Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97758 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97758 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
“I’m…I’m really proud of you.” Ryan smiles and shares a secret look with Dad. “How’s Carrie doing?”
As Canyon fills his father in on Carrie’s progress, I swallow down the dread that’s building. Whatever Canyon is up to has the potential to ruin everything. I’ll need to be two steps ahead of him because it’s obvious I’m the center of his focus of destruction. Why? I have no fucking idea, but my guess is it’ll inadvertently piss off his dad.
When Ryan and Dad get back on the subject of wedding plans, I tune them out and pin Canyon with a challenging stare.
Try it, motherfucker.
I dare you.
The curl of his upper lip says he’s going to take that dare.
Unbelievable.
Canyon
I manage to make dinner awkward as hell, which pleases me to no end. Seeing Alis all flustered was better than the tacos Quinn made. It has me wanting to poke at him even more.
After dinner, Alis disappeared, leaving me to help our dads clean up. No one offers where he went, and I’m too stubborn to ask. I’ve just loaded the last plate into the dishwasher when Quinn answers my question without me having to ask.
“He’s in his studio.” Pride washes over Quinn’s features lighting up his green eyes and revealing a wide smile. “He won’t mind if you go take a look.”
Curiosity gets the better of me. I give Quinn a nod and then follow him through the house to a door. Quinn doesn’t enter but instead gestures for me to go inside alone. As soon as I step into the space, it’s as though I’ve gone someplace different altogether. The rest of Quinn’s home is massive and sleek, something I already noticed—at least from the living room—the few times I’d been forced to come here before I knew Dad was fucking him. Every detail of the house is meticulously designed and decorated to match the only room I’d ever really been in.
Not here.
In this room, the lights are bright, and it’s fairly sparse when it comes to furniture, but it’s littered with projects, both finished and unfinished sculptures. Standing in the middle of the room with his back to me, Alis is hard at work on a clay piece that looks to be a man’s torso. He’s bent over as he closely inspects it. The familiar beat of “Still Be Friends” by G-Eazy, Tory Lanez, and Tyga plays in the background.
I expect to get a nasty look from Alis, but he’s in a zone, focused on his work. There’s a stool in one corner, and I silently slide onto it so I can watch him. He uses a metal tool to carve along the clay, adding more definition to the right pectoral muscle on his sculpture. I let my stare roam across the various pieces in the studio. They’re all incredibly detailed and intricate. If I didn’t hate the guy, I’d be impressed with his talent.
But I do hate him.
I stiffen at the reminder.
“The shoulder is wrong,” I blurt out, announcing my presence.
A metal tool clatters to the table, and Alis’s body goes still. Slowly, he turns his head, an annoyed glint flickering in his deep brown eyes.
“It’s not finished.” His tone is defensive. “Go away.”
“Don’t be like that, bro,” I sneer at him, pleased as hell to throw the word that dug into me all day like a knife back at him. “I’m only trying to help.”
“I don’t want your help.”
He turns back to his sculpture, dismissing me. As if I’d actually leave. It’s like he still doesn’t understand my level of dedication to the ruination of everyone who lives in this house.
“Still here?” he snaps.
I bark out a laugh. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.”
He ignores me, his focus once again on his project. I can tell the moment he forgets I’m here because his body goes from being tense to loose again. Quickly, he carves and pokes and smooths the brown clay. His finger dips into the navel of the sculpture. The delicate way he rubs inside of it has me lifting an amused brow.
“Don’t mind me,” I say as I slide off the stool and approach him. “Keep making love to him. I’m into voyeurism.”
He pretends not to hear me, though I do notice the way his neck muscle ticks. I have the urge to run my finger along the skin there to see if it feels as tight as it looks.
I try not to read into that desire as anything more than curiosity.
“This should curve in more,” I tell him, teasing my finger along the shoulder muscle on his project. “It’s too flat.”
“It’s not too flat,” he argues back, his deep, empty eyes like bottomless pits of hell. “Get the fuck out of my studio.”
I reach behind me to grab the material of my shirt and pull it up over my head. He goes from pissed to shocked in half a second. His gaze sweeps over the muscle in question, the artist side of his brain taking over the sane part of him. He studies my flesh with critical eyes that bring warmth dancing across my skin.