Anything Between Us (Starving Artists Book 3)

by Mila Ferrera

  Mom looks delighted, and Dad seems pleased, too. “I was hoping you’d go to college,” she says. “You were always such a good student. You could have gone anywhere you wanted.”

  After all these years, she’s still a tad judgmental about my life choices, but she hides it better than she used to. “We’re so glad you decided to come home,” she adds with a warm smile.

  “Any ideas about what you’ll study?” Dad asks.

  “Uh, I thought, maybe, business. Or history?” I have no fucking idea.

  Daniel spreads his arms. “How about art?”

  “No thanks, I’d like to make a living someday,” I say with a laugh.

  He rolls his eyes. “I’m managing.” Because he’s actually talented, which I am not.

  “You know you can live here as long as you want to, right?” says Mom, holding out a plate for a second helping.

  “And we can help with tuition,” says Dad, obliging with a giant heap of carbs and fat.

  “They covered mine,” says Daniel. “I’m planning to pay them back for saving me from student loans, but—”

  “I saved a lot over the last five years, guys. I’m fine.” Army pay sucks, yeah, but they cover food and housing and health stuff—add that on top of hazard pay for two year-long combat-zone deployments and the fact that I am not exactly a big spender, and it turns out I’ll be able to live off campus and pay for my education without any help. “The GI Bill covers most of the tuition anyway.”

  “You’ve done your research,” Dad says, nodding with approval.

  I haven’t done much, actually, not since I decided to apply for my discharge instead of re-upping my contract. I wanted to make sure I’d have a soft landing. It’s funny, how you can keep planning for a future even when you can’t imagine having one. “I’m going to be fine, okay?”

  If I say that often enough, maybe I’ll start to believe it?

  “So, are you a man of leisure for the next few months?” Daniel’s waggling his eyebrows as if he’s picturing me camping out in some brothel until Christmas.

  “I may try to get a short-term gig.” More money is always good, and I need to fill my time, stay busy, and not think.

  Suddenly, unbidden and startling, a memory from last night surfaces, her skin, my teeth, me coming apart inside her. The ultimate antidote for an overactive mind, one I’ve been relishing all day—in the privacy of my room. I clear my throat and stare down at my plate as I try to wrestle my thoughts back onto the rails.

  When I bit her, she made the most gorgeous sound.

  “Either you really don’t want to be employed, or you’re having an aneurysm,” Daniel comments blandly.

  I raise my head. “Nah. I’m just—not sure what’s available. That’s all.” I grab for my water glass and chug. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m sitting across the table from my mother.

  “I can ask HR if we’re hiring temps for the fall,” Dad offers. “Just office clerk stuff, maybe data entry. Boring, I know, but—”

  “That’d be great.” Though I’m not sure I could sit at a desk all day. I’m not sure what I can do all day, actually. But I’m still going to try, for as long as I can stand it.

  My phone buzzes with a text. Probably Jen again. I know I have to get back to her, but every time I pull up her messages and try to reply, the only thing that comes to me is I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.

  Not exactly helpful. “I might look into some outdoor stuff,” I announce, again, way too loudly.

  “Caleb worked on a fall clean-up crew last year, I think,” says Daniel. “I can ask him about it if you want.”

  “Sure.” I stand up with my plate. “I’ll do the dishes.” We’re supposed to stay at the table until everyone’s finished, and Mom is still working her way through that mountain of mac, but I can’t hold it together anymore. I head into the kitchen, sweating.

  I pull my phone out of my pocket. Please call me. That’s all it says. And she was right, I do owe it to him, and I owe it to her. I can’t avoid this any longer. I open the back slider and shut it behind me as I step out on the back patio, breathing in the sultry air, an offering of one of our last summer-like days before the fall descends. My heart is hammering, but I tap Jen’s number anyway.

  She picks up after only one ring. “I was thinking I’d never hear from you again.”

  “I’m sorry.” I step off the patio and into the backyard, where I pace the boundary of my parents’ vegetable garden. “I shouldn’t have taken so long to get back to you.”

  “You said you would come. As soon as you got home. That’s what you said—”

  “I skipped post-deployment leave because I had to wrap things up at Fort Campbell, so I could get out as soon as I could.” And because it helped me avoid this.

  “And now you’re out. When did you get home?”

  Long enough to know it’s not better being out than in. “Only a week.”

  “I mapped it. Elkhart is less than two hours from you.”

  Why did I do this tonight? I wasn’t ready to talk to her. I made this promise months ago, when it made me feel like at least there was something I could do to atone and fulfilling it seemed infinitely far away. I thought it would be easier by now.

  It’s the opposite.

  After I’m quiet for a few seconds, she speaks again. “Nate, it’s only one day out of the rest of your life.” She slides that last word in like a knife between my ribs. A reminder that I’m still alive—and her fiancé isn’t.

  “I’m trying to find a time to drive down,” I lie. “It’s been hectic, trying to get settled in.”

  “One. Day,” she snaps. “Less than that, probably. Do you know what I’d give to have one more day with him? His mom and dad need to know. We all need to know.”

  I sink to my haunches as my vision bleeds red and black. My breaths come heavy through my mouth. Sam’s face swims in my mind. He looks so confused. His mouth is moving, but I can’t translate a single damn word. Gunfire bursts in my ears, rattling my skull. I fall forward, hands and knees in the dirt, all the confusion of that moment crushing me to the ground. I claw for my M4 and come up empty. My stomach heaves and I nearly throw up my dinner. “Lemme see if I can find a time,” I say, the words running together. “I’m-sorry-Jen-I-gotta-go-I’ll-call-soon.” My thumb jams against the phone’s screen to end the call before I tell her the only thing I can see in my head right now, the only thing I can think about.

  He died with his eyes open.

  And then I do throw up. All my dinner, right into the grass next to the tomato plants.

  When I finally sit back on my knees, Daniel’s on the back patio. He regards me solemnly for a moment and then says, “I’ll get the hose.”

  I glance past him, toward the kitchen. “Did they—”

  “Still at the table.” He twists the faucet and unspools the hose, dragging it toward me. He offers me a hand. When I take it, he hoists me up off the ground and I am reminded just how strong my older brother actually is. He doesn’t let go of my hand once I’m on my feet. “I’m not going to ask you if you’re okay,” he says. “Because I think I know what you’re going to say.”

  “I’m fine,” I mumble.

  “Like hell you are.” He releases my hand from his steely grip. He aims the hose at the mess and kicks mulch over what remains when he’s done. “I’m meeting up with Stella and Caleb and Romy at the co-op in a little bit. You should come. You can ask Caleb about that job. And you can meet Stella.”

  I manage a weak chuckle. “You want me to meet the girlfriend like this?” I gesture at myself. My hands are still shaking.

  Daniel grins. “She’s dying to meet you. And so is Romy.”

  “Who’s Romy?”

  “Caleb’s better half. She’s good people. You’ll like her.”

  He almost sounds more excited for me to meet Caleb’s girlfriend than his own, which is fucking weird, but whatever. “I’m not sure I’m up for it tonight.”

&
nbsp; “Come on. You can see what I’m working on for the next show, pretend you like it, and then I’ll buy you a beer.”

  I almost turn him down, but then I realize that if I stay in tonight, I’ll either have to put on a really good show for my parents or hide in my room with all my crazy thoughts. “You win.”

  “Always,” he says, heading back into the house.

  I pull myself together, help him with the dishes, and take a quick shower. Within half an hour we’re headed for town, where the co-op sits a few blocks off Main. Daniel fills the time on the drive over by telling me about his latest project, a series of paintings depicting pastries in random places, like a plate of croissants in an otherwise empty canoe headed for a waterfall.

  “They’ll be in a gallery show at the end of the month,” he tells me, “but they’re already under commission, believe it or not.” He’s got that stupid, shit-eating grin on his face again as he pulls into a street spot outside the co-op, this big old building filled with classrooms and artists’ studios where Daniel’s practically lived since he graduated from high school.

  “Why wouldn’t I believe it?” I ask.

  “Oh.” He pauses. “No reason, I guess. But it was Stella who got me the gig, really.”

  “Sounds like you’re selling yourself short. You’ve been making a living with your art for the last few years, right? Without her help?”

  He shrugs. “Sort of.” Clearing his throat, he exits the car quickly, and by the time I get out, the smile is back on his face. “Stella’s boss—Emmanuelle—”

  “Like the bakery?” Emmanuelle’s is famous in western Michigan. We’ve gotten Mom’s Mother’s Day cannoli from there for years.

  He nods. “Emmanuelle commissioned six of the paintings to put on the walls of the shop.” He looks like he’s the one who can’t believe it. “It’s amazing exposure for me.”

  “Let’s see these masterpieces, then.” I manage to sound upbeat. Fake it till you make it.

  Daniel leads me up the steps and into the building. All the windows are open, and one of the classrooms on the first floor is lit up. As we pass, I see several people at their easels, including a few middle-aged women wearing aprons over their expensive-looking blouses and slacks, big diamonds sparkling on their earlobes and fingers.

  “Open painting time,” Daniel says, scooting by the open doorway as one woman snaps her head in our direction, narrowing her eyes as she sees my brother. Then she turns to whisper in the ear of the woman next to her.

  “Dude, I think they’re—” I begin as he starts up the stairs.

  He holds up his hand to stop me. “It’s drama you don’t need to worry about.” The flat tone of his voice tells me he’s serious, so I let it go without teasing him.

  We reach the top of the stairs and turn to enter the big open space that houses the artists’ studios. That makes it sound sort of fancy, but it’s really just a giant room lined with ten-by-ten stalls. Stables for people and their paints. Or sculptures. Or crime scenes, apparently—we pass one stall that’s splattered with red, and there’s a tape outline of a body on the floor. Daniel sees me looking and rolls his eyes. “New guy came for the summer and bombed out of here in a hail of drama two weeks ago. Fucking weirdo, even by the high standards set by the rest of us here.”

  “Lots of drama, I guess.”

  He flashes a quick, sharp smile. “We’re all crazy here, Nate. Make yourself at home.” His head swivels, and he comes to a top in front of a near-bare stall where a woman in baggy overalls, with her red hair in two braids swirled up on her head like Mickey Mouse ears, is unfolding a card table. “Hey,” he says to her.

  She straightens up and spins around. “Hi?” Her eyes skate over my brother appreciatively, and she holds out her hand. “I’m Nora.”

  Daniel introduces himself as he shakes her hand. “Yeah, I was told you’d be moving into Daisy’s old space.” He looks over the boxes stacked in one corner of her stall. “What do you—”

  “Jewelry’s my medium,” she says, talking fast, her eyes flicking to me. “No messy paint or clay for me. You guys have spaces here, too?”

  “Just me.” Daniel jerks his thumb at me. “This loser’s just a hanger-on.”

  I roll my eyes and offer Nora my hand. “Nate,” I say. “And I’m not a groupie. He’s my brother.”

  She grins up at me as she pumps my hand a few times. She’s kind of cute in a slightly demented way, hammering home what Daniel said about all of them being crazy. “If you want to be my groupie, let me know,” she says. “I have a few openings left.” She gives me an exaggerated wink.

  I pull my hand from hers as she and Daniel laugh. “He needs to loosen up,” Daniel tells her.

  “Nice meeting you.” I’m ready to move away from the woman’s manic energy.

  Daniel gestures toward the back of the cavernous space. Really high ceilings and massive windows along the front of the building make me want to look for cover. We’re right out in the fucking open here. “Mine’s over there,” he’s saying.

  I look in that direction but get distracted by the contents of the stall right next to his. Most of the stalls—excepting Nora’s—contain easels and obviously belong to painters, but not this one. In the center is a low stool and a little circular table—a potter’s wheel. One side of the studio is taken up by a work table piled with random tools and big blocks of plastic-wrapped clay. A stack of flattened cardboard boxes leans against it, and several lidded five-gallon buckets are arrayed beneath the tabletop, with things like “nickel titanium green satin matte” and “copper red oxblood” handwritten in block letters on their masking tape labels. Two sides of the stall are lined with ten-foot-high shelves. About half of that space is packed with various unpainted pottery pieces covered with thick plastic, and on another several shelves sit numerous grayish white bowls, teapots, plates, mugs, vases, and jugs, some plain, some covered in etched patterns. Maybe three rows of shelving are populated by colorful ceramics, lush, curvy pieces coated with drips and swirls of shiny glaze. The colors are saturated and variegated, and I’m not so into art, but even I can see they’re pretty. As we approach, I realize I’m smiling. My mom would love these.

  I’m trying to pull my attention from them and focus on my brother’s paintings when I hear him say, “Oh, hey. Congrats again on the gig with Yelena. That’s huge.”

  I glance over and see that he’s talking to someone behind me. Someone who replies, “Only if the first delivery sells well,” in a voice that whips me around like a fucking puppet on a string.

  She’s standing in front of me, not ten feet away, in a baggy T-shirt and ripped denim shorts that sag off her hips. Her black hair is pulled up in a twist on top of her head, but several locks have wriggled themselves loose and hang around her face. She surveys me with wide, dark eyes as she dries her hands with a rag. My mouth opens and closes like I’m a fish on dry land as my body awakens with the memory of being inside her.

  “Sasha, this is Nate. Nate, Sasha,” Daniel says after a few seconds. He’s giving me a weird look and talking to me like I’m a kindergartener. “That’s her studio. She’s a potter. Obviously, she’s super-talented.” He gestures over at the pottery stall, but I’m too out of it to look over there again, even though I was mesmerized only a few seconds ago.

  Now I’m mesmerized by her. Sasha. I never thought I’d see her again, and here she is.

  Daniel shoves me when I don’t immediately respond. We were raised to be polite, but what am I supposed to do here? You blew my fucking mind last night, Sasha, I think, so I’m glad I finally know your name. “Hi,” is what I actually say.

  Sasha smiles. Friendly. Casual. No hint that she recognizes me. She comes forward and offers her hand, her grip gentle and warm. Last night those hands were on me, driving me insane with need. She gives my fingers a brief, dismissive squeeze before letting go. The touch of a stranger.

  “Hi there,” she says. “Sasha Miller.” She looks at Daniel, then back at me. The
n she lets out a low, rueful laugh as she shakes her head. “Let me guess. Brothers?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Sasha

  “Yep. Baby brother,” Daniel says as I do my absolute best to hold it together. “When I’m willing to claim him.”

  What. The. Hell? My heart pounds as I pull my hand from Nate’s. Nate. Daniel’s brother. I’ve known Daniel for years, but only as a casual acquaintance. Enough to know he’s been the boy toy of just about every wealthy woman in town at one time or other. But he’s always been polite and respectful to me, and I love his work, so we get along fine.

  I knew he had a younger brother. I remember him mentioning it at a Christmas party last year. He said he was overseas. Afghanistan, I think. I only recall changing the subject as quickly as I could.

  Now that they’re standing right next to each other, the resemblance is so obvious that I wonder how I ever could have missed it last night.

  Shit.

  Nate looks as stunned as he did in that storeroom when I pulled the condom out of my bra. Alarm bells ring in my head. Daniel’s looking back and forth between the two of us, probably trying to figure out why his brother is acting like his brain has turned to scrambled eggs.

  “You’re in the army, right?” I ask quickly, glancing at Daniel for confirmation. I have to get this thing back on a normal, neutral path. “How long are you on leave before you go back?” I need him to play along—we are strangers. We have never met. Ever. “A week?” I add when he doesn’t reply.

  Nate’s gaze falls to my breasts, and then he squeezes his eyes shut like he knows he fucked up. “I, um …”

  “He’s done risking his life for our country,” Daniel says, smacking Nate on the back a little harder than seems necessary.

  It snaps Nate out of his daze, however. He glares at Daniel as if daring him to try again, then turns to me. “What he’s saying is, I’m not in the army anymore. They cut me loose a few weeks ago.” His brow furrows. “I was honorably discharged, I mean. They didn’t kick me out or anything.”