Page 37 of Beautiful Monster

I can’t be in this pool house. I need air. I need room to think.

My paints are still all out, and I realize in the back of my mind, I have to close them up before they warp and dry. The open can of magenta is sitting on the scaffolding next to the chartreuse, and I hate how bright they are. I hate how vibrant they look and how dull I feel in comparison. So, I grab the blue quart, considering for a moment that I could toss it against the wall, watch it splatter against the work I’ve done. I imagine the blue paint staining every surface around me.

Tears prick my eyes.

Instead of throwing it like I want to, I grab the lid and mallet, slamming it in place before I can do anything stupid. Bile rises in my chest as I turn and run. Dashing across the yard, I run up to my room. The house is silent as I crash into my bed.

When my face hits the pillow, I scream.

I hate Alexander Caldwell more than I’ve ever hated anyone in my entire life. I hate him because I want him. I hate his beautiful eyes and the way he looks at me. I hate him for the way he sees me. Like I matter. Like an adult. Like an artist.

I hate him for not being mine.

CHAPTER 12

ALEXANDER

When I return to the table in the crowded club, Diana is standing alone, sipping on her third vodka soda tonight. My eyes catch on the way her satin dress hangs on those perfectly round hips. The neckline hangs low, and just one little tug on the fabric would release those deliciously full tits.

I adjust myself in my pants as I approach. “Where’s Tyson?” I ask, leaning toward her.

“He went to meet the guy in the parking lot,” she replies.

The guy. Meaning he’s buying more blow.

It’s becoming a nightly occurrence, and someone should probably say something. He’s going overboard.

Both Diana and I stay silent.

Instead, she looks at me, her gaze lingering a moment too long.

Mine trails slowly down her body.

I step toward her, letting my knuckles brush the soft satin of her dress.

She nudges an inch closer.

Then, she glances up at me. “We don’t have much time.”

I glance around to be sure it’s safe. Then, I take her by the hand and rush toward the bathroom. I’m drunk enough that the music and crowd has started to blur in my periphery.

But not drunk enough to face the fact that I should be worried about my friend. I could stop him from going down a dangerous road. I could be a better man and put him first.

But I’m not a better man. I’m a monster.

So, I slide my hands up his wife’s dress instead.

I came into my office this morning with the intent to unpack and set up a workspace. Instead, I’m sitting among the boxes, scrolling through old photos on my phone. They go back at least ten years when I helped my best friend, Tyson and his wife, Diana, open a new gym on the west side of town. Most of the pictures are of us working on the opening ceremony, the thrill of that day, the excitement of watching our hard work pay off and seeing those customers roll in. Tyson was the brains behind the business. I was the investor and his support. We ended up investing in and launching half a dozen more businesses—until last year, when I ruined everything between us, and he stopped talking to me.

When I hear Sunny’s music in the pool house, I try to avoid going out there. I already know things are going to be awkward. She bolted yesterday after she caught me and Cadence talking alone.

Emerging from the house moments later, I found Sunny gone and her painting supplies hastily put away. Almost as if she was mad at me.

But why?

I didn’t kiss her sister. I didn’t even touch her, except to remove her hands from my body. I thought that’s what Sunny would want. But if there’s anyone on this earth I can’t seem to understand, it’s that girl.

Part of me wonders if I should have just kissed Cadence. Not because I want to or because I want to go back down that path of my life.