Page 7 of Craved By Gray

If I had a cent for every single time I’ve wanted to damn it all to hell and expose my father to the world, I would be rich enough to own not just my apartment, but the entire building. But exposing my father would only cause more harm than good. The man has cops and the press so deep in his pockets, it’s laughable.

To most people, the documents I hold would only show a jumbled mess of numbers, but to a trained eye, they would be able to catch the manipulation of funds if they looked close enough. A part of me wants to toss all of it from my balcony and let it scatter through the city. If this were a movie, they would land in the hands of some uncorrupted cop who would relentlessly pursue my father until he was behind bars and far away from me.

Except it’s not a movie, tossing his financial records would only pollute the city, and I would be forced to start work on them all over again. There is no honest cop that would stumble across them or try to put my father away. The only man brave—or dumb—enough to take on my father is an extremely handsome biker with a death wish.

I groan when thoughts of Gray filter in once more, but who am I kidding? I haven’t stopped thinking about the man and those skillful hands of his…or our almost kiss. It’s been driving me mad since last night and into this morning, imagining what it would have felt like to have his lips firmly on mine. Kissing me, taking me…seducing me.

My father is going to kill him!

The thought sours my fantasies, and my hands clench around the documents I’m holding. Barely anyone does accounting on physical record books anymore, not with so much software available to ease the process, but my father is a paranoid man and likes to keep things old school. Anything that’s not on paper is on his computer, safely locked in his office. He won’t even connect his work computer to the internet, afraid someone might try to hack it.

It’s illegal, what I’m doing, and eventually, my father is going to bring me down with him—or make me take the fall alone.

“Don’t think about it,” I tell myself, closing my eyes and forcing in deep breaths. “It doesn’t matter. I just need to get through the week, and then the next…”

My fingers slowly uncurl from the papers, and I smooth them out before walking back to the couch where there are more scattered over the cushions. I organize and carefully file them before sliding the files into the safe hidden in my living room wall. My father will either come for the files himself or send someone to pick them up. I prefer the latter. Seeing my old man will only sour the week for me.

Finally done with the work, I stretch my arms over my head, rolling my neck to the side to work out the kinks. I’ve been bent over the files all night and should probably go to bed, but Iknow I’ll barely catch any sleep. I turn my head in the direction of the kitchen and roll my lips as I try to talk myself into getting some kind of rest.

It’s been two weeks since I’ve painted.

The painting supplies I keep hidden in my kitchen cabinets beckon for me, begging for my attention, but I hesitate. Painting is to me what food is to most other people—sustenance—and for weeks, I’ve been starving myself.

“Art is for the weak and stupid,” my father’s words echo in my mind, and I chew on my lips. My talent and life will always revolve around accounting and numbers. If he ever found out about my secret hobby, he’d be livid.

It’s my escape.

Walk away, Scarlett. Starve yourself until you can live without. It’s not worth the risk, whispers a voice at the back of my head, but I am too weak to resist. My feet are moving before I know what I’m doing, carrying me toward the kitchen. My heart is pounding like a drum, a steady counterpart to the silence of the apartment. My father’s voice echoes in my head, a constant reminder of his expectations—and disapproval of focusing on anything outside the realm of club business.

He wants my world to revolve around the Vipers. For the band of criminals to become as important to me as they are to him, but I can’t help it.

I need to paint. It’s a clawing need, itchy and insistent.

My hand reaches out, almost hesitant, and touches the cool metal of the drawer handle. My heart stutters, then begins to race as I pull it open, and there they are. My precious weapons, but unlike his, these don’t kill. My brushes, paints, and canvases don’t leave a trail of bodies in my wake.

I pull them out one by one, the weight of them in my hands a grounding force. A tangible reminder that I have a life outside what was constructed for me. A secret. Something personal to just me.

I carry the supplies to the window and place them on the table, arranging each item carefully. My fingers are working almost on instinct, pulling the elastic band from my wrist and wrapping it around my hair, securing it in a tight ponytail. The familiar act feels almost like a ritual, and it grounds me. With the brush between my fingers, I feel more like myself than I did with that pen and calculator.

“Let’s see what I come up with today,” I breathe, dipping the brush into the paint, intent on letting my imagination take over. I don’t have a subject in mind, so I let the stroke of the brush guide me, let my mind just…dream.

It’s almost like something takes over, and I tune out the rest of the world. In here, it’s just me and my painting, and I barely glance at the clock as I lose myself in the smell of paint, the feeling of the smooth canvas, and the sound it makes as the brushes run over it.

It takes hours—days, it feels like—before the painting begins to take shape. I bury my teeth in my bottom lip as I lean in, darkening the blue of his eyes, and…

Oh God!

I jump back, dropping the brush from my fingers, and it hits the floor with a splat, spraying paint everywhere, but I barely focus on that, my eyes locked on the half-finished painting of a portrait. I rarely do those, and yet, that is what my mind wandered to. What my fingers created.

Gray.

I can’t believe I got the exact shape of his eyes, painting the man’s face from memory alone, and God, what does that make me if not insane? Obsessed with someone I can never be with.

But that doesn’t exactly mean that I’m going to stop thinking about him or the way he makes me feel. The man is a god, uber hot. He’s tall, way taller than my five-six, with broad shoulders and muscles that stretched his shirt.

And those blue eyes…

Seriously. Get a grip, Scarlett!

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