“And seriously, don’t feel like you’re on a timeline here. As you can see, I was the only one using this room and poorly at that.” I gestured weakly at the easel standing in the corner.
She turned and stared at my weak attempt of art—and humor. “It’s not bad. Just needs some work. Kinda like my piece tonight.”
“You’re too nice.” I smiled slightly. “But I’ll probably toss it in the dumpster the second I get a chance.”
She huffed and shook her head, clearly disagreeing with my assessment. But the tension had eased in her shoulders.
“Good night, Indy.”
“’Night,” she returned. She finally faced me and gave me a slight smile.
Something about the naked vulnerability in her eyes got to me. She was so clearly hurting. This girl definitely needed a break.
“See you in the morning.” I stepped out of the doorway and pulled the door closed, giving her the space she no doubt wanted.
That haunted look on her face was the last thing I thought of before I fell asleep.
Chapter 4
Indy
I stared at the closed bedroom door.
Was being here a betrayal to my dad? Honestly, it kinda felt like it. All throughout that one phone call I’d gotten from him back when he’d been arrested he’d ranted about Dylan Burns. How he’d snitched on the club. How the guys were counting the days until they could make him regret it. How they wouldn’t be sitting in jail but for him.
And now I was sitting on the spare bed in his condo.
I was a horrible daughter.
Maybe I could spy on Dylan, find his weakness or whatever, and report to my dad. Help him out that way. I was literally in Dylan’s inner sanctum. There had to be something here I could use against him. Or at the very least, I could figure out some way to screw with him as payback for what he did to my dad.
And besides, Dylan was rich enough to help me out. Whereas if I’d stayed with Anne, I would’ve been a drain on her—another mouth to feed, another body taking up resources in her home that she could scarcely afford. Unlike Dylan.
And this whole situation was his fault anyways. Why shouldn’t I milk him for everything he wanted to give me?
My little mental pep talk didn’t really help since my heart was still heavy as I stood up and quickly made the bed. Turning to the closet, I opened the doors so I could grab the comforter he’d told me about. I saw it folded up on the bottom right side, but the stack of canvasses next to it grabbed my attention.
Holding my breath, I stepped closer and peered at the canvass at the top. A family in bright technicolor, like something out of a Rockwell painting covered the canvass. Not exactly what I thought Dylan’s art would look like. But then I spotted the colorless boy standing outside the window, peering in at the family. All done in blacks and grays, his features were so similar to the family’s and yet not a part of the group.
My heart lurched.
I gently picked it up and set it aside to look at the painting below. This one showed the same little boy—this time in color—at a prison visitation, holding a phone in one hand while peering through the glass at an older man who was all in grayscale. The little boy looked so excited while the man looked…calculating? Something about his eyes read as shifty and not to be trusted.
In the distance a door closed, and I jumped like I’d been caught doing something I shouldn’t have.
Mostly because I was.
After gently placing the first canvass back, I grabbed the comforter and closed the closet door.
I didn’t know it was possible, but my heart felt heavier than when I saw that notice to quit sign on my apartment door. I still had so much anger deep down over my situation, but something about Dylan’s art made me feel so sad.
And kinda seen.
I hurt for the little boy in the painting and knew exactly how he felt.
I’d been there too.
And then I was annoyed. I wasn’t supposed to be feeling like this about him. He’d betrayed my dad. Narc’ed on the club. He was a traitor.
