Another Brush of Love (The Carnal Exhibitions Book 3)

by LW Barefoot

  “You’re so ripe for the taking but the build up is the most fun I’ve had in a long time. I dream of how this fair skin turns red when blood pools underneath its surface.”

  His words conjure up two very different creatures. Both of whom have used me and he’s late to the party. The first one opened my eyes to men like him and the other showed me the pleasure in surrendering myself. Both cases I was pushed to my limits and somehow I’m still here with a pulse.

  I hold his gaze and hold in my shock when he leans in and kisses me. Chills erupt across my skin. I want to fall for the lie that’s spelled out against his lips.

  When his tongue finds mine, I want to pull away but I don’t. It takes all my energy to keep up the farce of kissing him back and pretending that I like it. He kisses with the arrogance of owning me completely. For a fraction of a second, I pretend that it’s Evan’s lips moving over mine in utter domination.

  “Don’t think you can play me, my love,” he pulls away from me enough to whisper against my ear.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” I confess past bruised lips. “I’ve already learned my lesson with men like you.”

  His smirk sends chills down my spine. Smoldering brown eyes dance with amusement.

  “And what exactly have you learned?” he asks as his grin vanishes.

  “I think the list is too extensive.”

  “Go over a few,” he insists.

  “You always have the upper hand.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It’s just an observation,” I counter.

  “Go on,” he says as he studies me.

  His gaze seems to penetrate through me. I imagine that he can see my wheels spinning, trying to come up with a clever way to lure him in and keep my distance at the same time.

  “You have to have absolute control. In almost every aspect of your life,” I continue.

  “Every single aspect, my love.”

  I tremble when the pad of his thumb traces the underside of my jaw. My traitorous heartbeat picks up its rhythm and he catches the change.

  “Do you fear me?”

  “Very much,” I whisper holding his burning gaze.

  “Good. How about Evan?”

  “More than you could imagine.”

  Evan is the only one I’ve allowed close enough to truly hurt me.

  “Interesting.”

  Anthony’s hand strikes across my face hard and I fall. I never saw it coming. He was looking at me like he wanted to eat me whole and then his palm blasts across my cheek. Once it would have made me cry but I refuse to let it get to me. This is nothing more than a test and I keep telling myself that as Anthony closely watches my response. I’m second guessing my commitment to stay in Evan’s world.

  “Are you scared of me now, my love?”

  Grayson walks down the long hall. He picks up his pace when he spots me on the floor. I could have easily deflected Anthony, but I want him to think I’m weak. Grayson hurries over. My cheek burns as his studious gaze turns on me.

  “Harper what happened? Are you all right?” he asks.

  “I lost my balance,” I say with a steady voice.

  I point to my high heels and shrug my shoulders. I smile at Anthony because I was overcome. But Grayson knows it’s bullshit as he helps me off the floor, tucking my arm tightly under his.

  “I think we should call it a night,” Grayson says addressing Anthony.

  “We were just getting started, Grayson,” Anthony smirks.

  He follows us outside. Brad’s shoulders are stiff when we make it the car. He has to wonder what happened before dinner ever started.

  Anthony takes my face in his hands before I can climb into the back of the car. The side he hit is on fire but I look him square in the eyes before he presses up against me. He scrapes his cheek against my skin and it takes everything I have in me not to show him how much I hate his hands on me. His cologne is so strong it coats my lungs in suffocating desperation.

  “Shh, that blush is tempting me, Harper,” he leans in and whispers. He kisses my cheek and cradles my chin in his grasp, his fingers dig into my skin. “You’re such a well trained little slut but we’ll have to do something about your mouth.”

  He presses his thumb against my bottom lip and pushes me away. I maintain my composure as I slide in the back seat. Brad closes the door as I let out the breath I’ve been holding in.

  “Harper?” Brad’s eyes blaze in the rearview mirror, fists gripped tight around the steering wheel. He’s asking me if I’m okay, but I don’t have an answer for him.

  I meet his searching gaze and nod my head.

  “This is what I agreed to. I’m fine,” I promise them.

  It was my choice to stay and play along. My choice to remain a part of Evan’s world. But it’s not worth it if he’s not in it.

  Grayson’s palm presses against my face. He curses when he feels how hot it is.

  He pulls his phone out of his pocket, unlocks it, and hands it to me. Evan is just a touch away. His contact information shines highlighted in the dark backseat, but I can’t pull the trigger. I’m doing all this for him and I can’t call him from Grayson’s phone like this. I click the lock button on the screen and meet his questioning gaze.

  I hope he sees, truly sees what I’m doing. He smiles at me and takes his phone back. Brad watches the exchange from the rearview.

  I look out the window denying myself, and those tears fall. They’re caused by adrenaline and sorrow, strength and acting.

  Brad drives to a grocery store and pulls up to the front.

  “Do you want anything, Harper?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Both Brad and Grayson leave me in the car. The time alone allows me to pull myself together.

  They’re probably starving since we left before dinner was served.

  Brad loads up a case of beer and Grayson has bags in his hands as he climbs in the back seat. The smell of freshly baked bread makes my mouth water and I push away memories of the last time I had any.

  Brad holds his hand out to Grayson once he gets in the car. Grayson pulls out a ridiculously long taffy stick and hands it over. Brad winks at me as he tears into it. Grayson hands me my favorite sour candy and I smile at him.

  A bag of frozen shrimp is the next thing he pulls out of the shopping bag.

  “I think you should let those thaw before you start snacking on them,” I tease and tear open the wrapper revealing the sugarcoated shapes.

  “These aren’t for me,” he mutters and holds the bag of shrimp up to the side of my face.

  I don’t say anything and raise an eyebrow as Grayson keeps it held to my burning cheek.

  “I’ve had to do this a time or two for my mom,” he admits. “I promise I won’t leave you alone with him ever again.”

  Those deep eyes tell stories all their own as they search mine.

  Brad breaks the tension when he starts in on how much he needs a good shrimp Po’ boy.

  “Harper, I think if you sat on the bag, it would help thaw them out faster,” Brad jokes and makes himself giggle.

  The laughter is contagious and works wonders. Both of them start arguing over the best place to find one back home.

  Jamie walks us through how to prepare the shrimp over speaker phone. He’s disappointed we bought frozen shrimp already cleaned and peeled. Brad explains that he’s not into doing the dirty work and I’m not to be trusted with knives. He’s joking and makes me love him more for making light of everything.

  Not a trace of what happened earlier gets brought up.

  We spend the rest of the night cooking and drinking cheap beer. We do a pretty good job of whipping up some Tabasco mayo, but it tastes nothing like it does back home.

  When I finally drift off to sleep I’m no longer the victim. I scale walls, pulling myself not from drowning depths but propelling up to great heights. Marching as if to war and realizing with the blazing sunrise I’ve been in one all along.

  Harper
<
br />   A few nights have passed since my encounter with Anthony. He hasn’t called or insisted on my presence and it has been a relief. Despite his absence, he still makes his presence known with deliveries of floral arrangements with cards explaining how he can’t wait to see me. Brad takes them to the retired woman in the condo next door.

  This morning, I stare at the latest arrival and the smell is too sweet. The bright colored daisies are over the top.

  I pick up the vase and walk it next door. Brad is still asleep and Grayson went for a run on the beach. I knock a couple of times before our neighbor answers.

  “Good morning,” an older woman with kind eyes studies the bouquet and smiles.

  “Good morning. I’m sorry if I’m bothering you, but I’m allergic to flowers and my boyfriend can’t seem to remember,” I lie hoping she will take them and do something else with them.

  “Oh honey, not at all. Do you mind placing them in the living room for me?”

  “No, of course not,” I exclaim following her into her home.

  “Your boyfriend must be crazy about you,” she says.

  I want to correct her, and tell her the asshole who sends me flowers is absolutely crazy, but my pulse breaks its rhythm when I see amethyst purple roses scattered all over the apartment.

  The woman carries on about her hosting Bunco and how excited she is to send her girlfriends home with such beautiful arrangements.

  My eyes prickle with tears I won’t let loose. The woman stops talking and catches the change in my demeanor.

  “Oh, honey. I knew whoever sent you those wouldn’t send these pitiful things,” she says taking the daisies from me and setting it down on the side table.

  “You’re not really allergic are you?” she asks.

  “No. I’m sorry I lied.”

  “Don’t be. Why don’t you take the latest one your friend delivered? He brings these beauties over every day since you all have been staying next door. I’ll still have enough for each one of my friends coming over. I saved the cards off each vase in case you forgot to pull them off. I didn’t open any of them.”

  “That would be great, thank you,” I whisper.

  I take the latest purple arrangement with threatening thorns and the handful of cards. I walk back to our condo.

  I don’t move from the spot on the couch until Brad wakes up. He staggers in the living room with the vibrant roses standing between us. The arrangement is so large he couldn’t miss it.

  “Why?”

  It’s the only thing I think to say.

  “I’m trying my best to protect you, Harper.”

  “Hiding this from me was not your call to make,” I shoot at him, picking up the vase and cards.

  I know he wants to argue with me, but I don’t care at this point what anyone thinks about Evan and me.

  Rufus climbs up on the bed with me as I shift through the tiny envelopes that came with the bouquets. I arrange them in the order they arrived in and pop open the first one.

  In Evan’s elegant script are intangible words in a language I don’t speak. There’s nothing else on the little card. I move to the envelope he sent the next day. It’s a different phrase in a different language. I don’t understand.

  I search through each envelope counting down to the latest arrival. I make it to yesterday’s card and recognize ‘Je t’aime.’ I stare at the French translation of ‘I love you’ and my heart kicks up to a dangerous cadence. I open the card attached to today’s bouquet to the Spanish ‘Te Amo.’

  I have to move off the bed and away from all the ways Evan has spelled out the one phrase he demanded I never say to him.

  I never expected an apology from him because he’s not sorry at all. Every action Evan takes is a careful calculation. What happened at the plantation was the result of his fear.

  The most hurtful thing I could have said to him is scattered in a myriad of languages on tiny cards. My vision blurs as I count how many cards there are. One for every day we have been in Florida.

  I search on my phone the meaning on the other cards. Every single one spells out ‘I love you.’

  It’s not enough. It’s not close to enough for me. I need to hear those words from his lips as I get lost in the forests of his eyes.

  I allow myself to break a little. Hell, there are already too many cracks, so there is nothing to my tumble and fall.

  I clutch the cards in my fist and try to understand why this complicated man I can’t stop thinking about would even bother sending these in the first place.

  Harper

  The process to get my natural hair color back has been tedious. I feel sorry for my colorist for having to do it in the first place. I want all traces of red off my ends. The dye on my lashes and eyebrows have long since washed away and it’s time to say goodbye to the auburn. It’s too high-maintenance. The new stylist said it would be better to go back to my natural color and get the process over and done with.

  She promised this would be the last appointment and then all traces of red will be gone. My light honey colored roots have been making their appearance for weeks now.

  It’s been years since I’ve been my natural color and we’ve decided to keep the warm undertones with varying bright highlights.

  My skin is no longer as pale as it was. I have nothing to do here but spend time in the sun and my skin is too dark for the auburn. It’s drawing attention instead of deflecting it.

  A few stylists and receptionists are gathered around the front desk watching a computer screen. A news broadcast gets turned up and competes with the subtle music playing throughout the salon.

  “I wonder what all the fuss is about?” I ask.

  ‘Orleans Parish, late last night’ is the only thing I make out over the commotion. Stylists and clients buzz about the breaking news. My colorist explains that her next client is waiting and continues blow-drying my hair. The noise from the dryer blocks out the news. The excitement over the broadcast is evident.

  Brad comes through the salon minutes later and the first face that comes to mind is Evan’s.

  “Are you almost finished?”

  “Yes, is everything okay?” I ask, but he doesn’t answer me.

  “Sir, would you like something to drink? I only need a few more minutes,” the colorist says.

  “No, thank you. May I pay for her at the front desk?” Brad asks.

  “Of course,” she says.

  I want to laugh because Brad looks like my sugar daddy, but ‘Orleans Parish, late last night’ is on repeat over and over in my head. Churning with it the faces of people I love that happen to have been in Orleans Parish late last night.

  Brad looks the part of bodyguard as he walks like some dark avenger by my side when we get out of the salon. Grayson leans against the car and Ru’s face is pressed against the window of the backseat. Exasperated huffs cloud up over his nose art against the glass.

  “Seriously, just spit it out,” I insist when Grayson’s expression gives nothing away.

  He hands over this morning’s issue of the Miami Herald. The Sculptor was arrested in New Orleans last night.

  An avalanche of emotions flood through me and compete for undivided attention. My hands shake as I attempt to read the news article through blurry vision and escalating theories.

  Elation, doubt, and trepidation war against each other. This is almost too good to be true and then the realization hits harder than anticipated. When I saw Joe Hawthorne at the plantation and the days after that, Evan was a completely different person and now I know why.

  “His presence was the reason for Evan’s actions?” I mutter almost to myself.

  Grayson answers with a swift nod.

  “If the Sculptor was in New Orleans, Evan would have felt like that was his only choice,” I say, holding up the newspaper and crushing it my grip. “How did Evan know the Sculptor was in New Orleans? It’s been three weeks, how did he know?” I demand, my gaze shooting back and forth between Brad and Grayson.

&n
bsp; “Does it really matter, Harper?” Grayson asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Isn’t it obvious the Sculptor found you and Evan did what he had to and got you out of town?” Brad points out.

  “And no one was harmed? Jamie’s okay?”

  “Jamie’s fine, you just spoke to him this morning. There hasn’t been another murder if that’s what you’re asking,” Grayson confirms.

  A smile spreads across my face and I know they both want to tell me not to get my hopes up. But Brad’s smile matches mine as he picks me up and spins me in a circle.

  As soon as he sets me down, I jump in Grayson’s arms, taking him by surprise. He squeezes me tight and bites back the warnings he wants to say.

  “Well, what are we still doing here? Let’s go,” Brad shouts and gets behind the wheel of the car.

  A mixture of relief and excitement rattle through my senses.

  “Where are we going?” I ask when I climb in the back seat and squeeze Rufus.

  “Home,” Grayson mutters with a whole lot of reluctance and a tiny bit of relief.

  Harper

  The tangible truth of today’s headlines is immaterial. It matters but the feeling, that soul-deep feeling I experienced before doubt and suspicion could intervene was everything I never thought I would feel. Never once have I experienced such pure happiness I wanted to physically celebrate.

  I want to dance, hold Rufus tight, and run into everyone’s arms that have kept me safe, that’s been there through this maddening process. That glimpse of doubt, the diseased thought it might not be him I won’t allow. The one outcome I never thought would happen has taken place. Freeing up all the worries I’ve carried for years now.

  I want to kiss Brad and Grayson for packing us up. Grayson explained how they started packing our things as soon as they heard the news. If it were up to me, I would leave everything behind except for Rufus, and get on the next flight out of here.

  I have a hard time buckling myself into my seat by the time we board the private jet. I looked for the Hawthorne logo when we pulled up but didn’t find one.