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Bringing the phone down, I stare straight ahead. I could feel bad for myself, but why would I deserve that? I squeeze my eyes shut as the tears drip down my cheeks. I try to keep it in the best I can, just like I always have. With Walker being younger, I never wanted him to know how truly shitty things at home were for us. I’m sure he knew. How could he not? But I just wanted him to have at least one family member who was stable enough to take care of us.
So, that’s what I became. I became the grown-up, never having time to simply rest. I did the laundry, scrounged for food, and forged signatures on permission slips just so that Walker and I could go places with our classes.
I was his rock. And now … he thinks I don’t give a shit about him. Or about Poppy.
That couldn’t be further from the truth.
My whole life, I’ve tried to be everyone else’s sunshine, sometimes to the point that, on the inside, it seemed pitch-black. And empty. I’ve always tried to save my tears because it would make other people sad to see them fall. When Walker and the other kids on Sunset Drive looked on the bad side, I reminded them of the silver lining, even if I made the entire thing up. I had to be strong for them so that they believed it was all going to be fine.
Right now, I don’t feel like being strong.
And right now … I don’t think anything is going to be fine.
Crying into my hands, I let every ounce of sadness, anger, and fear out of my body before I grab my sketchbook and bring it against my chest, continuing to sob. Eventually, my brain goes numb, and my body is too exhausted to even move.
It’s not polite to stare. This I know. Not to mention, it makes me look like a fucking creeper, which she likely already thinks I am.
But, goddamn, her face makes it hard not to do.
She’s been asleep next to the pool for over an hour. I could leave her, but I’m afraid she’ll somehow roll off the lounge chair and end up in the pool. So, instead, I lean down, slide my hands under her back, and lift her up. The way her neck is crammed to the side makes her look uncomfortable as hell. I see nothing inappropriate with putting her in her bed.
Slowly, I push myself back up to stand and head toward the door. As long as I stay out of the main living area, no cameras will pick me up carrying her.
Quickly, I turn toward the hallway where her room is when Rossi’s voice stops me in my tracks.
“I’m not sure carrying Ms. James is in your job description, man,” he says thoughtfully, giving me a damn heart attack.
Slowly, I half turn. “Yeah, well, she was asleep next to the pool, and I figured Enzo wouldn’t want to risk her rolling into the water and drowning—not yet anyway.”
Giving me a strange look, he raises his eyebrows a bit. “Careful, Hercules. Careful,” he says before turning and walking in the opposite direction that I’m headed.
The look he gave me was a small warning. One that tells me I’m playing with fire. No, fucking dynamite.
I already know that. Yet here I am, sparking a lighter close to the fuse.
Quickly heading to her room, I push the door open and walk toward her bed. I hold her tightly in one arm before gently setting her down. Once she’s down, I look around, seeing a throw blanket on the chaise lounge by the window, and grab it. But before I throw it on her, I see the small book she has tucked under her arm, safe and secure, even in her sleep.
I know I shouldn’t look at whatever is inside of it. It’s her personal property. And the girl has already lost enough of herself here that she doesn’t need me snooping through her shit. But I can’t walk out of here without knowing what’s inside this book. There’s not enough willpower inside of me to do that.
Carefully, I slide it from her hold and make sure she stays asleep before I flip it open. The first few pages are sketches that I know right away are from our outing in Rome the other day. I fight a smile, seeing the incredibly realistic drawing of the Colosseum, which somehow looks even more beautiful in Dove’s sketch. But the third … there’s no denying that one is of me.
I run my fingers over the pencil marks, imagining what she looked like as she sketched this. Was she happy? Pissed off? Did she draw me because she wanted to, or was she actually just sketching me so she’ll have evidence to show the police who was here when she finally makes it back to the States?
She might have come willingly at first, but now … she’s being kept here.
I continue flipping through page after page of random yet incredible drawings. Some of butterflies, flowers. Others of poor people in the streets or in what appear to be wastelands. And that’s when I flip to a page that sends a jolt right to my dick and makes my breath hitch in my throat. A piece of artwork so detailed that I feel guilty for even staring at it, but I can’t stop.
A picture of a girl sprawled out on a huge desk. Her mouth hangs open, and her eyes look pained with need as a man stands over her, looking down at her body.
But that’s not why my cock is quickly hardening in my pants. No … it’s that the girl is nearly naked.
And the dude is undoing his belt, getting ready to take what’s his.
And it’s not hard to tell by the tattoos on the man … it’s me. And that the desk … well, it’s the one in Enzo’s office.
I stare too long, so badly wanting to pull my jeans down and stroke my aching cock, just knowing she drew this.
No, she fucking thought this.
