Page 23 of Paint the Town, Dove
I leaned against her. Truer words have never escaped me. “I haven’t figured that out yet.”
She cleared her throat, stepping away from my touch. I caught a sheen of gloss coating her eyes, but she blinked it away. Back to that untouchable, unbreakable dove.
“You’re getting a tad soft, you know,” she joked, her tone unsteady. “Something wrong?”
I could ask the same of you, I wanted to say. But I knew best when to stop arguing with Scarlett –or when to start.
She thought I was unaware of her nerves, the way she’d pinch the cuticles of her nails when something made her anxious.I transcend stress, she’d always tell me. As if she could make me believe it – as if telling herself enough times would make it possible.
The key differences between her and I were simple. I was emotional and I never denied it, never learned to hide it because I couldn’t. You could see that shit on my goddamn face and I was proud of it.
Artists held pockets of life in every crease, every dimple, every scar and freckle on their body. Our faces told a story – our minds brought it to life. I wasn’t ashamed of those emotions, but Scar…
God.
For a fearless girl, she was made up of fear.
Brought up in it –
Breathed it in, every waking minute she couldn’t shut it off. This primal instinct to survive, to be more, toactmore – because long ago, her innocence was trapped in a box of stuffed toys she never had and cheap crayons Sinead let her play with. That same box got shipped off to a rehab facility and a coffin.
She was never the same since.
Or maybe, that’swho she always was.
Fierce, strong, mature.
All because she never knew the difference between parental love and parental reliance. And herparentsrelied on Scarlett. Not the other way around.
“You’re lost...” Her hand was on my arm now, gripping onto the fabric of my shirt. She’d always say that when I was deep in thought. She could tell, always she could tell.
“You’re right.” I cleared my throat, glancing once more at the mirror before stepping out of the doorframe. “This isn’t the bar.”
“Uh huh,” she frowned. “You’re telling me you haven’t had a single drink since coming back from the interview?”
I crossed my heart in dishonesty. “Clean as a whistle.”
“Right. Let me smell your breath.”
In one motion, I hooked my arm around her waist, chests colliding. A sharp breath escaped her lips and I smirked, relishing in thewantburied deep beneath my bones.
Scarlett was so much shorter than me, the top of her head levelled below my neck. My fingers trained up the back of her dress as I tugged her ponytail down, forcing her chin up to face me.
“You know I’m lying,” I breathed, staring into those magnificent fucking eyes.
For a split second, Isawthe nerves flare across her cheeks. Red in colour, matching the fire in her hair. “I always know,” she whispered.
The moment was over before I could capture it, pin it to my heart. She slipped out of my grasp and turned away. “I’ll be out in a minute. Got to freshen up.”
So many missed opportunities.
So many forgotten feelings.
I backed out slowly, shutting the door with a soft click. When I signed with my first label, Scar stepped into her managerial role like she was born to it, like she’d finally found a purpose beyond breakability. Since then, she had the tendency to forget that we weresomethingbefore we were business partners. Ineverhave.
After a few minutes of waiting by the door, I scrolled through my contacts for Mallory, my PR director.
Mallory was seven years older than me and did damn good things for my image. Through every scandal, she had been the second in command to clearing my name, and trust me,that wasn’t easy.Our relationship was strictly business, a platonic friendship that we’d cultivated over the years of working together.Immune to the Ryden charm, I used to think. But over time I leaned into the idea that people could simply respect you without desiring you, that not everyone outside my bubble was out to get me – had an ulterior motive.
