I walk back to the door, but again, he stops me. “You think you want to see me, to know what it is we do. But trust me, you don’t. You won’t like what you learn, amore.”
I bite my lip. What a loaded response, his words leaving me to live with the curiosity of what will never be explained. And even with his warning, I still want to have questions. Whether he tells me or not, I’m balancing on a dangerous line, and no matter which way I lean, I’ll end up hurt.
I square my shoulders and lift my head higher. “Show me something, Easton. Anything other than this cold demeanor.” I wave my hand in his direction.
He sucks in a breath, staring at me for a beat, then tips his head with a raised brow. I swallow the lump in my throat as he drags me to a new section of his house. We walk down a hallway with bare walls, the wood creaking and echoing into the silence. We make it to the end, then he turns left and pushes open a door, sidestepping for me to enter first.
I lean over the threshold of the dark room, making sure it’s safe, before slowly stepping inside. The lights flip on, and it clicks where we are. “Your office?” I look over my shoulder with skepticism painted all over my face.
He gestures to the wall on the right of the door, then walks further inside. “This is my family.”
I follow his stare and see eight golden picture frames, spread across the wall. Easton is in every picture, smiling, holding a drink, or kissing cheeks. I inch closer, wanting to inspect them better, knowing this is probably the rawest I will ever see him.
“This is me and Kenley.” He points to the first picture at the top.
The blonde bombshell I’ve seen enter his jewelry store a time or two. Her arm is wrapped around his neck, and she’s smiling while flipping the camera off and staring at his profile.
“She’s beautiful,” I whisper.
He nods. “You’ll probably see her more than anyone. She works at my shop part-time.” He moves his eyes from her picture to the next. “And this is Leaon. You saw him perform at the club.”
I follow his line of sight and see the same man who was playing the piano clutching Easton’s side with a thousand-watt smile.
“And Emilio,” he continues, moving his finger to the next set of two frames. “He was at the club, too.”
I nod and smile at the picture in front of me. Emilio’s face takes up most of the picture, but I can still make out the corner of Easton’s smile.
Moving to the next row, he skips over the next picture quickly. “Of course, you know Jude.”
I examine the picture and question his statement. Jude has never looked nice in any way, but here, he’s holding up a drink as Easton mimics the pose, and they’re both smiling, and you can tell they’re genuine because you can see the happiness through their eyes. Something so hard to capture in a picture.
“Who is this?” I ask, pointing to the next one. I want him to know I’m enjoying this and I’m listening, so I feel some feedback is required.
“Jett. Jude’s twin.”
I laugh because he can’t be serious. The man I see in the picture doesn’t resemble Jude at all. “You’re lying. They look nothing alike.”
He smiles and shakes his head. “There is such a thing as fraternal twin, amore.”
I shake my head. “I’m not stupid. I know. I just mean you can tell this guy—” I point to the picture again. “Jett—he has kind eyes. Like, I feel I can talk to him and he would give me some awesome life advice.” I shrug.
Easton lets a chuckle slip from his mouth. “Good thing he’s a therapist then, huh?”
My eyes go wide. “You’re kidding?”
He shakes his head and moves to the next golden frame. “This is Ashton, but we call him Baby.”
I bring my hand to my chin and study the picture. The boy is clearly younger. He doesn’t have any of the same frown lines his siblings have, and his clothes aren’t as sophisticated. Instead of suits or button-up shirts like the rest of them, he’s sporting a Nirvana shirt and shaggy hair.
“Baby because he’s the youngest?”
“Mhm.” He nods. “And then there’s Max.” He taps the last picture in the row.
Max looks almost as brooding as Easton, and something about him screams dangerous. And I don’t mean the kind of dangerous I think of in regards to Easton. I mean, like mentally unstable. His lips are a hard line, and his eyes are focused somewhere behind the camera.
“Why is he so…angry?”
He scoffs. “August was only a couple months old at this time, and as soon as we snapped the picture, she started crying. He automatically thinks someone is hurting her when she wails. She’s nine months old now, and I don’t think he’s even realized it’s normal for babies to cry just because sometimes.”
