AllFreeNovel
Share Us
With his back to me he has no idea I’m here, and for a few minutes I watch him work, his creativity and talent mind-blowing as he paints like a conductor might lead an orchestra.
Benedict let slip once that Sterling has a neurological condition called synesthesia where information meant to stimulate one of your senses, stimulates several. According to Ben, whenever Sterling hears music, he sees vivid colour and from an early age has used his gift to paint extraordinary artwork. He spent most of his childhood and teen years battling against his gift. It made him an outcast, laughed at, ridiculed as he desperately tried to fit in. I know for a fact his dad tried to beat the difference out of him with harsh words, never understanding that what he has is a gift not a curse. It’s little wonder he hates the man.
“Mate, that’s outstanding,” I say, stepping into his studio as I turn down the volume on his speaker. A sultry woman’s voice belts out a cover of When the Party’s Over by Billie Eilish; whoever is singing, her voice is incredible.
“Drix, good to see you,” he replies, dropping his paintbrush in a jar of water at his feet. “I take it you’ve seen Robert?”
“Yeah, we just went over the security for the wedding.”
Sterling nods, swiping a hand through his hair as he pulls up a stool and sits. “Still can’t fucking believe the arsehole is going through with this sham of a wedding.”
“Have you met his fiance yet?” I ask, leaning against the huge table covered in tubes of paint, different sized paintbrushes scattered across the surface.
“Nope. Apparently she’s not arriving until the night before the wedding. Won’t lay eyes on her until the ceremony. Not that I particularly want to meet her. I’d rather be anywhere but here. But duty calls,” he says with a roll of his eyes.
“You know who she is by now I take it?” I ask him.
He eyes me. “Yeah, I know. Melody Richards. Apparently back in the late eighties she was some famous Hollywood actress in a popular TV series that ran for a few years in the US.”
“Through the Eyes of a Child, I think it was called,” I say, having looked it up whilst doing my background checks. Robert might be marrying this woman he purportedly loves, but he wasn’t foolish enough not to ask me to do some thorough checks on his bride-to-be. Apart from the fact she has a daughter not much younger than Sterling himself, and a list of three failed marriages, she’s clear.
“Never heard of it. Don’t care much either way. As soon as the wedding’s over, I’m out of here.”
“And Robert’s okay with that?” I ask, eying the painting he’s working on. Beneath the swirls of colour is a beautiful woman’s face. She’s got chin length blonde hair, her purple-lipsticked mouth wide as she sings into a microphone.
“Of course he isn’t, but I don’t need to be here to do my job,” he retorts.
“Fair enough. Wish I could say the same.”
Sterling meets my gaze, understanding brewing in his eyes. “I’m sorry. I know you wish things were different.”
“It is what it is. I can’t walk away from this life, not until Hubert’s debt is paid off and I know Daisy is taken care of.”
“You’d think, given their years of friendship and how much money Carl has, he’d let that debt go,” Sterling says, shaking his head in disbelief.
“We both know Carl doesn’t care about the money. This is about him controlling me.”
“I know the feeling,” Sterling agrees. “I think the only one okay with this life is Ben, and that’s only because his father isn’t a controlling, narcissistic bastard.”
“Yeah,” I agree wishing, not for the first time, Hubert was still around. If he’d known his actions would’ve left us in this predicament he would’ve done everything in his power to change it. If I’d have known, I would’ve made a different choice so he wouldn’t have felt the need to protect me. Ultimately, this is all on me. “So, the woman…” I say shaking off the guilt I feel as I admire his painting.
“Someone I met in New York on my travels,” he explains, looking at it a little wistfully. “She’s the woman singing this track. Met her in a bar one night when she was performing.”
“Good night was it?” I ask, tipping my lips up in a smile.
“Best fucking night of my life,” he replies, shaking his head with a smile.
“You still in contact with her?”
“Not for lack of trying,” he replies, cocking his head as he scrutinises his work.
“What do you mean? Didn’t you get her number?”
“She gave me a dud number,” he shrugs. “Don’t even know her real name.”
I frown. “How come?”
“She sings under a pseudonym. Sunday Love is her stage name. I know nothing else about her apart from the fact her voice inspires me to paint, and she’s fucking incredible in bed.”
