“The guy’s a friend,” Lance says with a shrug. “And hopefully soon he’ll be a business partner.”
Willow winks at him. “A partner, sure.”
“So, you brought him here?” I look around the messy apartment—a pile of mystery laundry on the green garage-sale chair, scarves as window dressings, Jade’s tarp, easel, and painting supplies in a misshapen arrangement in the corner. My art stuff is tucked away in my room. I don’t like showing any of my work until it’s done. Or ever. But because there are two active artists in the apartment it always smells like turpentine.
Unless Willow is baking. Then it smells like a fire just got put out.
“He’s a musician, Verity,” Lance says. “He's used to sleeping in vans and busses. I didn’t think he’d mind the . . . um . . . decor.”
Jade giggles.
“And you dumped the guy here with three vulnerable sleeping females, then went home?” I ask. I’m not sure why I’m having trouble believing all this. We’re talking about Lance here.
“I'd have kicked him in the unmentionables if he'd tried anything,” Jade says with a straightening of her shoulders. But I wonder; if she can't even work up the gumption to say balls how can she work up the nerve to kick someone there?
I met Jade in sixth grade, in a painting class at an art studio in The Valley. I was a private school kid and she was a breath of fresh air as a free-spirited homeschool girl. Even though she’s always been way smarter than me she still agreed to be my friend over a contraband cupcake I hid from the teacher for her. She’s only gotten smarter since, while I’ve only gotten nuttier. She currently speaks four languages, plays the piano, the flute, the guitar, and already has a partial degree in math that she got at Pepperdine. Oh, and she knits. I have no idea why she still hangs out with me.
She comes from a loud family of six kids, her mom is a Hispanic fireball who makes the best tamales you’ll ever eat—which she brings over in massive quantities every Christmas. Her dad is a Russian immigrant; a large, quiet man who smiles a lot. Whenever I see him he has his head in a book. I’m not sure if I’ve heard him speak a full sentence before. His English isn’t great. But the rest of the family makes up for his silence. Except for Jade. She takes after him. Silent, smiley, and sweet.
I’ve always been jealous of their huge clan. They actually enjoy each other. And even when they argue they make it fun. When bad stuff happens, they pull together. And really bad stuff is definitely happening to them right now . . .
Jade’s oldest sister was diagnosed with cancer this summer and a dark cloud has hovered over everything for the last few months. It’s why Jade cut off her hair, so she could donate it for her sister’s wig. She’s been taking weekends to go home a lot, and she’s been even quieter than usual. I’m just not sure how to help her. I keep thinking, if it was Lance, how would I feel? But I know Lance and I aren’t as close as her and her sister. Emma is like a god to Jade. And I know something’s wrong with me, because even in their pain I’m jealous of them all. Somehow her family is still able to laugh and hug and give, and I marvel at it. They work together. And love each other. It’s so strange. So beautiful. It breaks my heart that I’ll never have that.
"Not every guy is a creep, Verity." Lance says, breaking into my thoughts. He sounds like he’s offended that I’m assuming he’s an idiot for leaving a stranger in my house in the middle of the night. Which just proves he is. An idiot.
“The guy was high,” I say, annoyed. “I smelled the stuff on him when I tripped over his rocker ass.”
Willow scrunches up her nose. “You smelled him?”
Lance rolls his eyes. “His name is Fin. And don’t be so naïve.”
“Excuse me. Whatever his name is, I don’t want drug addicts in my—I mean, our apartment.” I wave at the girls. Willow laughs and Jade nods in agreement.
“You’re an artist, Verity.” He shakes his head. “How can you be so judgmental?”
“Don’t do it again,” I snap, irritated at his scolding.
“Anyway, he wasn’t high,” Lance says. “He drank a little too much. The bathroom was practically a hotbox and he’d gone in there a few times. I brought him back here so he could get some rest and sleep it off—the band’s tour bus was a little crowded, if you know what I mean.”
“The hall isn’t very restful,” Jade says. “I wonder how he got there. I’d set him up on the couch.”
I give her a look across the breakfast bar. “Not helping, Jade.”
“It’s all right,” Lance says. “I asked Mom and she said Fin could stay with them while he’s in L.A.”
I choke on my sip of coffee. “Mom. Our mom. She said a drunk musician could sleep on her six-thousand-count Egyptian cotton sheets?”
He wiggles his eyebrows at me. “She loves me.”
“Typical.” I smirk. Mom never says no to Lance. She has no problem telling me no. No, or Absolutely not, but especially Really, Verity, must we do this again, you need to learn responsibility. It’s the nice things she has trouble saying. Like when I won the eighth grade Presidential Art Contest she said my drawing of Lincoln was “not as passé” as she thought it would be. But then she asked why I didn’t choose a less obvious figure.
“What’re you courting a musician for anyway?” I ask him. “I thought you were working on that TV project about the end of the world.”
“Fell through,” he says on a tired sigh. Happens all the time. The “Business” is tough all around and Lance seems to have a tougher time than most because he’s always getting distracted by something else he thinks is prettier—probably why he can’t keep a girl around for more than a weekend. “I’ve got this writer who wants to collaborate and do a few mixes with Fin. We’re supposed to cut the demo while he’s in LA and then try to get funding so we can write and record it for a release next Fall.”
“That’s soon,” Willow says. “Only a little over a year for all that?”
“It’s meant to go along with a high-budget movie which will be heading into post production in a month or two and releasing around the same time.”
Jade leans on the counter looking intrigued. “Who’s in it?”
“All’s hush hush, Sweetie.” He smiles at her and I can see her melt from across the kitchen. “Their lead for the score fell through so we’re auditioning with three other composers.”
“That’s actually really great,” I say, feeling glad to see him so excited about something that might actually happen. Maybe that’s why Mom said the musician could stay at her designer house—anything to see her perfect son finally become a man.
He smiles his boyhood smile at me. “Thanks, Sis.”
And in spite of the fact that he’s a dumbass, I smile back, forgiving him for everything on the spot.
THREE
Thankfully, I don’t see Phoenix on campus the next morning. He’s probably keeping clear of the paths he knows I take. I would’ve skipped classes altogether, but I had a test in World Civ—which I probably just bombed. And, anyway, I feel silly being so dramatic since, apparently, no one technically broke up with me.
Whatever it was, it still feels like someone dumped a bucket of ice water on my head, then punched me in the stomach. Seriously, though. I should not be surprised.
The pent-up tension of being in Phoenix Territory doesn’t leave my limbs until I finally get to escape campus and find myself in rush hour traffic, heading across the city to work. Now maybe I’ll be able to stop thinking about my lame love life and burry this ache in my chest in the colors and movement of my brush. Plus, I have a ton of stuff to do to help Diego get ready for the Arbor Show in a few weeks. Being busy will help distract me.
I’m surprised to see the gallery door unlocked when I walk up. It’s usually closed this time of day, unless there’s an event. I tuck my keys back in my jean’s pocket and go inside, looking around the empty, open space. The stark concrete floors and the white walls would probably give it a cold feeling if it wasn’t for the perfec
tly placed sculptures, textiles, and paintings filling the studio. The metal and clay sculptures that are set up on stands here and there give the air life. The themed colors of fall in the artwork, chosen for the season, warm the room.
There’s a small sitting area tucked away on the far left, and an industrial-style bar along the wall with an expresso machine on it, white porcelain cups stacked neatly on a shelf above. The door to Diego’s office is to the right of the nook, white wooden shutters closed on the window that opens into the gallery—he always leaves those open when he’s here so he can see the floor in case someone walks in. He wouldn’t have left the front entrance unlocked, though, if he wasn’t watching.
I go to the back and open the storage room door, calling into the dim, “Diego?”
No answer.
I back out and the door to Diego’s office opens. “In here, Verity.” I walk around and see him step into the gallery. He’s a bit disheveled, his dress shirt unbuttoned at the neck, tie hanging loose, dark curly hair mussed, glasses perched on his forehead like an old man who’s been reading. Wow, he looks tired—like he hasn’t slept in a week.
I start to ask him if everything’s okay. But then Gilbert, the guy who owns the bakery across the street, slips out of the office behind him.
“Hello there, sweetie,” Gilbert says in his sing-sing voice. “I was just bringing our man some sugar and spice.” Gilbert Lu is the glue of this block in the center of Santa Monica, always arranging holiday parties and co-ops, first to raise his hand for hosting, famous for bringing people together with his gourmet baked goods and coffee. According to him, There's no problem that can't be solved with a little bitter and a lot of sweet.
Diego rubs his forehead and perches his glasses back on his nose. “You’re here early,” he says to me, absently.
“It’s six thirty.” I look between him and Gilbert. Did I just interrupt something? Whatever it was, it doesn’t look like it was fun. Diego has a look on his face like someone just punched him.
I wave hello to the baker. “Are you hanging out with us tonight?” I'm a little disappointed he’s here, I have to admit. I secretly hoped for a quiet commiseration evening with Diego, alone. Just the two of us. Maybe to talk about art-related stuff, and keep my mind from going down the path of self-immolation.
On the plus side, Gilbert probably brought scones. He always brings scones. I could use one right now. A whole mountain of them, really.
I should probably leave these two to their—whatever they’re doing. I’d be horrid company right now, anyway. And I don't fake it with Diego. He's the only person I don't pretend with besides my roommate Jade. But that's weird because he's my boss and my mentor and he's kind of . . . well, a grown-up. Not ancient or anything—he's twenty-nine.
And, seriously, he is the hottest guy I've ever met in real life. But for some reason he's chivalrous to me.
Probably because there’s a pretty solid chance that he's gay.
Queue the hot tears of every straight female on earth.
He could seriously be a model—except for the fact that it would cause car accidents if his sexy bod was on a billboard. He's got dark wavy hair that's always a little unruly, soft bronze eyes, and regal features. Even with his current haggard appearance, he’s a masterpiece of creation.
I’ve never seen him with a serious boyfriend, or girlfriend, or any lover at all for that matter, and he's sporadically brought guys to parties as his date. Only once did he bring a woman. He and Gilbert are close and hang out together all the time, but it seems like they’re platonic. I'm not sure what makes Diego hold back. It's obvious that he keeps people at arm’s length. But who am I to talk? It’s not like I’m Miss Open Book.
In all the years I've known him I've never been able to work up the nerve to talk to him about his love life—or lack of it. And he's not exactly forthcoming.
I talk to him about mine, though. How big a mess it is. Constantly. Somehow, I feel like he’s the only one who really listens to me these days. He says all the right things, like, “You deserve better,” or “You need to value yourself more,” and my personal favorite, “He was an ass, you’re better off without the prick.”
He hired me as an intern after I graduated high school three years ago. And yes, I did have a crush on him back then. A major crush. Oh man, I wanted to kiss him bad for a while there. But, I’m happy to report, I’m getting over it, and he’s become a good friend now. It’s just tough not to love him. He’s so comforting.
And did I mention the hotness?
Of course, as I've discovered, hotness isn't everything.
“Five thirty?” Diego asks, looking around like he might find a clock somewhere to confirm. “Damn, I was supposed to do that phone call with the warehouse an hour ago. They’re shipping the Bowen order any day now and I wanted to be sure they pulled the Bramble’s Path piece.”
He mumbles more to himself about all the things he has to get done as he goes over and starts fiddling with the coffee maker. Gilbert steps the rest of the way out of the office and comes closer, giving me one of his big hugs. “Night, hon.” He pulls back and holds me at arm’s length, looking me over. “Well, what happened this time? Your aura is muddier than a swamp, girl.”
“I’m fine.” I give him a stiff smile.
He smirks. “Right. Mind your own business, Gil, is what I believe you were trying to say.” He snorts out a laugh. “Well, I’ll leave you two to your paints and paperwork. I’m off to find some sushi with Blake.” He gives Diego a sideways glance and leans in closer to me, whispering, “Take care of our man, will you? He’s in a bit of a life-dip.”
“Enough,” Diego says, hearing him. “No more mothering, go on your date.”
Gilbert rolls his eyes. “Always so contrary.” He kisses my cheek. “Night, hon.”
He walks away, and when he passes Diego he gives my boss a smack on the butt, ordering, “Get sleep.” And then he’s out the door and I find myself jealous of the middle-aged Chinese baker who can flirt with someone so casually. Maybe I should ask for pointers. Gilbert is great, and it’s been clear for the last three years that he likes Diego. I think the two of them deserve to be happy. If Diego would just let it happen.
He locks the door once Gilbert is out, then sets the alarm. He turns, pausing as his eyes fall on me. He frowns at me across the studio. “What’s wrong, are you okay?”
“Why? Don’t I look okay?”
He raises his brow. “You look like I feel.”
I raise my brow back at him. “Should I even ask how you feel?”
“No.” And he walks back to the coffee machine. “I’m hoping a gallon of this will help.”
“I was gonna work on the mural, but I can leave.” I don’t want to go home, but I will. He obviously isn’t feeling the company right now.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He sets a cup under the emerging dark drops and turns back to me. “You need to paint. It’s the only thing for the moment.”
“And coffee,” I say with a small smile.
“Lots of coffee.”
He helps me get everything set out for my mural, then sits on the couch across the studio with his iPad and a stack of paper as I start working on the wall. I’ve got a vague idea of where I’m going with it. I would usually plan the whole thing ahead of time, but Diego insisted I needed to stop trying to control the lines and colors. He claims he’s trying to get me to see this one a little differently. I’m trying, but I’m not a fan of starting without at least a sketch of an idea.
Once I get the muse flowing a bit and lay down a few lines for a possible structure, I say, “So, even though I know you don’t want me to, I’m asking. Are you all right?”
“You’re correct, I don’t want you asking.”
I smile again and keep painting.
After a few minutes he says hesitantly, “I was going to call you.”
I pause and turn slightly, curiosity filling me now. His tone sounds different. And he doesn’t usually
call me.
He clears his throat and sets his papers aside. My pulse picks up, curiosity turning to a warning in my stomach. What now? Is he about to break up with me too? He’s kept me on longer than we agreed to in the beginning. And I’m not sure I’m much help. But I really need this job. I love it here. I’ll never find another place like this. No other boss would be like—
“I’m afraid,” he says breaking into my panic, “we need to talk about your bonus check this month. I may have . . . to put it off until after the Arbor Show."
Relief washes through me. Is that all? “That's fine,” I say, quickly. Is that what's making him look so worn out? He knows I don't live off the small penance I make here, it's an internship after all—Diego never needed to pay me to begin with, except he insisted.
He shakes his head, frustration surfacing in his features. “I hate to do this.”
“It's really fine, Diego. Don't stress. Definitely not on my account. I'll be getting my trust fund in a couple weeks, after my birthday, and I'm set until then. I don't need much.” My twenty-first birthday will open up the account my grandma left me in her will. So as soon as the lawyers finish the paperwork, I'll have access to the whole bankroll instead of living off the allowance. More than enough for me.
The mention of my approaching birthday seems to remind him of something. "Wait, what are you doing here? It’s Friday night. Shouldn’t you have a date with that guy?"
My gut falls, remembering why I won’t have any more dates with that guy again. “I’m retiring from dating. I suck at it.”
“You’re only twenty. You can't give up yet. Besides, I thought things were going good with you and the writer. Weren’t you helping him with some article?”
Diego didn't seem sure about Phoenix when they met a month ago at the Labor Day party that Gilbert threw, so I’m surprised he’s sounding so congenial about the guy. I brought Phoenix as a date to meet my friends and I thought things clicked well. Only a few frowns from Gilbert and Willow, but everyone was nice. Of course, after we left, Phoenix spent the rest of the night making fun of everyone, saying we were all typical artists, whatever that means. I should’ve known he wasn’t worth my time right then and there.
Twisted In You_A Twisted Romance Page 2
