I’ve been meaning to ask Reyna about what went down between her and my brother last year. We’ve gotten to know each other a little better over the past couple of months now that she’s been coming to our weekly get-togethers.
From what she’s told us, he’s put her on opposite shifts from his. If there’s one thing I know about my brother? My guess is that he’s trying to keep her as far away from him as possible. Which tells me Logan likes her way more than he’s letting on.
“This was exactly what I needed,” I say, giving Sasha a hug at the door. “Thanks for hosting.”
“Any time,” she replies, stifling a yawn. “Let me know how Operation: Fuck With Rowan Cole goes.”
I flip her off, which just makes her laugh harder as I head out to my car.
The drive home is quiet, with the streets mostly empty atthis time of night. My mind filters through all the different ways I could make Rowan’s life miserable enough that he’d want to move out. The bagpipe idea is ridiculous but tempting. Maybe I’ll just start with loud music and see how that goes.
When I pull into my parking spot, I notice his rental car is gone. Probably still at work. Perfect. I can get settled in and prepare my little welcome-home surprise.
My apartment is quiet. Slash is hiding in his favorite log, sleeping.
I toss my keys onto the counter and kick off my boots, padding barefoot to the kitchen to grab a glass of water.
And that’s when I hear it—the distinctive sound of the building’s outside door slamming shut, followed by footsteps on the stairs. My heart immediately kicks into overdrive.
The steps get louder as they approach, slowing down until they reach my door and stop.
I freeze, glass halfway to my lips, barely breathing as I strain to listen.
One second passes. Two. Ten.
Is he going to knock?
Fuckin’-A. My heart is hammering.
But then I hear the sound of keys jingling, followed by his door opening and closing across the hall.
I blow out a breath and set my glass down on the counter. What the hell was that about? Why did he pause outside my door?
The thought of him standing there, contemplating whether to knock or not, sends a weird flutter through my stomach that I absolutely refuse to acknowledge.
“Nope. Don’t go there, Iz,” I mutter to myself.
I glance at the clock. It’s just after midnight. Plenty of time to start implementing my plan. I should give him time to getcomfortable first. Let him think it’s going to be a nice, quiet night before unleashing sonic hell.
My stomach growls. Time to raid the fridge. Cracking a few eggs into a bowl, I whisk them with a splash of milk, and throw in some diced peppers and cheese. Within minutes, the aroma of my makeshift omelet fills the kitchen as I flip it in the pan.
I slide it onto a plate and grab a fork, adding a couple slices of toast on the side and take a seat at the island.
As I eat, I keep glancing toward my studio area where a half-finished canvas waits. The piece is for an upcoming charity auction. It’s a swirl of blues and greens that’s supposed to represent the feeling of being underwater during a hurricane, but it’s missing something vital. Some spark of life or emotion that I haven’t been able to capture quite yet.
Tonight feels like the perfect time to work on it, especially since I already plan on being loud and obnoxious. Might as well make it a productive night.
After I finish eating, I rinse my plate and set it in the sink. Then, peeling away my jeans and top, I kick them into a corner. The cool air feels good against my skin after being out all evening.
I dig through my dresser for my favorite pair of pajama boy shorts—black with little red skulls—and slip them on. My paint-splattered apron is hanging on a hook by my easel, and I put it on, not even bothering with a top. I like to be comfortable while I paint.
Twisting my long, black hair up on top of my head, I secure it with a blue bandana that matches the streaks running through it. A few tendrils escape to frame my face, but that’s fine. As long as my hair stays out of the paint, I’m good.
Snatching my phone, I pull up my playlist, connecting it to the speakers hidden in the ceiling. With a wicked grin, I crank the volume all the way up. The opening guitar riffs to “Desperate”by Vixen blast through my apartment, and I can’t help but appreciate the irony of the song choice as I set up my paints.
“There you go, walking away like you did before. But I know, I know you’ll be back, back for more….”the lead singer wails as I squeeze dollops of crimson, cerulean blue, and titanium white, onto my palette.
The music vibrates through the floorboards and the walls as I pick up a large, flat brush, dipping it into the blue and sweeping it across the canvas in bold, confident strokes. I lose myself in the rhythm, my body swaying to the beat as I work.
