That he had.
“If I did anything that upset or hurt you, Remi—”
“You’re still trying to find something wrong with it,” she scoffed. “Can’t you just sit with the fact that we did something amazing and wild and wonderful together?”
“I’m not sure if I’m capable of that.” The purple satin had a streak of wet in the very center. He wanted to go to sleep with his face pressed against it.
“I just need you to understand a few things. First, whatever we do together is exactly right. I can hear your distressed inner monologue about striking a woman and leaving a mark—”
“Did I mark you?” He was appalled. Mostly. There was also a small, ugly part of him that wanted to see it. Wanted to be proud of it.
“Focus, Brick,” she said, snapping her fingers to get his attention. “I’m saying what we did together was consensual and really fucking great.”
“So you didn’t mind…” What was he supposed to say? Hey, Remi, you didn’t mind being bent over a table and taught a lesson? How about when I pinned you to a bed and fucked you so hard I saw goddamn stars?
She dropped her knees open and leaned forward. The damn sweatshirt obscured his view of her pretty purple underwear.
“I loved it. I want more. But you have to know all the facts before you decide you’re up for more.”
His dick was ready to agree to anything. It didn’t care about the facts.
“Jesus, you’re not married, are you?” The very thought of it filled him with a possessive rage. He’d hunt down the man who’d tried to lay claim to her and destroy him.
She rolled her eyes. “No!”
He relaxed.
“It’s worse than that,” she said.
“Fuck. Remi. Just tell me. Put me out of my misery so I can get on my knees and bury my tongue in you before I make you ride me while the sun comes up.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it again. “Uhh.”
It was his turn to snap his fingers. “Focus. Talk.”
She looked up at the ceiling and took a breath. “Okay. But maybe we could cover up your chest acreage so I could focus?”
On a weary sigh, Brick grabbed the knitted throw off the back of the chair and covered up.
“Better?”
“It’ll have to do. There’s more to the story about the accident,” she began.
31
January 30
A few weeks earlier
She’d chosen the floor-length emerald green dress and gold filigree earrings because they made her feel as far away as possible from the rough-housing teenager her hometown knew her as.
But as she’d wandered the concrete floors of the gallery, admiring her own paintings, she realized that inside, she still felt like the same girl. The same giddy, wild girl in search of her next adventure. That next adventure was now.
While her smarmy yet somehow charming agent, Rajesh, schmoozed long-distance buyers—or ordered prostitutes—on his phone, Remi gave herself a few quiet moments alone with her paintings.
Starving artist hadn’t been a stereotype, it had been a long, necessary reality. But it was officially in the past now. Just like the girl who’d pined for a man who could never love her. There was a new, wonderful reality to grow into.
The week before, she’d sold a piece for more than what it had cost her to go to art school. She didn’t recognize her bank account with more than three digits in it.
She turned in a circle, watching her paintings drift past. Around and around, a merry-go-round of color and music. Of light and life. She was officially a big fucking deal in the art world. Well, Alessandra Ballard was.
Just a few months ago, she’d sold a piece to some charming British guy in Florida just so he could stick it to an asshole. Remi liked him so much when Mr. Charm came back to negotiate the purchase of another piece his fiancée had fallen for, she gave him a discount that made Rajesh cry.
“Happy?” Rajesh asked, tucking his phone in his suit jacket and adjusting his cuffs. “Because if you’re not, you’re a big enough deal that you can throw a temper tantrum and make them rearrange the whole thing.”
Remi snorted. The gallery had gone above and beyond to make sure the entire collection was beautifully and respectfully displayed. Each painting had a nameplate that included the name of the piece as well as the song it had been inspired by. Throughout the evening, the playlist would run through each song, and the lighting would change to match the colors that synesthesia produced in her head.
It was a sensory experience that would give visitors and patrons an idea of what it was like to be in her world. She approved.
“I still say it would be even better if they could watch you paint something. Have one of the money bag buyers pick a song, and everyone could watch you paint it. They’d drop six figures easy for a piece you create on the spot in front of them.”
Remi rolled her eyes at him. “Nope.” No one watched her paint. That was a rule.
“There you go being difficult again.”
“I’m an artist. I’m temperamental. You don’t like it, go sell car insurance,” she said, snatching a glass of champagne off a tray.
“I’m just pointing out how you could raise your profile and your profits.”
“Yeah, by putting my process up for sale,” she complained. “Not happening. What happens between me and the paint and the music is personal. And I’m not letting your mercenary little heart commercialize it.” She booped him on the nose, just to annoy him.
“You’re missing a huge opportunity.”
“No one watches me paint.”
“Why?”
“I only paint naked,” she said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’m going to go eat half a tray of appetizers before they open the doors.”
She was mid-conversation with the gallery curator and a couple on the board of the Chicago Arts Coalition when heads turned toward the door.
Camille Vorhees had been bred to turn heads. She was classically beautiful with honey blond hair always chicly styled. Her wide gray eyes had a beguiling innocence to them. And she’d been blessed with a bottom-heavy mouth and the sharp cheekbones that came from generations of aristocratic breeding.
She was elegant, lovely, and apparently she had lost her damn mind.
“Alessandra,” Camille said, reaching out to take Remi’s hands.
“Camille.” They leaned in for an embrace. “What are you doing here?” Remi whispered in her ear.
“I couldn’t stay at home another second knowing I was missing out on this,” her friend said, pulling back and giving her a wavering smile.
“You didn’t have to be here.”
“Ladies, would you mind a picture?” a blogger asked, his camera already raised.
They paused and smiled while Remi ran through the questions in her head. She thanked the photographer and turned back to her friend.
“He’s going to find out,” Remi said, a tickle of panic climbing her throat.
She’d grown up fearing nothing. Never having to fear anything. She’d had her parents, her big sister, her community, Brick. All ready to have her back whenever necessary. But here. Now. She didn’t have their protection and neither did Camille.