I’ve even had a hand in my siblings’ careers.
Sebastian wanted to be a chef, and Charlie wanted a publishing deal, so I sold my soul to the devil—a.k.a our dad—without really considering the consequences.
Martin Conner is a grade-A asshole, though I didn’t always know that. He was just my dad, once upon a time. Stern but fair, and sometimes even kind of funny. As I grew up, I noticed that he favored me, and I hated it. But I also looked up to him and loved him despite his flaws.
Until he fucked Charlie over.
By the time I found out, Dad already had his claws in Seb and Charlie’s lives, thanks to me: Skynet had invested in the Seattle pub, and he’d made sure that the right people at Rosewood Publishing looked at Charlie’s manuscript.
In return, he’s been grooming me to join him on Skynet’s board, and he’s made it very clear that his continued investment in my siblings’ dreams is contingent upon my continued cooperation.
I always assumed I’d be a wealthy businessman like my father. I figured I’d have a house, a wife, and kids by now. Sure, that all sounds boring and traditional, but I was okay with that.
But now . ..
What if I don’t want a wife? Or a house in the burbs? What if I want a condo in the city with a boyfriend and a cat?
I shake my head. Dad would hate that. It would spoil his image. He already hates that Sebastian didn’t go to college and seems to have no interest in relationships. Imagine if his oldest son turned out to be gay? What a tragedy. Not to mention, he rubs elbows with a bunch of uptight pricks with outdated values. It was a scandal when my stepmom cheated on him and then committed suicide—one that he worked very hard to keep quiet. As far as the public knows, Ellen Conner’s death was a private matter.
Feeling suddenly anxious, I finish my drink and close out my tab. The bartender winks as he hands me my receipt, and I glance down.
Holy shit, he left his number.
I stare at the paper as I walk toward my condo, confusion and curiosity pinging through my head.
Would a one-night stand help me figure out my feelings for Jeremy?
I decide to make one more stop before I head home for the night. I shiver and walk faster, unsurprised that it’s starting to rain, the scent of damp concrete filling the air.
When I reach the pottery studio, I knock on the glass door. A woman in her sixties with long gray hair and a flowing maroon dress unlocks the door, waving me inside. Warmth brushes my chilled, wet cheeks as I enter, my boots squeaking on the floor. The studio is always extra warm because of the kiln in the back.
Miss Grace embraces me gently. She smells of incense and menthol. “Marcus, honey, it’s late. I was just about to leave. Is everything alright?”
No.
“Everything’s fine, Miss Grace,” I lie, hugging her back half-heartedly. “I just wanted to see if anything sold this week.” Iglance around, taking in the vases, pots, mugs, and various other creations lining the walls. I spot one of my bowls in the case near the register.
Grace smiles, following my gaze. “Yes, only one left. When will you make more? It’s been months, and I get requests for them often.”
I took a ceramics class with Grace a while back when I lived in Seattle for a summer internship, and she was impressed with my progress. We kept in touch, and I’d bring her a few pieces here and there when I came to the city for pub supplies. Then, when I officially moved here, she let me use her kiln.
“I promise I’ll bring some soon. I have a few ready to be fired, but I’ve been so busy with the new pub space and . . . I’ve just been uninspired lately.”
Grace walks to the glass case and opens it, taking out the bowl. She holds it under the light. Over the swirling blues and purples, I painted delicate silver stars in random patterns, trying to capture something akin to the Milky Way.
“Your pieces are beautiful, Marcus. They’re some of my best sellers.”
I nod absently. The light blue color reminds me of Jeremy’s eyes, and my throat closes.
Why is everything always about him? Why can’t he leave me alone?
“I’ll let you get home,” I say, patting Grace’s shoulder. “Keep the kiln hot for me, okay?”
“You can use it whenever you like, Marcus.” She pauses, studying me. “Are you sure everything’s alright?”
My eyes feel hot like I might cry, so I answer honestly for once. “No, but it will be. I think.”
She nods and crouches to access the safe below the counter. I hear her type in a code and open it, and when she stands, she hands me an envelope. “Your profits from the last few months.”
