I’ve remained locked up ever since, hiding away from everything and everyone. The paparazzi camped outside my door for over a week, surrounding my gallery, shouting up at my window for a statement. Jace made a public response for me, and they backed off some, but now and then, I see one lurking outside my gallery, hoping to get a picture or some sort of reply from me.
The art gallery has also become a tourist attraction, mainly because my full name, as well as those of Jacinda and Kamilah,were released. The spectacle has sparked considerable interest among artists in having their work displayed in the gallery. Jacinda’s art show was obviously postponed, but Alejandra Muñoz reached out to me and still wants to see her art when Jacinda is ready. I have no idea when that will be, and I’m not pressuring her.
Jace offered to let me stay at his penthouse. I could have stayed with Kingsley. Dru offered her brownstone. I could have gone to a fancy hotel. A luxury resort in Europe. But I didn’t want to. I wanted to be right here, surrounded by him, by the moments I had with him.
Sighing, I set down my paintbrush, unable to paint anymore. I’m painted out. Creatively exhausted. My apartment is filled with my paintings. Dark creations that depict my assault. Distorted manic images of El Jefe. The women. Jacinda, Kamilah. Cara. Self-portraits of myself with my injuries. Stone. So many pictures of his face, the moment he stepped through that door. The ordeal Jacinda, Kamilah, and I went through covers what feels like hundreds of canvases. I needed to get my fury and sadness onto paper, onto canvas, onto clay. But lately, the expressive ability to create from the chaos has petered out, waned into blank pages.
I breathe in the scent of incense and stand up and walk over to the altar that is set up in the corner of my apartment. The first thing I smelled when I came home from the hospital was the scent of flowers.
My apartment was filled with bouquets. At least two dozen bouquets that I assumed were from my friends were placed around my room. The heady fragrance reminded me of the outdoors, of the day I picked flowers for his sister and niece. My heart beat faster looking around for him, but there was no one there. And when I walked into my bedroom and spotted my small night table filled with marigolds, honeysuckle, and a whiteflower I will never forget. Yarrow. The healing flower. The flower I placed on their graves that day. And when I saw the framed picture of my mother, one I had never seen before. I wondered how he got it. Besides, it was a perfectly made tomato sandwich. It was fresh, as if he had just made it. Once I saw it, I knew for sure.
He’d been inside. He remembered my mother.
I’d never told anyone that story about my mother. I’d also never changed the locks, and he had a key.
Lying smack dab in the middle of the bed he bought me was my sketch book, and I knew it was purposeful. I flipped it open, flipping past the erotic images of him to the last used page and found a drawing of my mother in what looked like a flower garden, smiling, surrounded by the same flowers. The style is his. He drew it for me.
It warmed something cold inside of me and pissed me off at the same time. I needed Stone. I wanted his arms around me, reminding me that I was alive. Creating a place of refuge from the nightmares of that bastard’s hands all over my body.
Walking to it now, I touch my mother’s picture. Traces of her face mirror my own. The flowers have long since died, and the sandwich is gone as well. It got too moldy to keep anymore. I’ve replaced them, but the memory of what he did will forever be burned in my mind.
The only place I feel close to him is when I visit his mother. She doesn’t mind me being there, and we sit and paint. We don’t speak to each other. She has no idea who I am. We paint together, and her room is filled with paintings. Then last night, I went to visit Valentina. I needed to cuddle her, hold her in my arms. Jace looked at me with knowing eyes and asked.
“Caleb says you’ve been visiting Stone’s mother.”
“Christ, Jace.”
“Sorry, I can’t help it. I’m worried about you. The only people you visit are us and his mother.”
“So you’re having me followed by Caleb Edwards? Yeah, that will make me feel better.”
“Monitored,” he grumped, crossing his arms. The effect wasn’t as strong, seeing as how he was covered in baby spit-up and a burping cloth covered in tiny gray elephants.
Breathing in Val’s powdery neck, I rolled my eyes. She’s fast asleep, curled up on my chest. “Same difference, Jace.”
“I wasn’t. The paparazzi was getting nuts and I just wanted him to make sure you were okay. There are still a few paps following you.”
“She doesn’t need you following her, Park,” Sophia protested, taking Val from me, kissing her daughter’s head as she walked toward the hallway to the bedrooms. “I’m going to put her down.”
I watch her leave and smile. My smile is rueful because I realize that in the past, I would have been nervous about Sophia leaving when I was dealing with my father or brother. I wanted her to be my buffer, but now I don’t need her to help soften the blow.
“I was worried, okay? After what happened--”
Not wanting to relive anything, I interrupted him, facing him head-on. “I love him, Jace. Love him down to the marrow of my bones.”
That stopped my brother cold, and he sagged a little, hands on his hips.
“Jesus, Cam.” Jace’s green eyes, so like mine, bore into me, watching me like a hawk. Yeah, he and Stone are cut from the same cloth. “You do?”
“Yes, I do. I want to be with him.”
“I, for one, like him. Sexy, Smart. Scary.” Sophia sings-songs as he walks back into the room.
“Hey. I’m your fiancé,” Jace murmurs, frowning at her.
“I’m well aware, Jace. I love you more than life, but that man is beyond, and it’s Camryn’s choice.
Jace scrubbed his face. “He’s?—”
