There aren’t a lot of men I’d wait on, but Carter says this is important and Marcus and I have history.
“He didn’t. I don’t know why he- “
“Looks like you’re almost done,” I cut him off with a trace of a smile on my lips. “Sorry to keep you.”
“Not a problem,” he says to my back as I turn and leave the bar.
The bright light of the Iron Heart sign casts a shadow beneath my feet as I walk toward the barren parking lot with only one thing on my mind—how to find little miss Addison Fawn.
Chapter Five
Addison
Daniel’s a prick.
Why is it that the assholes stay in your head, rankling and festering their way into your thoughts while the nice guys are passed over?
I went shopping on the strip downtown to distract myself. I spent a pretty penny on décor for this apartment and on the softest comforter I’ve felt in my life.
One tweed rug, two woven baskets and a dozen rustic wood picture frames later and my living room is acceptable. Snapshot after snapshot I post the different angles on Instagram, where I have my largest following and where I sell most of my photos.
But it’s all done absentmindedly. And it’s not like these are for sale, just pictures that serve as an update to let my followers know I’ve found a new place.
I don’t have an ounce of interest flowing through me.
I came here to settle down. To finally give myself a reason to stay and possibly take formal classes to breathe new life into my business.
And instead I’ve been pushed back to when I was only seventeen.
No home.
No life.
No reason to do anything at all.
My throat tightens and my eyes prick, but I refuse to let a single tear fall.
It’s all because I’m still not worthy enough for Daniel fucking Cross.
My phone pings and I go into the messenger app on Facebook to see who it is.
Another person wanting me to photograph their wedding.
I don’t do functions.
I politely message back that I don’t do shoots. I only photograph the things around me and tell my own story. Not other people’s. In other words, I’m not for hire. Photography is my business, but also my therapy. I photograph what I want and nothing else. It’s the only way I’ve survived and I won’t compromise that.
That’s how I’ve made a living for the past few years. Little sales here and there. Enough to keep my head above water and to keep moving from place to place.
Searching for Something is what I eventually called my business.
Not that it started as a business. I was just taking pictures of every little thing that reminded me of Tyler.
All I had was my camera, the only present my last foster mother had ever given me. Tyler told her she should get it for me for Christmas. He said if she wouldn’t, he would. He would’ve given me anything.
And so it started with me wanting to take a photograph of the snow around his old Chevy truck that couldn’t run anymore. The rusted-out hood. The flat back left tire.
I started taking pictures of everything, obsessively. It was something Tyler and I had done together and it made sense to do at the time.
I needed something and although I didn’t know what that something would be, I took photos of everything on my way to find what I was looking for.
Something to take the guilt away. Something to make me smile the way a boy who loved me in a way I didn’t deserve had.
Searching for Something.
What it turned out to be was profitable.
A myriad of photos all priced ridiculously high. In my opinion, at least. But that’s what everyone else was doing. The competition’s pictures sold for hundreds. And mine looked like a steal simply because of the price tag.
I adopted the “fake it till you make it” strategy. And it’s been working. But I don’t know shit about running a business.
The random person on Facebook shoots back an apology and I don’t bother to respond. My customer service isn’t the best either.
Some days are better than others.
Some days are filled with reminders of the past. And those days are the worst for me personally, but the best for the things I see and can capture with a lens. And they sell well. Not just well, like serious money.
The shots I’ve taken today don’t tell my story. It should be a part of my journey, but the pretty images of wooden frames and white tweed with pale blue accents are what I wanted before last night. Before I went to Iron Heart and ran into that asshole.
This is a décor shoot for a new life with new roots. It’ll look pretty on Instagram with a soft filter, but that’s about all it is. Just a series of pretty pictures.
My phone pings and pings with updates and I put it on vibrate before heading to the kitchen, where I place it on the table.
Next week is the kitchen makeover.
For now, it’s all black and white with pops of cherry. A red teapot sits untouched on the stove as I shove my sunflower mug into the microwave to heat up water for tea.
I doubt I’ll ever use that teapot.
My phone vibrates yet again, rattling the table just as the microwave beeps. A heavy sigh of irritation leaves me, but I know it’s not the messages, nor the headache from stress and exhaustion.
It’s because of Daniel. Just like years ago, I’m losing sleep over the asshole. Back then I never said a word. I let him treat me how he wanted, and I cowered away.
I’m older now and last night I should have said something. I should have gotten up and slapped him for being such a dismissive prick. Well, maybe that’s taking things a little too far. But he deserves to know how much it hurt me. How I still struggle with what happened and how him treating me like that only makes the pain that much worse.
As the tea bag sinks into the steaming water, an idea hits me to search for Daniel on Instagram.
If not Instagram, then Facebook. Everyone is somewhere online now.
With my feet up on the chic glass table and the mug in my right hand, I search both on my cell phone.
And when both of those prove useless I try Twitter.
The steady, rhythmic ticking of the simple clock across from me and above the little kitchenette gets my attention when my search proves to be futile. I stare at the second hand that’s marching along, willing it to give me an answer.
But time’s a fickle bitch and she’s never helped me with anything.
I take another sip of the now lukewarm tea before getting up for another cup.
As I wait for it to heat, I decide to search Iron Heart Brewery on Church and Lincoln Street.
Slowly a grin forms on my lips. Jake Holsteder stares back at me from a black and white photo where he’s holding up a beer in cheers. The bartender from last night is apparently the owner. Jake has links to his social media accounts.
And more importantly, Daniel knows Jake.
It’s a stretch, but I send a message to Jake on Facebook and then prepare my second cup of tea.
Nice to meet you last night. Sorry I left early.
It’s a simple message and if he doesn’t respond, I can always go back to the bar. I’m vaguely aware that I’m chasing after Daniel. After the man whose very existence brings back the ghosts of my past. But I don’t care. I live off instinct and everything is telling me that I need to find Daniel. If for no other reason than to tell him he knows damn well who I am.