Page 13 of Washed Up
I raise my hands. “No, I didn’t read it. It was obviously private. I just saw it. It was on the floor. I picked it up.”
He gives me a hard look with those livid green eyes, lips pursed. I lean back, anticipating a cobra-like strike, or at least a pithy remark, but I sustain neither wound.
“Most fans would have photographed it or stolen it outright.”
“But then they’d miss out on those ideas becoming something. Isn’t there anything good in there?”
I’m sure there must be. The bits I saw seemed deep and meaningful.
He angles his head back so that he’s gazing at the sky. “If you’d asked me four months back, I’d have said yes.”
“So, what changed?”
Wynter shakes his head and brings his fingers to his mouth, where the digits play along his plump lower lip. After a minute or so, it becomes obvious I’m not going to get an answer.
“I’m a photographer. When I get stifled, I soak up other media. I listen to music, read, go places, just try to fill the creative well.”
He nods, but it fast turns into a shake. “I’m not interested in listening to everyone else’s finished masterpieces.”
“So, a film. There must be something you want to watch that qualifies as pure escapism.”
“There is one thing I’ve been putting off.”
He names a recent blockbuster I wouldn’t have expected him to like, starring Felicity Caine, a former child star that I used to love watching in the Caine Chronicles as a teen. Dad used to watch with me. We had a deal: he’d watch my choice, and I’d watch his. We’d both pretend it was a chore and that we hated the other’s choice, but we never missed a single episode of either show. “Watch it.”
“It’s supposed to be my reward for finishing the album.”
“Sometimes you have to cut yourself a break and just eat the chocolate.”
He absorbs my advice with a frown.
Reid reappears. He towers over us, peering at us suspiciously. “Everything all right?” It’s a reasonable question, given how Wynter and I are frowning at one another.
“Fine,” I say.
Reid offers me a hand up. “I spoke to Ric, he said you can pop over tomorrow and see his setup, with the caveat that you subject yourself to his scrutiny. Apparently, everyone who enters his studio is fair game.
“Iris is a photographer,” he explains to Wynter.
“Yeah, she said.”
Not that I’m about to turn the offer down, but what will Alaric Liddell see when he analyses me through his viewfinder in my bruised and battered state? I’ll endure it, no matter. Anything for the opportunity of a one-on-one meeting with him.
Life has certainly become interesting since my arrival on Liddell Island.
CHAPTER SIX
Reid
Ric’s invitation settles the question of Iris’s presence. After dinner I let her use my laptop so she can access her bank account, cancel her cards, and order new ones to be delivered here. Wynter remains silent regarding what that means in terms of her continued presence. He seems to have warmed to her a little after their chat earlier.
Plus, he has sisters, and I pointed out that he might want to think about how he’d like them to be treated if they ever found themselves in a similar situation.
I find him sitting in the dark in the lounge long after we’ve all said our goodnights and retired to our respective rooms. He’s drinking whisky neat and striking matches one after another, letting them burn right down until the flames almost touch his fingertips before blowing them out.
I pad downstairs and take possession of the matchbox. “We need those to light the fire.” Something I do. It’s chilly down here in the dead of night. The dry kindling catches, and the flames give the shadows an orange tint.
There’s no point in asking what’s up, I already know. I thread myself around him and wrap him in a hug. Initially, he resists, but I don’t let up, and eventually he caves and sinks into my embrace.
