Page 51 of Don't Bet On It
“If you could pick one job to do—I’m talking any job; it doesn’t matter what you’re qualified for—what would it be?” I asked, deftly changing the subject.
She didn’t laugh at the question or wave it off. She actually considered it. “I would want to be a sculptor.”
Her response was unexpected. “Do you know how to sculpt?”
She shrugged. “I’ve taken a few classes. The instructors all said I had aptitude. It’s not something I can dedicate my time to, though. I have bills to pay. I need actual space in a studio to work because sculptures take time. I can’t afford that right now so … it’s basically a pipe dream.”
I wet my lips. Should I tell her about my dreams? How weird was it that our dreams overlapped? I’d never seen that coming.
“You were in my art classes,” I said instead, my mind drifting back to high school. “Now that I think about it, you were in all the art classes.”
“Not all of them.” She shook her head. “There were some expensive ones that cost more than two grand a semester for supplies. I couldn’t participate in those. I took all the ones I could, though.”
My heart panged again. My father had thought nothing of writing the checks for my art classes. He’d wanted me to have a hobby. Well, as long as I was still interested in sports. That had been the trade-off.
I hadn’t actually wanted to be on the football team or the basketball team. I loathed track, but it was preferable tobaseball, which required a lot more travel. I put effort into all of those sports simply because it enabled me to enjoy my art classes without having to tap my mother to intervene between my father and me.
“I like art too,” I admitted finally. “I like sculpting, although I don’t think it’s my strongest gift.”
“What is your strongest gift?”
I sent her a wolfish smile. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“You don’t even know if I like lanky men,” she reminded me.
That had me laughing. I liked how quick she was on her feet. The temper thing was an issue, but I had a feeling that it stemmed from her constant fear of losing the people she loved. Most recently, that was Olivia. She didn’t want to let Olivia down and she would fight to the death to protect her. Tallulah had been relatively calm in the face of Kyla’s anger until our boss pointed it at Olivia. Then all bets were off.
Still, therapy wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Tallulah might need a bit more. I had no intention of giving up my therapy. We might be a match there as well.
“Painting,” I said. “I love to paint.” I considered telling her about my gallery dreams but discarded that notion right away. It might seem like I was rubbing it in because she couldn’t even afford to rent space at a studio to work.
“That’s cool. I like painting too.” Her smile was fast and easy. “I saved up in high school and bought a really expensive set of brushes.”
“Do you still have them?”
“No.” Her smile faltered. “Sharon sold them when she needed money for a trip. I should’ve hidden them better.”
How could she blame herself for her mother being a terrible person? I hated that for her. “What do you think is going to happen with Kyla?” I asked, changing the subject yet again. I could’ve talked to her forever about art. I had a keen interestto know who her favorite painter was, how she approached her sculptures, and whether she ever visited the local galleries.
All of that seemed like a dangerous route to take, however.
Tallulah shrugged. “I have a feeling that Candy is going to exert control and it’s going to come back and bite us all.”
“Yeah, I was wondering about that too.” I stroked my chin. “I’m guessing it’s going to get ugly.”
“Oh, they’re going to have to invent a new word for ugly.”
I WALKED TALLULAH HOME. SHE CLAIMED ITwasn’t necessary, but it was late when we left the bar. Since we were off Strip, that meant a fifteen-minute walk for her in an area that couldn’t necessarily be deemed safe.
She swore that she was fine and could handle it. I smiled all the while she ranted, waiting for her to eventually give up. The thing about Tallulah was that she never gave up. She ranted the whole fifteen minutes until we were in front of her door.
“Well, that wasn’t so bad,” I said as she rooted in her bag for her keys. “Other than the complaining, that is. The never-ending complaining.”
She gave me a sidelong look. “I didn’t complain. It was a nice walk.”
I laughed then shook my head. She paused when she had her keys out, seemingly torn. When she looked up at me, I realized I was a lot closer than I probably should’ve been.
“Um, so, thanks for the drinks.” She licked her lips, drawing my attention to her pretty mouth.
