Page 7 of Clashing
Roxy
Scarlett
Theartshowwentbetter than I hoped. I showed up with over ten large pieces and a handful of smaller ones. I came home with one small drawing. That was ahugesuccess for an artist, and I made lots of good contacts thanks to René, a gallery owner in town who encouraged me to move so I could immerse myself in the art community and be featured in her gallery. I met her last year when she scouted talent at my college exhibition. We’d hit it off, and she loved my work. All positive things.
Of course, René was also the reason I had a ceaseless nagging in my head. I gripped the steering wheel tighter, twisting my fists around it. The show went well. I had no reason to overthink. Yet, one single interaction with her stood out amongst all the praise.
“Thank you so much for helping me get in,” I’d said to René.
She looked stunning as ever in her black high heels and long, red dress. Everything about her, from her gently waved mahogany hair cascading along her spine to the way she glided toward patrons, screamedclass. I did my best in the little black number I bought from an off-price department store.
“You didn’t need my help.” René swirled sparkling wine in her glass, her nude nails scraping against the smooth texture. “You’re doing great. I can’t wait for your masterwork.”
“What do you mean?”
“When you finally figure it out. You’re already amazing.” She smiled and tilted her glass toward me. “Outstanding, even. Once you figure it out, it’s over for everyone else here.”
“Figure what out?”
“You know, whatever it is Scarlett needs.” She gestured vaguely. “What she wants. There’s something holding you back. You’re the only one who can figure out what it is. You’ll see what I mean.”
What I wantedandneeded? I’d already figured that out. Or I thought I had. She had me questioning my own decisions, and not even blaring music on the drive home quieted my thoughts.
All my needs were provided for. I had a place to live, a somewhat steady income, plus I had Dan. What else could a girl possibly need? As far as wants . . . Everyone wanted something they didn’t have. Once upon a time, I’d wanted a life that included a family. I’d wanted a husband who couldn’t take his hands off me and a kid I’d spend all the time with that my mom never could with me because she had to provide for us by herself.Assuming I can have a kid with the PCOS and endometriosis.
I’d thrown all those hopes out when I swore off men, but it wasn’t as if my new life was something to scoff at. I got to live in California, next to a father figure I adored, doing what I loved. It’d be greedy to want more.
I huffed and shook my head. This was getting to me too much. René was a distinguished collector. She knew her shit. Whatever she meant, I needed to figure it out, but I didn’t need to get existential about it.
As I approached the bar, I turned early. Dan was working, and that meant his house and garage were empty. I pulled into his driveway and texted him that I was ten minutes out. This was my only chance.
I crept up to the rustic house with faded white paint chipping off the siding. The single, recently planted tree in the front yard provided minimal coverage, so I moved quickly until the side fence shielded me in case Dan took out the trash. I fumbled with my spare key for the side door leading into the garage and twisted it in the lock. The resultingcreakwhen it opened made me wince, though logically, Dan couldn’t hear it from inside the bar.
Dust greeted me, and I wrinkled my nose as I batted at the stale, hot air. He must’ve forgotten to turn the light off today because the dim bulb in the middle of the garage illuminated floating particles.
I approached the covered motorcycle that hadn’t been ridden in years but was still his baby. Yanking the cover off, I coughed at the dust that lifted with it. My nose tickled until I gave in and squeaked out a sneeze.
“What are you doing in here?”
I screamed and turned. Ryker stood a few feet behind me, boots covered in dust. My heart restarted. Then my brows pulled together. “What areyoudoing in here? I have a key.”
He held up Dan’s blue carabiner. “So do I.”
My shoulders deflated. Was he not only a regular but also Dan’sfriend? That made him an even worse idea. “Oh. Question still applies.”
He crossed his thick, tattooed arms, and I needed to fan myself for more than the hot garage air. “I asked first.”
“Yeah, well, Dan’s practically my family, and this house goes to me, so you’re almost trespassing if you don’t tell me why you’re here.”
His lips quirked in a half-smile. “My buddy’s bike needs work, and Dan said he had some spare parts.” He jingled the keys at me. “Told me to take my pick of anything. Specifically asked I don’t touch the bike you just uncovered.”
I nodded, avoiding his eyes. “Yep. He doesn’t like anyone touching Roxy.”
“But you’re here touching Roxy.”
“Technically, I touched Roxy’s cover. Not Roxy herself.”
A muscle in his jaw ticked. “What are you doing, sugar?”
