Breaking the Rules (Pushing the Limits 1.50)

“You’re an artist. I can tell. What’s your medium of choice?”

“Painting,” I answer immediately. “I love to sketch. I’ve grown fond of charcoal over the past two years.”

“Are you studying someplace?”

How to explain to an art guru that I scheduled business courses along with the art? “I start college in the fall.”

Smugness radiates with the grin. “Eighteen?”

I blow out a breath in affirmation. Dang it, he got me.

“Who are some of your favorite artists? Dead and alive.”

I watch his body language with every artist I mention. Some surprise him, some he nods at and because I’m just crazy enough to play with fire, I drop one final name. “Cassie Emerson.”

He lifts his chin. “Cassie Emerson?”

I brush away pretend crumbs on the table. “Do you know her?”

“Not personally, but I like her work. How she thinks. Screw it. She’s an artistic genius, who hasn’t received the recognition that she should. Just surprised you know who she is.”

Yeah, well, she sort of gave birth to me and then attempted to kill me a couple of years ago, and now she’s searching for forgiveness. “I’m familiar with her.”

“That’s amazing that you’re a fan of her work. We’ve got some of the same tastes in artists.” He focuses on the table as he loses himself in thought.

A high like being drunk runs through my veins. Hunter doesn’t know who I am. Noah will lose his mind, but this is my opportunity to prove that I have talent without anyone else, especially my mom, interfering. “I don’t have them with me, but I have some sketchbooks and paintings. Maybe one day I could—”

Hunter’s phone pings. He pulls it out and scrolls through it with an arrogance that reminds me of my father. “I want you to paint the constellation Aires for me.”

Air catches in my throat, and I choke. “But...I can’t...you haven’t even seen...”

“I won’t pay you, but if I like what I see, I’ll take a look at the rest of your work, and then we’ll go from there. Deal?”

“But it’s Aires.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said. Aires.”

My lungs collapse, and I clutch the table, hoping to stay upright. It’s my brother’s constellation. It belongs to him and to visit there...to touch that part...to enter past locked doors...I close my eyes, thinking of him dying. What it must have been like for him, what it was like for me to hear of his death.

I open my eyes, and Hunter stands there waiting for an answer, totally unaware of the chaos inside me. Panic builds in intensity, and I swallow to bury the pain—to bury it so deep that the misery never escapes...that it never touches the surface. “I can’t.”

“Echo—” Hunter motions to my white-knuckled fingers “—whatever is going on there, that’s why I want you to paint it. It’s why you had the guts to say to me what you did. I want that emotion in the painting.”

“I said it because I didn’t know who you were.”

“You said it because it was true, and I miss hearing the truth.” Hunter scribbles on one of the napkins then slides it to me. “Here’s the address to my studio in case you forgot where it is. It’s above the gallery, and there’s usually someone else there besides me so you can tell your boyfriend to chill. If you show tomorrow, then I have my answer.”

Without another word, Hunter leaves the shop. The girl behind the counter studies me as if she’s experiencing a vision. “Now that has never happened before.”

Noah

The hotel has a “business center” that’s comprised of a long folding table, a chair with more rips than leather and a shoddy wireless connection. In between moments of connectivity, I found nothing on a Diana Perry of Vail, Colorado. In this day and age, it seems damned impossible to not have a digital footprint.

Diana Perry—my grandmother. A small part of me withers. Mom left her family and kept them a secret. They have to be bad, but is awful better than being alone?

I lean back in the seat and check the clock on the bottom of the screen. My shift starts soon, and I’m nowhere near where I’d thought I’d be. I could email the lady, but it’s not what I want. This one has to be on my terms, no one else’s, and I definitely need space.

I stare the monitor down like it’s a drunk guy waiting to take a swing. There’s another way to discover info on Diana Perry, but it’s an option that’ll kill my pride. Rubbing the lines forming on my forehead, I type the email before I can talk myself out of it. Only a few sentences because God knows we hated each other when she was paid to be my social worker.