“For starters, they look like Mama’s dresses. Either you’re missing her more than you claim, or you just wanted to blow some money.”
He’s not wrong, really. After the half confession I managed with Jonas yesterday and the make-out session that followed, my options of relief were limited. Since I haven’t really been keeping snacks, and I didn’t feel inspired to create anything, I figured a day in the city was a good alternative.
The problem with retail therapy and growing up with money, though, is that when I splurge, my purchases don’t typically serve a purpose. Like now, the dresses I’ve just bought are ones I don’t even like, with collars and floral patterns, while I’m wearing another of Jonas’s T-shirts.
This one has the fire-breathing Minotaur logo for The Flaming Chariot, and it’s tied up so the bottom rests beneath my breasts, and the lacy red corset I have on under is still plainly visible.
I could tell from the second we met up that it made Cash uncomfortable, possibly because he’s the only one aware of the nature of my arrangement. Or maybe because wearing someone’s clothes suggests you’re sleeping with them, and Cash has never been good at accepting me as a sexual being.
Either way, I’m ignoring his unease because I refuse to let it ruin my day trip to Boston.
“Do you realize what happens when people don’t pay their credit card bills?”
“I’m not destitute.” The cashier hoists my bags onto the counter, and I hook my fingers in the handles. “I did have some money of my own before Daddy excommunicated me, you know.”
A little nest egg put in my name when I was younger by Mama, who swore up and down that I’d need it one day.
Sometimes I wonder if she knew just how spectacularly our family would implode, like a volcano on the verge of eruption.
“And when you’ve spent it all on food and clothes you don’t need? What then?”
Pushing open the boutique door, we step out onto Washington Street, where crowds of people are gathered outside storefronts eating lunch and enjoying their afternoon.
Someone in the distance shouts my name, and I look down the row of metal patio tables to see a man in a Hawaiian shirt waving with one hand and a camera in the other.
“Lenny, baby! Long time no see! Can we get a statement from you?” He advances quickly, eyes bright and frenzied as he snaps pictures.
Unclenching my jaw, I plaster on a tight smile. “On what?”
“My sources say you’re no longer involved in the family business, and that your relationship with Jonas Wolfe has severed your connections with your parents. Take your pick.”
“My official statement is that’s all bullshit,” I say sweetly, knowing men like this get off on the light abuse, because they think it makes their invasions of privacy okay.
The man chuckles, getting extremely close even as we continue past him. He doubles back around, breaking into a sprint to catch up.
“Rumor has it that you’re not even really dating Jonas,” the man huffs. “Just using him for his money.”
“Do you realize my net worth probably dwarfs what he has in the bank?”
“Well, do you think you’ll get back with Preston, then? Someone in your tax bracket? Or do you think he’s done with you after your cheating scandal?”
My eye twitches and this time Cash’s palm comes down on my shoulder, squeezing me into his side. “Get the fuck out of here.”
“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger!”
We stop in front of an outlet store, and my brother yanks open the door. I pause, spinning around as the pap tries to follow us inside. “Maybe the messenger should try not being a dick.”
Shoulder-checking him as I turn around, I pull the glass closed as I enter the store after Cash. He motions over a security guard, letting him in on the situation, and the bald man takes up a spot at the entrance to ensure no trespassers make it in.
My lungs compress painfully as we’re closed in, irritation sliding over me like a second skin. Cheating scandal, my ass.
As if Preston didn’t fucking trick me into fucking his friends. Get me drunk and then force me into painful positions, all while he took their money and watched.
Hurt wells up, scorching a path down my sternum, and I reach up to press my hand against it. Trying to push it away, like I learned to in Vermont.
The abuse only has control over you if you let it.
Besides, I know Daddy’s the one who leaked about me cheating. Wanted to salvage his relationship with Covington Pipelines and keep Preston on his good side, so he sabotaged his daughter and then blamed her for it.
No matter how many times I claimed otherwise.
No matter how much proof I gave.
My story, my experience, didn’t fit Daddy’s narrative, so he refused to share it.
And I’ve been rotten inside ever since.
Straightening my shoulders, I stuff the resentment down where the sun can’t reach and help it grow, and jog over to where Cash has wandered.
“Regarding the money situation,” I say as we enter the home section. “I don’t know what I’ll do. Hope I don’t run out, I guess.”
“You should look into investing, or selling your paintings—”
“No,” I say quickly, cutting him off.
Sighing, he drags a hand through his hair, stopping in front of a throw pillow display. I reach for a fluffy pink one, and then one with orange sequins—more shit I don’t need but am going to end up getting, all because that pap left me flustered.
“I don’t understand why,” he says. “You’re good, you know. Galleries and dealers are probably dying to buy an original Swan Primrose.”
Chucking one of the pillows at his head, I roll my eyes. “I don’t paint to sell, though. My artistic vision doesn’t include profiting off my stuff. It’s just…”
“A release,” he finishes, sticking the cushion under his arm. “I get it.”
Blowing out a breath, I move to the next aisle over, bending to look at the fall candles already sitting out. “Not everyone makes money off their passions, you know? I mean, we can’t all make careers out of arguing with people. Maybe I’ll just sell my body.”
“Something tells me your fiancé wouldn’t be very fond of that,” comes a lilted voice from behind us.
Cash and I spin around, surprised at the intrusion into our conversation. Elena Anderson stands near a self-help kiosk, her hands resting on the handlebar of a black and pink double stroller.
One side houses a toddler with jet-black hair pulled into two curly pigtails, flipping through a picture book, while the other has the sleeping baby she’d been wearing at the beach house the day we met.
My heart squeezes in my chest, a momentary flare of jealousy burning through me at how effortless her life seems.
She glances between Cash and I, one of her perfectly arched brows quirking.
I force a laugh, discomfort weaseling its way to my extremities. “Jonas might not like the sound of it, but he’d probably enjoy the income.”
Her golden eyes narrow. “Is Jonas aware that he has such premium pussy in his midst?”
My head snaps back, a warm sensation forming on my cheek like I’ve been slapped. At my sides, my hands curl into fists, and that dangerously familiar volatile twinge ripples in my chest like a plucked rubber band.