The Evolution of Man (The Trust Fund Duet 2)

His pale green gaze could sear a hole straight through me. “After drawing graffiti all over the expensive fiberglass. In permanent marker. Don’t think I didn’t see that.”

“Knowing my luck they’re probably worth a fortune on the Internet.” I have a tendency for turning straw into gold, but it doesn’t feel like a blessing lately. Is this how Daddy felt? For maybe the first time in my life I feel an similarity with the man who fathered me. Money comes easy, but love is the elusive dream, the one thing always out of reach.

Asher makes a low sound of dissent. “I don’t want to sell the ladders on the Internet. I want my men to use them, not jack off to them. And you should be wearing a hard hat inside the building. It’s not safe for you to be here without one.”

“Is it my fault your men would jack off to hand-drawn images of the goddess Circe? If that had been on a thousand-year-old cave, it would have been a sociological marvel. Because I’m born in the present time it’s suddenly ‘graffiti.’” I make quotes with my fingers, and I swear, there’s a hint of a smile beneath that unruly beard before he frowns.

“This is serious. Hard hat or get the fuck out.”

In that case I’ll be getting the fuck out. “Have you seen Sutton?”

Asher looks uncomfortable, which makes me wonder if it’s more than coincidence. Is Sutton avoiding me? “He isn’t coming in today,” Asher says finally. “He went to his ranch.”

“Right,” I say, trying not to sound deflated. “His ranch.”

What does it mean?

Probably nothing, I tell myself, but I can’t quite believe the lie.

I create new pieces with clay and use the new scaffolding to place them high, examining them in the afternoon light. The clay is only for me to test how things will look, because I go through ten ideas. And then ten more. And then throw it all away to start over.

Usually I’m decisive when it comes to my art. That’s why I can paint a wall in one night without stopping. Inspiration drives me until I’m done. With the wall I’m all over the place. I’m not sure what makes this piece so different. Maybe because it’s not a blank canvas. It’s someone else’s art, and I’m trying to add to it. Or maybe the wall is just a metaphor.

It could be there’s a crack inside me, too.

Maybe my ability to create art is breaking, breaking, gone.

In desperation I go to the library during the day, hoping that the sunlight will give me a fresh perspective. Sutton would usually yell at me for being in the library at all, for being here without a hard hat, but he’s gone.

My inspiration on the sculptures goes from bad to worse. I can’t even bring myself to mix a batch of clay. Instead I order twelve pumpkins from grocery delivery and carve them one after the other, until my hands are a sticky mess. I don’t carve cocks… at least, not all the pumpkins are cocks. I’ve been sculpting things that would fit into the giant crack in the wall—so really, it’s no wonder my mind turned dirty.

By the time evening falls on the third day, I’ve made up my mind, but I still drive home. Mom and I share chicken noodle soup and freshly baked biscuits, which came out pretty amazing considering I got them from the refrigerated aisle. I pulled at the corner of the wrapper until it popped, startling both of us and making us laugh.

Her sleep patterns are all over the place lately. Instead of nodding off early, she stays awake all night, sorting through old photo albums of Dad and her and me when I was a baby. She finally falls asleep by the time the nurse shows up, and even though I haven’t slept, I get in my car and head out of the city.

The ranch is an hour away from Tanglewood, but the drive feels quicker now. Sand streams through the funnel faster and faster. I don’t bother to knock on the door. I met his sister six months ago. She hated me on sight; she’s hardly going to be more welcoming to me now.

Instead I head straight for the stables.

I half expect Sutton to already be working; don’t ranchers wake up at three a.m. or something ridiculous? The sun already stretches across the rolling green.

The empty rolling green.

Dew gathers on my rose-gold leather flats. I’m wearing skinny jeans and a boatneck T-shirt that says Namaste in Bed. My hair is in a messy bun that looks pretty cute considering I tied it back before getting out of the car.

The stables are soft with the shuffle and snorts of horses. They watch me from their sideways eyes, their lashes long and beautifully curled. “Hello again,” I say with a lame wave. “Do you remember me? I came here and brought your human back to the city.”

No response, but that’s probably not the way to win them over.

I walk past a gorgeous ebony horse who reminds me of the book Black Beauty. And a smaller chestnut brown with long hair that seems to fall into his eyes. I don’t actually know whether they’re male or female, and it seems rude to try to peek. I didn’t even buy them dinner first.

Gold Rush is in the last stall, standing as far away from the door as she can. Her beautiful white-beige mane shines in the faint morning light. Her eyes are a pale color too, a sort of gray that seems to go on for miles. “You really are beautiful,” I tell her, a little wistful. “I can’t be too mad at Sutton for coming to visit you, can I?”

She shakes her head, a little show of defiance at me for speaking.

“I bet you give him a hard time when he’s been gone too long, don’t you? The cold shoulder. Make him really work for it. I feel you, sister. You and me both.”

The stall next to hers is empty, which I think might not be an accident. She’s wary around humans, I already know, but is she also nervous around horses? Probably, which makes me terribly sad. To be isolated from everyone, even your own kind. It’s a goddamn tragedy.