera. Wait, what the hell am I saying? Why the fuck would I buy this chick electronics? She hasn’t even so much as jerked me off. What do I owe her? Nothing, that’s what.

  But I can’t help but want to see more of her art. Letting her use my supplies isn’t anything special. I’m not buying her anything, just letting her use wha
t’s already here. Like, letting her use the gym or the pool table. Yeah, that’s all it is.

  “Well, it was just a thought.” I offer.

  “It’s a fantasy.”

  Chapter 14

  Phoenix

  I need to tell Clover about the families and the Syndicate, but I have no idea how to bring that up in conversation. We had such a good morning sketching and talking about art. Once we realized how long we’d been sitting, thanks to my stomach, we made some eggs, bacon, and toast. We now sit at the table with pieces of leftovers on our plates and Clover’s nose back in her new sketchbook.

  She’s taken my fine point marker pens and is inking her sketch. Making the lines solid, both thin and thick with tiny dots for shading creating dimension to the honeybee girl. I don’t return to my sketch because she would be able to see it from this close and notice that I was really drawing her this morning. Fuck if I’m going to admit she’s the first girl I ever wanted to draw. The taunting would never end with her. She would even tell all my cousins, I know she would, just for a good laugh.

  “Good afternoon, lady and gent. What are y’all up to today?” Beau greets us as he enters the kitchen with a little pep in his step. He seems awfully chipper today. Maybe one of us in this house is getting laid. Good for him.

  “Sketching. Nix gave me this amazing sketchbook and pencils.” Clover’s voice almost as chipper as Beau’s. She hops up and almost skips over to Beau to show him her drawing. I had to negotiate to see it, and the little shit is just willingly revealing it to him. An unwanted tinge of jealousy for my cousin spikes through me—I want her to be as excited to show me her work.

  “He did, did he?” Beau looks at me with raised brows. I scowl in response.

  “Don’t read too much into it.”

  He doesn’t believe me, and I can tell by his twisted lips and squinted eyes that he is going to read into it and possibly give me shit over it later. But he lets it go as he studies her piece.

  “Wow, Clover. This is astonishing. You had told me you were an artist, but you never showed me any of your work. Well, other than your tattoo. You’re spectacular.”

  “No, I’m not.” She’s full of modesty and shyness with him. A sweet rosy pink flushes her cheeks. Her chipmunk cheeks. What is it with this girl and her cheeks? They’re so enticing. One I want to squeeze and bite, the other I want to caress and kiss. And vice versa. Dammit, Nix, focus.

  “Yes, you are Clover. This is obvious proof.”

  “I keep telling her she has talent. She won’t listen to me.” I say off hand.

  “Most people don’t listen to you anyway, Nix, so it shouldn’t be anything new.” He teases. He knows people listen to me. He knows they respect me. I am no minor figure. I may not be the one being groomed for the next council position, but I am a leader in our family.

  Beau and Clover chit-chat while he makes his lunch. He joins us at the table while he eats. This is the first time all three of us have hung out. I don’t say much. I don’t do domesticity. My mornings with Clover are the closest I’ve ever gotten to it after moving out on my own. Beau finishes eating within thirty minutes and cleans up his plate.

  “All right, kids, I gotta go. Seb needs some extra help at the shop today. Working on some new cars for the James’. Nix, can you give Clover a ride to work tonight?”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  “Thanks, cuz, see ya later.” Beau kisses Clover’s cheek and heads out through the garage.

  “Who’s Seb?”

  “Sebastian. Beau’s younger brother. He manages the auto body shop.”

  “And James?”

  James. One of the Syndicate families. This is exactly what I was looking for to tell her about them. Unintentionally, Beau gave me the opening I need.

  “The James’s. It’s a last name, not a first name. They are one of six families that create the Syndicate. My family, the Colton’s are one, as well,” I begin.

  “Oh. So that’s the illegal side of your businesses? The stuff Beau told me about.”

  “Yeah. Each of the six families has its specialty, so to speak. My family specializes in security, delivery, and customized vehicles.” Resting my elbows on the table, I lean closer, intentionally trying to get closer to Clover.

  “Like the delivery, you were on the other night? When you got stabbed?” She asks, eyes wide and pupils dilating.

  “Yes, we deliver the drugs to the dealers. We don’t make it and only seldomly sell it. The James family deals with weapons. They’re a little crazy, intense and close-knit. They can come off as aggressive, a little trigger-happy sometimes. They’re not all that bad, but don’t let that fool you into thinking they’re harmless. The cars Beau is going to customize are for the moving of weapons and protection. Meaning hidden compartments for the guns, bulletproof glass, and Kevlar lined doors.” I watch her closely as she fidgets with her hands and purses her lips together.

  “You still with me, sweet cheeks?”

  “Yeah. I’m good. Go on.”

  Good, she’s not too freaked out yet. Not running and screaming out the door, so maybe she does understand. After her show at the bar with the shotgun and her apparent ability to stitch up wounds, it’s not completely surprising that she is okay with all of this.

  “Good. The next family is the Kingsleys. They create forgeries, fake IDs, legal documents, birth certificates, etc. They could create a whole new identity for a person, including medical history, school records, and no one would know the fucking difference from the real thing. Then there’s the McKinneys, fuckin’ hippies—growing weed on their farms and living on their land like a commune. They also grow the coca plants needed to make our cocaine. They don’t get involved with many of the other branches of the Syndicate. They like to keep to themselves. Grow their herb and smoke it too. We handle everything else through another one of the families and us. After them is the Smith family. I know fucking generic, right? They like it that way. When they entered the Syndicate decades ago, they changed it. Wanting to be more autonomous. They’re kinda anti-social, working with computers and hacking shit. Personally, I think they are the most important family in the Syndicate.”

  “Why?” she asks. Honestly curious. It had looked like her eyes were glazed over, but she was listening intently the whole time.

  “Because they monitor the police and feds. Making sure we stay off their radar. And if we do pop up, they make sure to make us disappear—any digital trace of evidence gone. If there are any people involved, they contact the council, and the council decides what should be done with them. Sometimes it’s easy, sometimes it’s not so easy. Sometimes it’s messy.” I watch closely to see her reaction to hearing about the violence that comes with the territory. She seems pensive but still focused on me. Still present. So, I continue.

  “They also play the stock market, generating a lot of cash for the Syndicate. It’s very useful.”

  “So far, it doesn’t sound too bad. Simply businessmen in a less than legal industry. Nothing wrong with that.” It sounds like she’s trying to rationalize our businesses—rationalize the violence and blood lust that she doesn’t even know about yet. Everything she’s seen and learned so far is just the tip of the fucking iceberg—the easy stuff, not the nitty-gritty shit that makes everything go round. I suppose it’s not unexpected. At least she’s not shunning me for what I do. She’s accepting it. Accepting me, my family. Not many people can do that so easily. Maybe I could…no, it’s still a bad idea.

  “No, it’s not all bad. Most of them are cool people. But trust me when I say, if you get in the way of their business or threaten their families in any way, none will hesitate to take you out. Got it?” I stress this point. If she were to get hurt or worse because I didn’t warn her properly about what she was getting involved in, I don’t think I would survive. I barely survived after Robin.

  “Got it.” Understanding and slight fear tint her voice. She should be scared. She’s not one of the family, and they wouldn’t hes
itate to kill her if she got in their way. “Who’s the last family?”

  The last family is the one I fucking hate the most, and that she needs to be most wary of.

  “The Shaws. My least fucking favorite people. They control the production and supply of hardcore narcotics. Heroin, cocaine, ecstasy, oxy, molly. As well as escorts and prostitutes. The family is shrewd, cruel, and unfeeling. They’re assholes and douchebags to the highest degree, with too many resources and too little restraint. Don’t trust any of those fuckers.” While speaking of the Shaws, I can’t help the temper and disgust that seeps in. I may have murdered a pencil or two while talking about them. Of all the Syndicate families, they are the only ones that I completely distrust on every matter.

  “I’ll try to remember that.”

  “See that you do.”

  “Do the others also have businesses like you guys do?”

  I had mentioned to her everything they did within the Syndicate. I didn’t think to mention their legitimate business.

  “Most of them do have legitimate legal businesses. Some more than others.” It would take too long to go over all the different stores, shops and cover businesses the families have. Honestly, I don’t even know all of them myself.

  “So, you all work together?”

  “Some of us more than others. Mostly we do what the council says.”

  “And who is the council?”

  “The council is made up of two representatives from each family. They govern the Syndicate and make sure that each does what they are supposed to. They also created the Family Accords.”

  “The family what?”

  Clover is much more interested in the Syndicate than I anticipated. I only wanted to inform her about the families because she needed to know to stay away from the Shaws. I won’t let Braxton have her. I never really thought I’d be sitting here explaining all the ins and out of our business to her. Yet here I am, blabbing away like a fucking clucking hen.