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Chapter Two
“Dean, I’m going to turn in,” I called across the room toward the large block of stone taking up a corner of the basement. I couldn’t see Dean or hear the hypnotic tapping of his chisel through the music. I closed the book in my lap after reading the same line over three times. Damn, I’m not getting anywhere in this book.
It wasn’t because Dean had the music at level ten. I was used to his method of creativity after almost ten years of friendship. I learned to tune out the dark classical music he listened to as he sculpted or the underground rap music he preferred when painting. Dean’s taste in tunes when he was in his zone was as different as his two brothers and him. Dean was fun and impetuous, never lacking a smile when he wasn’t locked in one of his studios for hours. It was the reason my friend couldn’t keep a relationship longer than a month or two. I watched as women fawned over him. They all became taken in by Dean’s charm and carefree attitude. However, none of them seemed to be able to cope with his long hours in the studio or his moodiness when a piece wasn’t working out right.
I’d stuck around because it was easy for me to become invisible in Dean’s universe, and I could sit and do homework, read, or be there in my thoughts and space. Not at home, a place my mother drank too much and her boyfriend of the month eyed me like I was a steak on the menu. At least in my mom's sober state, she kept a job as a fast-food manager that kept a roof over our heads and the lights on, even if it was on the side of town where I learned to sleep being serenaded by police sirens. My mother also was street savvy enough to put a sturdy lock on my bedroom door. She may be a drunk who brought home every Tom, Rico, and Jerome, one at a time or all together, but she did her best to keep me safe. When I was twelve, I’d had to stay with one of my aunts for two months because my mother had gone to jail after slicing one of her monthly boyfriends’ arms to the bone when she caught him pawing my breasts. I recalled how she’d asked no question, just came out of the kitchen with a butcher knife, and it was done.
“You touch my daughter. I take your fucking hands!” My mom screamed behind him as he ran out the door calling her all kinds of ‘bitches and crazy whores’.
He’d gone to the E.R. to keep from losing his arm and spewed a mouthful of lies. The police came and picked up my mother soon after. My mom had already called her sister in Georgia, and a cop stayed with me until my aunt arrived to claim me.
The calm in the storm of my world was at the Theron house with Dean—first as his tutor, then as a friend.
Bryce was seven years older than Dean and the middle child. I never minded when he’d take time with Dean and me or a group of us who hung around on weekends in the Theron game room or out by the pool. Bryce would make us sit down with him and teach us how to strategies everything from Monopoly or Pictionary. When Dean and I turned twenty-one, Bryce dragged us off to a winery for the day to learn how it was grown and produced and the fine art of tasting. I wasn’t a wine connoisseur by a long shot, but thanks to Bryce, I could fumble my way through selecting something decent at a restaurant that complimented my food. I understood Bryce’s infinity for numbers.
My mother always told me I’d gotten my smarts from my father. I didn’t know if that was true because I’d never met him. My mother met him at one of those outrageous beach bashes in Daytona after she’d saved money to spend senior year spring break in Florida with friends. One reckless night with some Ivy League college business major after she’d won a wet t-shirt contest in a bar that turned into two days in his hotel room. There I was conceived. Supposedly, after her high school graduation, my grandmother kicked her out of the house when she discovered she was pregnant. She’d bounced around from one friend’s couch after another until Fall when she tracked him down through the school Provost. In a two-minute discussion, he’d told my mother it wasn’t his kid, and he didn’t want anything to do with it.
Yes. It was easier for me to spend more and more time on the other side of town in the Theron big house. My grades got me into the same state college as Dean, where he majored in art, and I double majored in econ and accounting. When I was too nervous to try for an internship at Theron Acquisitions, Dean had gotten Bryce to give me a part-time job doing filing and data entry in the finance department. I took to it like a baby seal to swimming, and by the end of summer, they had me working directly on a few of their small accounts with the team. Once I graduated, I boldly submitted my resume, interviewed for one of two open positions, and started as a full-time employee two months later.
Yes, it was easy working in Bryce’s division. He wasn’t as cheerful as Dean, but Bryce laughed easily and was always in training mode. Those at the company who worked for the Chief Finance Officer regarded him highly. It was one of the reasons I had tossed my resume in for a position as his assistant. I didn’t have much going on in the romance part of my life, but I had work. Bryce and his fiancé were making wedding plans for next Christmas. When I was around the Therons, their mother spoke of it as if the event would be as big as the Fourth of July. Mrs. Theron’s parties were just that grand. I wouldn’t be shocked if there were fireworks at the end to commemorate Bryce and Sadie’s union. They planned a month's honeymoon and plenty of time for his assistant to learn and manage his job. I could see myself learning at Bryce’s right hand for a few years, and maybe one day, if the talk of them flipping that position to a vice CFO, it’d be mine. Yup, I had work.
I stretched my arms high as I rose from the chair. It was comfy, but after a few hours in the same position, it took a couple of quick yoga poses to stretch my body from spine to calf. Strolling across the room, I moved passed the gas fireplace in the center keeping the winter chill out of the air. Thankfully, it wasn’t cold down here, but it wasn’t toasty either.
On what I assumed was the back side of the stone, it was still smooth like a wall. I was shocked to see that on the side hidden from view, I could make out hair hanging in layers around shoulders, a female spine curve, and a hip's slope. It was very detailed work. If the term supple could describe stone, then Dean had achieved it in the shape of the thigh and calf. As my eyes followed the lower image lines, I spotted my friend's head bowed, steel tool in hand only a millimeter from delicately carved toes.
Wow. I don’t even think my manicured toes looked remotely as lovely as what Dean created. Meticulous work. The bulky untouched stone still hid a lot of it, but my breath still caught in my throat, understanding that this piece meant something to my friend. I attempted to run through my thoughts and find a blip of one of the many women Dean had slept with or had a brief relationship with, but nothing came up. Any that he even talked about for more than a second, but my mind was blank. Since he was rarely here at his brother’s home, I wondered why Dean didn’t have the piece moved to his warehouse-converted studio in the city.
“This is amazing work, Dean. Who is—” It became apparent as I spoke to him that Dean’s body was too still and his breathing deep.
I smiled but didn’t wake him. I’d often found him passed out from exhaustion in the middle of his work. Eventually, he’d rouse himself enough to stumble to the single bed along a wall closest to the fire. It was doubtful Dean would make it up the stairs to his room on the second floor of the massive lake house. Not wanting to disturb him, I moved away from him and the piece and headed toward the stairs. When I passed the chair I had been sitting in, I picked up the book and continued. The panel that controlled the lights, fireplace, and blaring music was at the base of the stairs. I took a moment to adjust the lighting, dimming it, but I silenced the music. After so many hours of loud rap music, it was strange only to hear the soft pop and hum coming from the fireplace.
Sighing, I went up the stairs. I didn’t worry that Dean would not be up in time for our trip because no matter what time my best friend conked out, he rose with the sun bright-eyed and ready to seize the day. I closed the door again when I exited at the top of the stairs. Just encase Dean woke with a need to work again, I didn’t want him to disturb Stone, who possibly was in his own space doing a different kind of work.
I didn’t know. I learned a lot of things about Stone; being a workaholic was not a secret, but his sleep routine was none of my concern. Or who he slept with, for that matter. The insolation of the basement and the loud thumping music Dean worked by would have made it easy for Stone to bring in a guest—entertain some woman.
The thought tightened my stomach as cold chills ran along my skin, causing goosebumps.
None of your business either, Aubrey.
Besides my literal run-in with Stone at the pool, I hadn’t seen him. The man hadn’t even felt their presence was significant enough to show up for dinner. I noticed Mina had carried a tray toward Stone’s office. Evidently, he’d returned there after the pool incident. I wondered if he’d stopped working long enough to taste and appreciate Mina’s fantastic lamb chops with roasted thyme, baby carrots, and melted onions. Let alone the delicious blood orange tart she prepared for dessert.
Stone. Hard as should be the prefix to saying his name. The older Theron sibling never smiled, never laughed, and never took time off from work. Especially since…
I let the thought drift away as I walked into the kitchen, the part of the house the basement connected. Mina, Stone’s house manager, had a small house just down the path several yards from the kitchen.
I liked to have a cup of tea at night before bed, but I didn’t want to disturb anything. I wouldn't have hesitated if this was Dean's or Bryce’s place. However, Stone’s house seemed like a museum; it was perfect in décor, nothing out of place. I got nervous breathing, afraid I would ruffle something. This was a house, but I never would say it was a home. Groaning, I pondered. Why couldn’t Dean agree to book a room at a hotel instead of crashing at his older brother’s place?
Crossing to the refrigerator, I hoped for a bottle of water so I wouldn’t have to start opening cabinets for a glass. Bingo. Three rows of high-dollar water bottles were inside the stainless-steel appliance that matched the stove, dishwasher, dual ovens, and smaller kitchen devices plugged in along the spacious white marble countertops. I didn’t waste time opening the water and quickly drinking from it, consuming half of the liter in a few gulps.
I didn’t realize how parched I was. Most likely a combination of the two glasses of wine I had with dinner and the dust powdering the floor around Dean’s sculpture, including him. I glanced at the clock on the wall beside the gas stove. It was almost one in the morning. I wouldn’t get eight hours; tomorrow would be rough. And knowing our friends, they wouldn’t want to waste the day by not hitting the slopes. I wasn’t the best skier, but I was decent and could keep myself upright down a midgrade hill, only because Dean had gifted me with a trainer during our winter break the first year of college. His family was skiing for Christmas that year, and he refused to let me bow out of the trip for a sedate holiday vacation with my aunt.
I drained the rest of the bottle and tossed it into the recycle bin before exiting. With my book clutched along my side, I started through the house to my guest room. The stairs were beyond the dining room, the foyer, and one of two large living rooms that probably had more formal names.
No lights were on, but it wasn’t hard to make my way through the two-story contemporary-style home. So many large bay windows let in light from the lampposts, and light fixtures on the house's exterior provided enough illumination to get around the furnishings. The last room beside the stairs had a set of double wood doors which had been closed for most of the day. It was Stone’s home office where he kept himself closeted. As I drew closer, I noticed one of the doors was open. I wasn’t sure if Stone still worked, and I planned to jet by it quickly and make my way up the steps.
When I was almost halfway by the door, I couldn’t resist a peep inside, greedy to catch a glimpse of the man if I could. No matter how often I told myself it was foolish to harbor a crush on Stone Theron still, a corner of my heart was dedicated to him. The man fascinated me. I wasn’t an idiot; I knew the man’s allure was primarily due to his mystery. The only thing I knew of Stone could fill a thimble. Stone worked hard running the family business, he was serious all the time, and he’d once had a great love. Melanie had battled most of her life until she’d died barely two years into their marriage from rare childhood cancer. All her family’s wealth had prolonged Melanie’s life longer than most. However, it couldn’t cure her. After years of remission, her cancer had returned aggressively, and she was gone in less than four months.
My heart had ached for Stone’s loss, and I knew the two of them had been childhood friends. The only time I’d seen a genuine smile on Stone’s face had been around Melanie. Seeing the fondness in his eyes each time he glanced at his wife had caused a fist to squeeze my heart. Partly because I doubted any man would ever look at me with such devotion. When I’d catch Stone glancing at me, there was so much heat, as if he were angry that I, the poor girl, was around. I kept my distance from Stone.
