“Oh my God, are you five?” I admonished.
“Sometimes I think I might be.”
I pulled my bare feet up and tucked my legs to the side. “Some of us don’t wear boots around the house.”
“Some of us wear boots around the house because we like to break things.”
He got up and went to the door, taking the broom and dustpan from Zero who handed them through then disappeared back to the kitchen, as though this were a common occurrence.
“I’m sorry if I startled you.”
I didn’t reply, just stared at the dent he’d made in the picture.
He swept up the mess with brisk efficiency, but a lack of attention to detail I’d come to expect from most men when they cleaned. I’d wipe it down with a cloth later to make sure all of the shards were gone, for the sake of my poor feet.
“You dented that painting.”
“It’s hardly noticeable.”
I sat there quietly, trying not to berate him on behalf of the artist.
“If it bothers you that much, I’ll just paint another one.”
He was the artist? I wasn’t sure why, but I’d assumed it was a friend of theirs who did all the art in the house. Then again, they didn’t seem to have a whole lot of friends coming and going.
Then it clicked—Vandal.
Oh. Dumbass.
Why hadn’t I made the connection earlier? Just because a man could write didn’t mean he couldn’t paint.
“What was your name originally?” I asked him.
“John Stokes.”
“John?” It was so…average. It didn’t suit him. The idea of him as a kid named John was almost laughable. Who even called their kid John nowadays?
“John Stokes, junior, to be precise.”
“You were named after your dad?”
“Ironic, huh?” He grimaced. “My ID says Van Stokes because I didn’t think a judge would let me change my name to Vandal, or ‘you little fucking vandal’ as my father so affectionately called me. At least I got his fucking name off my back.”
“Your mom wasn’t around?”
“No. She left him when I was a toddler. I legitimately thought he’d killed her until I found her online a couple of years ago. She’s nice enough, but she’s a stranger, you know? At least I had my grandmother. I’m still not sure how she raised such an asshole.”
I raised my brows at him.
“Okay, two assholes. Fair enough.” He tapped the papers in front of me with a purple pen, then set the instrument of doom down in front of me.
“Why do you trust me with this?” I asked.
“Because you enjoy my work. You’ll tell me the truth because you want the book to be perfect almost as much as I do.”
I gazed down at the mess on the page. It all centered around one sentence.
Jamison crossed the room. The sentence was written and rewritten, along with a thesaurus worth of ways a person could walk—he’d started with stalk, and prowl. From there he’d added jog, dance, traipse, cavort, skip, cartwheel, meander, and toddle. There was more, but I’d gotten the general idea.
“Vandal.”
“What?” he asked miserably.
“What are you doing here?”
“Does he strut? Does he amble? I don’t fucking know anymore. Words are meaningless, and I’m wasting my life on something that doesn’t matter to anyone.”
I started to laugh. For his sake, I tried to control it at first, but I couldn’t hold back.
“Does he fucking sashay? Tell me, please—I’m begging you.” He was face down on his desk making the most god-awful noise.
“Stop being ridiculous and move the fuck on. That one sentence isn’t going to make or break your book…well, unless you have him do something weird and out of character for no reason. He’s a serial killer. He’s counting on you not to make him look silly. If you have to, leave it blank then come back to it.”
He lifted his head and gasped, like he was in need of pearls to clutch. “I can’t leave it blank! Blasphemer! Get out.”
I leaned across the paper toward him. “Stop being a fucking drama queen and get back to work. Fucking artists. So melodramatic.”
His hand darted out from underneath him and he grabbed the front of my dress, hauling me close, his expression shifting from self-righteous to dangerous. He took my mouth in a cruel kiss, mashing my lips against my teeth, his tongue prodding its way into my mouth.
When he pulled back it was just as sudden, but rather than immediately letting me go, he brushed a gentle, lingering kiss across my lips.
“Thank you.” He let go of me, and I sank back into my seat, staring at him, my head spinning.
He’d actually thanked me. Wow. That was fucking huge. And that kiss? I was ready to offer him anything if he’d give me another one just like it. Was I falling in love with him?
Maybe. Probably.
“Go blow Zero or something. I have shit to do.”
Aaand…the feeling was gone as quickly as it had come.
Thank fuck.
Chapter 15
It was an important paragraph. I’d written it and deleted it so many times during the past three hours it felt like my eyes were crossing. As it was, I wasn’t sure exactly when Vandal had come into my bedroom or how long he’d been standing there before I noticed I wasn’t alone. Stubbornly, I struggled through two more sentences before glancing up.
He was leaning against the doorjamb, arms crossed, looking hot and foreboding. Even the sight of his forearms made me melt, but I did my best to look annoyed.
“I’m in the middle of something here.”
“I’m hearing a lot of backspacing.”
“You can’t tell the difference between typing and backspacing. That’s ridiculous.”
“You backspace emphatically.” He quirked a brow that made me feel—not for the first time—that the man was a lot cooler than I’d ever be. Except for when he was struggling with the inner voice of his father, the man rarely had a moment of self-doubt. Zero was even worse.
“You’re stuck?”
“Yes, I think I am,” I grudgingly admitted.
“Read the paragraph to me.”
I opened my mouth to comply, but as I scanned the page I realized there was no way in anyone’s version of a fiery hell that I could comply. Even I didn’t deserve such a cruel fate.
Hesitating, my gaze moved from the document, to Vandal, and back again. He pushed off from the wall and strode over to me, grabbing the laptop off my crossed legs before settling next to me, his shoulders against the headboard and his booted feet crossed on my bed.
“Why do you wear boots in the house? So gross. Kindly get them off my quilt.”
He looked at me incredulously and snorted, kicking his boots off. They landed on the floor with a bang. “What are you? My grandmother now?”
“I don’t know anyone else who wears shoes in the house, you heathen.”
“Like I’ve told you before, I like to break things. They also get me in the right frame of mind for writing.”
“I always wondered about that. Why do you have a serial killer clomping around in boots? You can’t sneak in boots.”