Page 172 of Forever Never
* * *
Fifteen minutes later,Brick’s cell phone rang, provoking a frustrated growl. He pulled back from Remi’s mouth, leaving her breathless, perched on the kitchen counter. His expression hardened when he glanced at the screen.
“It’s my dad. I need to take this.”
“Your dad?” She blinked. As far as she had known, Brick’s relationship with his father was non-existent.
“He’s been keeping an eye on Vorhees for me when he’s in Chicago.”
The man had repaired a relationship with his estranged father to help keep her friend safe. Overwhelmed and stupidly in love, she grabbed Brick by the shirt and kissed him hard. “I love you.”
He groaned and took a step back. “Finish this when I get back from my shift?”
They’d never be finished exploring each other, tasting each other. Devouring each other.
She nodded and blew him another kiss.
He winked, mouthed “behave,” and walked out, leaving her swooning after him.
She was still in mid-swoon when her own phone rang a few minutes later.
“Raj,” she said, answering the video call. “What can I do for my favorite agent?”
“Are you drunk?” He looked both over-the-top and dapper in a crushed velvet sport coat in amethyst.
“Nope. Just happy,” she said, hopping off the counter.
“You know what would make me happy?” He pulled off his glasses and polished them.
“I shudder at the possibilities.” She headed into the studio, knowing exactly why he’d called.
“I’d be happy if my client was painting something I could sell.”
“Excuse me. I hope you’re more understanding about personal crises with your other clients who haven’t yet fired you.”
“And she’s back to mean,” Rajesh said with satisfaction. “Tell me you’ve at least picked up a freaking brush.”
She’d done more than that. Slowly but surely, she’d begun to forge a path back to her art. In Chicago, she’d painted nearly every day. Here, with a large, manly distraction constantly in her periphery, she’d started to settle into a new routine. One that could accommodate her aggressive sex-having schedule.
“I’ve got two pieces for you to look at,” she told her agent.
“About fucking time, dude.”
“Bite me.” The man was a pain in the ass, but he “got” her. And her art. He had an eye for what was great and what was an imitation of great. She turned the camera around so he could see the painting.
“Burn it,” he announced.
She rolled her eyes. “Ass!”
He was right, of course. It was sloppy. The colors were off, and she’d overdone it, not trusting her instincts that told her when the piece was finished.
“Hey, if you want your hand held, go get a different agent. If you want a motherfucking avalanche of dolla bills, stick with me. I’ll tell you when a piece says ‘badass baller.’Next.”
Early on in their relationship, she’d once broken a canvas over his head. He’d worn the wood frame like a laurel around his neck while he told her the next piece made her a goddamn genius.
“Fine. Here’s the other piece,” she said, moving the camera. This one was a bigger painting. Pastels in yellow and pink mixed with navy blue on a milky background. She’s painted it to violinist Tim Fain’s “Freedom” in a weekend while Brick had back-to-back shifts at the bar and station.
“Nowthat’sballer, dude. I can sell the shit out of that.”
