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The canvas is so small. I’m not in the mood for small.
Since coming to Faders Bay and having my life turned upside down, everything I seem to encounter has been larger than life, big on unbelievable scales. Dalton is a prime example of that. The size of the monster hanging between his legs is simply outstanding. I need to enter him in the annual cock awards, if that even exists, and if it doesn’t, it should.
Trying to figure out what I’m going to do, my gaze lifts to the drywall, and my brow arches, a wide grin spreading across my face. Now that’s a canvas I can get down with. But then, I’ve destroyed Zade’s walls before, and he definitely didn’t appreciate it. Though to be fair, I was marking his walls with insults, but this will be art. Hell, he might even like it enough to keep it here. It’s not like I’m a shitty artist. I’m usually quite fond of the pieces I make, and if Zade has even a little bit of taste, he will be too.
Satisfied with my justification, I scootch the old bedsheet across the room to sit perfectly at the foot of the drywall, and without hesitation, I blast my favorite playlist, pick up a piece of charcoal, and get straight to work.
I have no idea what I plan to create, but as the charcoal moves across the drywall, the lines of four ruggedly handsome men begin coming together, and the longer I work on it, the more excited I become. I’ve never loved a piece so much.
Hours begin to pass, and it’s not until my stomach starts to grumble that I take a step back from the wall. It’s well into the afternoon, and I haven’t eaten since dinner last night. Hell, Zade hasn’t even come to scream at me about destroying his home. In fact, I haven’t heard a peep out of any of the guys.
Glancing down my body, I find I’m covered almost head to toe in charcoal, and I scrunch up my face before tiptoeing across the penthouse and to the kitchen sink. I slather soap across my hands and arms before scrubbing myself silly, making sure to get all the charcoal out from under my nails. Then for good measure, I dip my head down toward the sink and wash my face too. I can’t remember a single time where I haven’t accidentally ended up with charcoal smudged all over my face, but that’s just one of the many downfalls of creating art. No one ever said it was supposed to be tidy.
Finishing up, I go to pull my destroyed shirt over my head when I glance across the kitchen and find the boys’ dirty dishes from lunch and my jaw drops open. What gives? Those big bastards ate without me.
A strange ache settles into my chest, and my bottom lip pouts out, but it’s nothing compared to the need to go bust their balls wide open.
Marching through the penthouse, I start searching for the big assholes, and I don’t get far before finding Sawyer, Easton, and Dalton chilling out on the massive balcony, probably talking about how hard they’re going to take me tonight because, let’s face it, what could possibly be more important than that?
My growling stomach all but propels me out the door, and I watch as each of their heads snaps up and those intense gorgeous eyes that I love so much flash right to mine. “What the hell?” I demand. “You assholes ordered lunch and ate without me?”
Sawyer grins, laughter flashing in his eyes. “You’re fucking kidding me, right?” he questions. “We asked you if you wanted to eat and got no response, then we ordered for you anyway, and when it arrived, I practically hung it in front of your face and you still didn’t notice. You were so caught up in your art, the world could have imploded and you still wouldn’t have noticed.”
“I, umm . . . Oh. My bad,” I mutter, my cheeks flushing. I mean, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve ignored the whole world while I was busy with a piece of charcoal. “Did you keep it for me? I’m starving.”
Dalton cringes and steps toward me. “We tried,” he says, guilt flashing in his eyes. “But then Zade—”
“YOU LET THAT ASSHOLE EAT MY LUNCH?”
“Technically,” Easton says, lifting his defined arm and locking his hand around the back of his neck. “He’s still eating it.”
My eyes bug out of my head. “What? No. That’s not okay,” I huff. “What was it?”
“Your favorite,” Sawyer says. “A big, juicy burger with fries.”
“And ketchup?”
“Uh-huh.”
My heart shatters into a million pieces. “Noooooooo,” I cry, before narrowing my gaze on the boys, an idea forming in the darkest pits of my mind. “When you say he’s probably still eating it, what do you mean? Like, it’s probably almost gone, or he might have only gotten through a few fries so far?”
