Chasing Castles (Finding Focus #2) (18 page)

“I was just tellin’ Sam that you’d better not miss our phone date,” she says instead of answering the phone with the traditional ‘hello’.

“I’m glad I called then. I don’t need to be in the dog house,” I say, jokingly.

“Like you’ve ever been in the dog house a day in your life,” she says with a laugh. I love her laugh; it’s almost as good as her hugs—able to mend a broken heart and right all the wrongs in the world when needed. “Alright, spill it,” she demands. “I can already tell somethin’s on your mind, and I want to know everything.”

“I don’t know.” I sigh, trying to decide where to begin.

“Is it school?”

“No, school’s great. I mean, I’m super busy tryin’ to finish everything so I can graduate next semester, but I still love it.” I sigh again and pause. “I guess I’m just worried I’m losin’ my inspiration. I don’t know what to paint anymore. And when I do, it feels forced.” I groan at the admission and slump down on the bench.

“Sounds like you need to take a break and relax a bit.”

“That’d be amazing, but I just don’t have time. Tristan has me workin’ all day and night lately, helpin’ him get the gallery ready for a big-time local artist’s show. It’s not the work I mind. I find this side of the art world very interesting, but I hate that it’s zappin’ all my creative energy.”

“So, when are you gonna have
your
opening night?”

“I still don’t know. Tristan said he’s tryin’ to find a time for me on the calendar, but . . .” There’s no need to finish my sentence because it’s always the same. He’s been promising me my own show since we first met, but still nothing. I rarely ask him about it because I don’t want him to think that’s the only reason I’m with him. It’s not. He’s smart and handsome and great in bed. We have fun together when we’re not arguing, and he can be very sweet when he wants to be. It just bugs me that he doesn’t seem to respect, or even like, my art . . . not like he used to, anyway. I mean, it’s what brought us together in the first place.

“Well, then what else is botherin’ you? And if you say nothin’, I might whip you.”

I can’t help but laugh. I wouldn’t put it past her to drive down here and set me straight if I needed it.

I let out another deep sigh. “I think I’m just havin’ one of those moments where I question every decision I’ve ever made.” I try to laugh so that my words don’t sound so heavy, but it falls flat.

She’s quiet for a couple of minutes before she says, “I thought you were happy in New Orleans?”

“I am. On most days.”

“And the days you’re not?”

“I miss home.”

“Then come home,” she says like it’s such an easy thing to do.

“I can’t just leave, and besides, I love it here. I do.”

“Then what’s goin’ on that makes you unhappy? Does this have anything to do with Tristan?” She says his name like she’s trying it out, not wanting to commit to it, and I feel awful for not sharing more of this part of my life with her. “Tell me about him. All I know is that he owns a gallery.”

“Well, his parents own it. He runs it for them.”

“And?”

“And, he’s great . . . on most days.”

“And the days he’s not?” she asks. Her voice takes a sudden turn and doesn’t sound like her usual chipper tone.

“I don’t know,” I hesitate. I hate this because I do care for Tristan and I don’t want to talk badly about him, especially to Annie, because I want her to like him, but everything that’s wanting to come out of my mouth right now would solidify her opinion of him.

“You can tell me, Cami . . . and you know, it always stays right here,” she says, reassuring me.

“We argue a lot,” I admit. “Not all the time, but occasionally, and the times we’re not arguing, I feel like I’m biting my tongue to keep from starting somethin’. Lately, I feel like I can’t do anything right by him. He never takes an interest in my art anymore, and if I do show him something, he has something critical to say. But then there are days when I feel like he gets me and appreciates me, as an artist and as a girlfriend. I’m just not sure what to do.”

“Well,” she begins. I can tell she’s trying to be diplomatic. “Relationships are never easy. And with love comes passion, and sometimes, that means arguments, especially when you’re trying to figure each other out.”

Yeah, I get that.

“But, Cami, honey,” she continues. “No matter what, you’ve got to stay true to you. Don’t let him dull your shine. If it’s not working out, it’s not working out. You can’t fit a square peg in a round hole.”

I laugh, shaking my head. You just gotta love Annie’s analogies. But it makes sense. And I guess it’s up to me to decide if Tristan is a square peg or not . . . or am I the peg? I don’t know, but I’ll figure it out. I have to, because if I don’t, I might just lose myself, and I refuse to let that happen.

I’m Camille Benoit.

I might bend, but I won’t break.

“I’m so excited to see Tucker perform tonight,” I tell Tristan as I step out of my work clothes and walk into his closet.

“I can tell,” he replies. “I can’t even remember the last time I’ve seen you so happy.”

Even though he can’t see me, I still roll my eyes and try to ignore the resentment in his tone. I refuse to feel guilty for being happy about seeing my brother tonight. And, as far as the last time I was this happy, I know exactly when it was. It was a few months ago, on the opening night of my show. That night was a dream come true and has brought some new opportunities for me, but I know not to bring it up to Tristan right now. It would just put him in an even worse mood.

After dressing, I twirl in front of Tristan’s full-length mirror and admire my reflection. I finally look like a woman . . . I feel like one, too. I’m making it in a big city by myself, doing what I love, and I’m enjoying the little bit of success I’ve had. The jeans I’m wearing tonight were a gift to myself after my opening at the gallery. It’s the first pair of designer anything I’ve ever had and, although it was hard paying so much for denim, I have to admit they make my ass look good.

Tristan is getting dressed by his bed, and I admire him. His body is long and lean, even though he’s only a few inches taller than I am, and I love watching his back muscles twist and turn as he moves. He’s very graceful, meticulous with every step. We’re so different. Sometimes I wonder if we’ll stay together for very long, or if we even should. I know I’m not in love with him, but I do love him. I try not to compare him to Deacon, but there are times when I just can’t help it. I doubt any man can make me feel like Deacon did, and it’s unfair to hold others up against him.

I walk over to Tristan and wrap my arms around him from behind. He halts his movements but doesn’t say anything.

“I don’t want to fight; I just want to see my brother and have some fun. I know where we’re going isn’t your style, but can you let loose and try to enjoy yourself tonight? For me? It’s important to me.”

He takes one of my hands and pulls it to his mouth and kisses it. “Of course, I can, Camille. I’ve never seen this side of you; I’m anxious to meet your brother and see what all the fuss is about.” He laughs and turns around so he can kiss me properly, and I melt into his arms.

“Everyone loves Tucker, so I’m sure you will, too,” I assure him. To be honest, I’m incredibly nervous for Tristan and Tucker to meet. Tonight has the possibility to go really well or become a complete disaster, but I try not to worry too much.

Half an hour later, we’re in Tristan’s car headed to a side of the city we rarely venture to. I can tell Tristan isn’t happy, and it worries me that this night might not go how I’d hoped. When he’s like this, anything and everything can set him off.

I try not to let his mood get to me, and when we pull up outside of the bar, I feel the excitement bubble up inside me.

Inside, the bar is crowded, and the music is already loud. We find a table just as Tucker strums the opening chords.

It’s so great to see him on stage again. He’s such a natural at performing. I know he’s my brother, and I’m probably biased, but he’s awesome, and I think he’s got even better since the last time I saw him play live. It won’t surprise me if he makes it big one day. The amazing thing about him, though, is that he doesn’t care if he becomes a huge rock star; he just wants to play music. I admire that about him. He’s happy just to do what he loves.

Tristan won’t get on the dance floor with me, so I stand up by our table and dance there instead. I also say a silent prayer that the stick up his ass falls out one of these days. My voice is almost hoarse from yelling and singing so much, but I don’t care. Seeing Tucker up on the stage fills me with so much pride and nostalgia, and I’m having a great time. I only wish Stacey was here with me. She’d dance with me for sure.

I’m startled when I feel Tristan stand behind me; his body pressed against my back. Thinking that stick finally fell out, I lean back against him and grind my ass on his crotch. His hands grab my hips and stop their movements immediately.

“Have some class and act like a lady, Camille,” he scolds. “I’m only standing here because of the attention you’re attracting from the other men. They can’t keep their eyes off you, so I have to show them you belong to me.”

Yep, that stick is firmly in place. Good to know.

The set ends, and I see Tucker set his guitar on the stage before stepping off and heading our way. Now is not the time for a fight, but I can’t keep my mouth shut.

“Would you like for me to stretch my leg out so you can piss on it and mark me properly?”

“You’re such a child, Camille. I can’t believe I agreed to come here tonight. I knew it was a mistake.”

“You’re free to leave any time you want, Tristan. Contrary to your opinion of me, I’m a big girl and can get home on my own.”

Before he can respond, Tucker makes his way to us and grabs me, picking me up and spinning us around until I’m threatening to throw up on him.

“Hey, little sis! Havin’ fun?” Tucker is sweaty and gross, but he’s truly a sight for my homesick eyes.

“Of course, I am. You and the band sound great tonight. The crowd loves y’all, too,” I say.

A throat clears beside me, and I’m reminded that I’m not alone, even though a part of me wishes I were. It would be nice just to hang out with Tucker like old times, without the judgmental glare of Tristan. “Tucker, I’d like you to meet my boyfriend, Tristan Harding.” I place my hand on Tristan’s arm. “Tristan, this is my brother, Tucker.”

“Nice to meet ya, Tristan,” Tucker says, shaking his hand. “I need a beer. Y’all want one?”

“A red wine?” Tristan counters, causing Tucker to bark out a harsh laugh.

“Dude, look around,” Tucker says, gesturing to the rough interior and dim lights. Lit up beer signs litter the walls. “Even if they did have wine, I’d advise you not to drink it.”

“Right,” Tristan says, his voice taking on a strong better-than-you vibe that I’ve heard from him a time or two, but I don’t like it. I hate it.

I narrow my eyes at him, trying to tell him without words to stop acting like a pretentious prick.

“I’ll just have a sparkling water, then,” he says as he slides back into a chair at the table.

Tucker looks at me, eyebrows raised. “Are you kidding me?” he mouths from behind Tristan.

I give him a tight-lipped smile. “Two waters,” I tell Tucker, pleading with every ounce of my being for him to not . . . just not. I can’t handle a big showdown right here in the middle of the bar. This is supposed to be a fun night, and it has been, sorta, but Tucker beating up my boyfriend would be a definite turn for the worse.

“Alright, two waters, comin’ right up,” he says, leaning in to kiss my cheek and then turning toward the bar. I watch him as he walks right up, the waitresses giving him their undivided attention.

“Interesting,” Tristan mumbles from behind me.

I turn to him, daring him to say one more thing about Tucker. For once, he doesn’t say something pretentious or smart ass. He keeps his mouth shut. And I thank the Lord for small miracles.

When Tucker returns, the three of us sit at the table, and I try to find some common ground between the two of them, bringing up the fact that Tristan plays a couple of instruments.

“Oh, really,” Tucker says, leaning forward and putting forth a good effort. “What do you play?”

“I play the piano and the violin,” Tristan says, not willing to budge an inch. “I went to a private school and was professionally trained by one of the best teachers in North America. How about you?”

“Taught myself,” Tucker says proudly, tipping up his bottle of beer. “After our mama died, Cami picked up painting, and I picked up a guitar.”

“That’s interesting,” Tristan says taking a sip of his water, but the scowl on his face tells me it’s not up to snuff. When he sets the glass down, he pushes it to the middle of the table.

Is
interesting
his new favorite word, or has he lost the ability to converse and be a decent human being?

My insides are a jumbled mess, and I’m seriously considering telling him to take a hike, but just like always, he knows when he’s been an ass, and he starts to backtrack.

“I’ve always admired self-taught people.” He adjusts in his seat and clears his throat. “I think it says a lot about a person and also their talent.”