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“Oh, now you’re a big, strong bad boy, huh?”
“Damn right, and don’t forget it.”
I laugh, making more fast marks on the canvas. “I like it when you look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re going to get up, walk over here, grab me by my hair, drag me into your bed, and fuck me senseless. It’s a very nice look.”
“I bet you like it. When did you get so dirty, devil girl? I feel like I’ve corrupted you.”
“Painting makes me relax. I guess I just say whatever comes into my head when I get like this.”
“You’re drunk on art.”
“Wow, yeah, it is sort of like that, isn’t it?”
He laughs and sighs, glancing toward the windows. “I love your work. It’s beautiful, you know that? It shows something in you, a deeper layer that I feel like I’d never reach without you bringing it out on the canvas.”
“You think so? I always like to imagine I’m digging that layer out and revealing it in others.”
“You could be doing both.”
“Oh, look at you, an art theorist now.”
He chuckles, I grin at him, feeling good and relaxed. I paint for a little while in silence, getting sucked into that deep focus again. It becomes less about teasing and flirting, and more about creating. That flow, moving through my hands, translating into paint. Erick comes into view, a figure of lights and darks, glowing in front of a dark background, a contradiction and a smear, gorgeous and dangerous. A threat and a promise of deeper pleasure.
But I’m torn from my zone when someone knocks at the door. It flies open and Marina steps into the room, breathing hard. “Erick. The truck.”
Erick gets to his feet. “What’s wrong?”
“The truck,” she repeats, looking panicked. She glances down at me, her hands coming to her face. “He took the truck.”
I drop my brush. Paint splatters on the floor.
Chapter43
Hellie
Erick makes calls. He has dozens of guys searching in town for any sign of Dad or the truck. Ren gathers a little posse, and they drive around in Jeeps with big spotlights, combing the nearby desert in case the truck is just a diversion.
I sit on the couch in Erick’s office, leaning on my side with my knees pulled to my chest, feeling empty and confused.
“Why would he do this?” I ask, staring at the floor, seeing nothing. “We were trying to help him. Why would he skip out again?”
“It’s in his nature.” Erick stands at the window, palm against the glass, glaring into the night.
“No, that doesn’t make sense. He’s sick. He wasn’t faking it.”
“Are you sure?”
“I think so, I mean—” I stop myself. Am I actually sure he has cancer? Dad can fake a lot of things. I’ve seen him do it before. But he’s so thin and gaunt, and he looks so sick. “I never saw any paperwork.”
“Even that can be faked.” Erick’s fingers curl. “I’m sorry, Hellie. We’ll try to find him.”
“What if we didn’t?”
He glances back at me. “Hellie.”
