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Everleigh was away with Lucius and Sofie to visit his aunt in Oregon, and they wouldn’t be back for another four days.
When I was at home, the guys on-site stayed outside and didn’t talk to me even if they were in the same room. I might as well have been by myself.
Clutching the caramel popcorn and Dr. Pepper I’d found in the pantry, I padded back to my room on silent feet. I was wearing a paint-stained T-shirt and worn leggings, forgoing socks and shoes. Every inch of floor space in the house was heated.
It was a luxury I’d quickly become addicted to. Hopefully I’d have enough money to move to a house with heated floors once my time here was up. For now, I’d enjoy never getting cold feet and having access to unlimited snacks.
A chocolate bar stuck out of the waistband of my leggings since I didn’t have any other way to get it back to my room. Maybe I should see the positives in being by myself. No need to dress up or act like I was sophisticated when I definitely wasn’t.
Kicking the door shut behind me once I made it back into my room, I dropped my loot on the bed, debating what to eat first. Settling on the chocolate bar, I tore it open, then went back to the easel. I’d been trying my hand at charcoal. My hands and face were smudged, but the drawing was taking shape.
Carlotta had retrieved all my painting supplies when she went into the pool house to clean. There were too many paintings to move, so I left them there, safely hidden away in the closet.
Painting was my escape, the place I went to when the reality of my situation became too much. I’d been taking online courses for years, working on refining my skills.
I had a closet full of art that I didn’t know what to do with. But every piece meant too much to me to throw in the trash, so they were gathering dust instead.
Putting the music back on, I bopped my way through the familiar sounds of the Beach Boys.
My mom used to listen to “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” nearly every day. The few good memories I had of her were us dancing in our rickety old trailer, hoping it wouldn’t topple over from all the jumping.
I wondered if I’d ever hear from her again. But as long as there was money to squeeze out of someone, she would never disappear. I’d tried paying her off many times, asking her to only contact me if she wanted to spend time together, not use me as an ATM.
But each time, she came back only once the money ran out. The longest she’d left me in peace was two years. And that was only because I’d given her all the money I’d had access to at the time.
After William found out what I’d done, he’d cut off all my access to his accounts and given me a daily allowance. It was still more money than I’d ever made on my own, but the thought that he didn’t trust me stung even now, years later.
But I didn’t think clearly when it came to my mom. Something I was well aware of but unable to change.
Picking my pencil back up, I added more lines to the portrait I was working on. When I started, I hadn’t been sure what I was going to draw. But it became clear after the first few strokes whose face wouldn’t stay out of my head and demanded to get its own sketch.
At least nobody would see it. Which extended to my terrible dancing. I had an even worse singing voice, butchering every note. But my room was my safe space, the only place I could be myself. And that included shaking my booty and singing.
The music was loud enough to keep anyone in the house awake, but since the staff didn’t sleep on-site except for Archer, I wasn’t worried about disturbing anyone. The only people remaining on the property were the guys outside.
And I guessed Archer was holed up in the pool house. Which was too far away to hear the music. My eyes drifted to the dark building, and a sigh escaped despite my best efforts to tell myself it didn’t bother me that we weren’t talking.
Once I finished the drawing, I pulled out my paints. I’d been mainly drawing with charcoal and a bit of watercolor, but wanted to try my hand at encaustic paint tonight.
I’d never been brave enough since wax had to be heated. But I’d decided to take the plunge tonight, purchasing a wooden board to paint on and a small hot plate to heat the wax. William would have had a heart attack if he knew what I was doing in my room.
The process also included a heat gun, which I was excited to use. I put on my apron and made sure the protective fire-resistant cloth covered the floor and table before heating the metal pots that held the wax.
I decided to paint something I’d done a hundred times before: the beach outside my window. My room faced the water, its location on the top floor the perfect viewing point.
William had built me an art room on the other side of the house that overlooked the driveway and only had one window. Once he realized I preferred painting in the pool room, he’d helped me drag all my supplies and the table there.
It turned out using paint that hardened almost as soon as I applied it wasn’t as fun as I first thought. I wasn’t used to operating a heat gun while painting and created unintentional smudges and shaky strokes.
When I finally gave up, my apron was a mess of paint and burnt spots. My hair now had splashes of green and a few singed edges, and I’d burned my fingers a few times.
At least now I knew I preferred my watercolors and pencils. No more experiments.
Dropping the apron on the floor and turning off any appliances I’d worked with, I made my way to the pantry in the kitchen where the first aid kit was.
I didn’t bother turning any lights on since I could walk there with my eyes closed, and the outside lights shining through the windows provided enough illumination for me to find my way.
Rounding the corner, I toppled into something, bounced back and landed on my butt, knocking the breath out of me.
