Page 14 of Beautiful Monster

After she’s gone, I open up a bottle of bourbon and pour a glass. I should probably order dinner, but I don’t have the energy to even look up anything. Instead, I walk out onto my patio and plant my ass in one of my lounge chairs. Sunny isn’t swimming anymore, but I watch her yard like I’m waiting for her to come back. Counting the windows to her house, I try to guess what each one is, based on my drunk night at the party stumbling through the rooms and finding the artist sitting on her floor like a child. There’s a large window overlooking the yard on the right and a couple smaller ones on the left. I’m pretty sure the one on the right is hers.

God, I hope it’s hers.

Fuck. What is wrong with me?

I’m not the barely legal kind of guy. Horny teens were never my thing, and I certainly don’t get off on the idea of being anyone’s first anymore. That ship has sailed.

So, what the hell was that upstairs? It wasn’t about Sunny’s age. But man, I’d like to fuck someone who actually feels things. Who makes me feel things. I can’t remember the last time I met someone who oozed passion the way she does. Not just in her art, but in the intensity of her gaze.

I’m tired of these emotionless lays, like mutual getting off and moving on. I’m over it. I’m not making any more booty calls. It’s a weak resolution, but I repeat it to myself over and over. I’m not calling any more girls over here for a quick romp just so I can sulk about it afterward.

I mean, I’m not giving up sex entirely. But the next person I sleep with, I want to mean something. Someone who breathes life into me.

Sunny’s eyes pop up in my mind again.

Fuck.

Looking over at the empty wall in the pool house, I realize this is probably a very stupid idea. If I have her over here every day, sweating in that hot little room, in those silk pants, I’m screwed.

I mean, look at me. I’m sitting on my patio chair for far too long, waiting for a light to come on in her room and hating myself more and more every second.

I should probably cancel the offer.

But I’d be lying if I said it was about the mural. I want those eyes of hers—even for just a few minutes every day. I want to see her in my space, looking at me, quiet and nervous with the whole fucking world behind her stare. I want it.

And it’s not sexual. I’m not trying to get in a teenager’s panties. I just can’t handle empty stares anymore. No more fake tits. Fake eyelashes. Fake orgasms.

Sunny is real, and right now, I’m craving something real.

CHAPTER 5

SUNNY

The next morning, I'm standing in Alexander’s backyard with my paintbrushes and other supplies loaded into my backpack. Just like yesterday, he's there waiting.

"Good thing there's space to get through the hedges in the yard."

I smile tightly at him as he lets me in. He's shirtless and sweaty again. The scent of sweat and sawdust radiates from his skin, and I watch as a drop of moisture trails down his hair-dusted pecs. I wonder if he realizes what a distraction that is.

The interaction with my mother yesterday had my head spinning all day. Could they be right that this is all a ploy to get me into bed?

I didn't talk to Cadence at all yesterday, and I never go that long without talking to my sister. She's my ally. Without her, I have no one. But the way she looked at me yesterday, with spite and bitterness, and…jealousy, had me feeling betrayed.

Alexander is forty—a man. And while his face is the kind of sculpted beauty that makes my heart pitter-patter right out of my chest, I don’t see myself with someone like him. To him, I’m a scrawny, quiet kid. Next to my sister, that’s what I feel like.

When I came out to the pool yesterday afternoon, I swear I saw someone else in Alex's window—a woman. My chest stung with envy. I tried not to stare, but with the way the sun sets behind his house, it was so easy to see in his window from the pool. I wonder if he can see in my bedroom that easily. I wonder if he wants to.

He unlocks the door and guides me into my workspace. It's hot in here, hotter than I think it was yesterday. There's a two-level scaffolding in place next to the wall. On the first level, there are new brushes, a new apron, drop cloths, paper, mixing cans, and palettes.

My jaw hangs open. He bought me all new supplies.

"I went out this morning. I hope this stuff works."

I don’t respond as I let my fingers graze the new brushes.

"I know you don't have the paint yet, but let me know what you need, and I'll order it."

Glancing up at him, my mind is reeling. He bought everything for me. How can paintbrushes create this flutter in my stomach?