Vertical Lines (The Vert Series Book 1) (6 page)

The artist’s lair. Even with the blank walls, the space screams of beauty. The white on white, a bold contrast to the natural-wood table in front of the glass wall, framed by a lowseated couch in deep gray. A cozy chair sits perpendicular to the couch, separating the bed and desk from the living area.

My eyes fall on the artist himself, his imposing frame standing right inside the glass doors, his dark eyes watching me while I look at his space.

“You wore color.” My cheeks heat. I look down at the cotton shift dress in coral I paired with yellow ankle sandals. “Good. Pale colors make you look cold.”

“Maybe I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

My brow arches. “Is that a habit? Telling people what they should wear? What they aren’t?”

“Brooks is
all about
telling people what they can and can’t do.” Malcolm walks past us. “Eventually, someone’s going to kick his ass for it.”

“Nala did—earlier today,” Brooks says. His eyes flick to Malcolm for a second before coming back to me.

Malcolm’s sneer falls a little. “Of course she did.” Taking a deep breath, he steps through the glass sliding door that leads to the backyard. His voice booms out, but I miss what he says when it slides shut behind him.

I grip the handle of my small purse and stand in the silence, eyes darting to the details of the room and back. Brooks seems content to stare at me.

“Nala says you’re an artist.” He nods, not adding on or explaining. His stare is intense, and I have to force myself to stay still. “What medium?”

“Mixed-media.”

“Like Picasso.”

“Sometimes.”

“You’re not much of a talker.”

“Sometimes,” there is no change in his expression, but I could swear he’s amused.

“Can you tell me one thing?” He nods his head. “Why photograph me if you don’t like the way I look? Are you one of the photographers who takes the ugly and makes it horrifyingly beautiful?”

“All beauty is horrifying. It tricks the mind into feeling certain things that aren’t real.” His brow pinches and he steps forward. “And I didn’t say I didn’t like the way you looked—I said you needed
color
. Rich hair that isn’t gold or red or brown, porcelain skin smattered with freckles, eyes like melted chocolate and caramel—color shows all of that. It shows
you
.”

Chapter 10

Brooks

For the first time in a long time—I’m interested.
In all of it
.

This girl—she’s not unusual. In fact, she’s pretty damn straightlaced as far as I can tell. Rich-kid college student with manners she uses to cover insecurities. The kind of girl who sees this point in her life as nothing more than a stepping stone. She’s going to college like I’m betting she always knew she would be. The future isn’t undecided for someone like her—it’s expected.

She’s not entitled, just privileged.

And something else
.

The attraction isn’t physical. Or not solely physical. I can see more than I did last night, but her looks are as straightlaced as she is. She is not ugly, as she implied earlier. She’s not breathtaking either—or she shouldn’t be. Small hips, thin frame, tiny hands and feet. Her features are a little uneven—high cheekbones with a straight nose and wide eyes with heavy lids—and should make her ugly. But they don’t.

Instead, they make her unique—a face that burns itself into someone’s mind and never quite leaves them the same.

She’s stolen my attention—captivated me until I want to see her from every angle. Draw her. Photograph her. Paint her.

Know her.

Those caramel eyes are staring at me. She isn’t nervous—she may be trained in socialization, but I’m trained in reading people. What she is feeling isn’t nerves—it’s interest.

“Come on, I’ll get you a beer. You can meet Hunter and save Malcolm from himself.”

The next hour or so is spent walking down memory lane. The entire time Malcolm, Hunter, and Nala trade insults, I watch Jordan. She’s relaxed—not as comfortable as the other three, but comfortable enough she laughs or asks small questions.

“What is
Big Air
?”

“A sport for big egos,” Nala curls her legs under her. Malcolm notices this move, his eyes watching her sundress slip up her thighs before he realizes she insulted him.

His swig from his beer is long and purposeful. “This from a girl who heads to the beach and purposely finds the frat boy on his first wave before she puts him to shame.”

Nala smiles, tipping back her own bottle. “He was stealing everyone’s waves and falling on his ass. I figured the easiest way to get him gone was to embarrass him. And I was fourteen.”

“Don’t act like you stopped doing it when you were fifteen,” Malcolm says.

Nala freezes slightly, not the angry freeze with snapping eyes and a temper ready to explode, but a shocked freeze—a stilling of the body while the heart tries to pump normally with fear and heartache tumbling through the system.

“I stopped doing a lot of things at fifteen.”

Now it’s Malcolm’s turn to freeze. His eyes are dark, angry—hurt. Nala won’t see the hurt because she’s trained herself over the years not to look closely at him. Jordan sees it, though, and steps in just as Hunter and I wonder how to. Another piece to the enigma she is.

“Hunter, how do you manage to flip houses if you’re a professional skater? Don’t both take a lot of time?”

Hunter’s quiet eyes slip from Nala to Malcolm, assessing, before latching onto Jordan.

“I usually only help in the off-season or when I’m home for an extended period of time. When Brooks bought this place—we decided it was small enough to do with just the two of us. Then Mal bought his place a few months later—” Hunter grins. “Well, Brooks and I decided to save him from himself. Mal might be the second-ranked Big Air skater in the world, but he can’t swing a hammer worth shit.”

Mal holds out his middle finger; both his and Nala’s bodies relax with the change in focus.

“And what are you ranked?”

Hunter grins; Mal groans. “First.”

Jordan smiles, and shifts her attention to me. “What about you, Brooklyn? How do you find the time to create art and renovate homes?”

I look at her, tilting my beer back to take a swallow. “I work with my hands every day—sometimes I work on cabinets and flooring, sometimes I work on canvases or the computer.”

“Are you working on anything now?”

“We just finished this house.”

She smiles. “I see. Is that why your walls are blank?”

Nala snorts. Mal and Hunter both smile. I scowl. “No. I like white.”

“Bullshit. Brooklyn’s temperamental,” Hunter says. I take a page out of Mal’s book and flip him the bird.

“More like he’s an asshole,” Mal interjects. “He doesn’t display his work. He does what he feels like, and he keeps it all hidden away until his manager sets up a show. We had to browbeat him to even get him to accept a manager.”

“Who is currently blowing up my phone with annoying things like ‘How’s it going?’ or ‘When can we expect another show?’ Which is why I didn’t want a manager.”

“It’s his job, Brooks,” Nala says. “Tell him you don’t have anything.”

I find Jordan. “I don’t think that’s true anymore.”

+      +      +

Nala cites starvation, so we order a few pizzas. Hunter pulls out the ping-pong table from the carport, and soon, there’s a game of beer pong going—Nala versus Hunter.

As per usual, she’s talking all sorts of shit while he just smiles and sips, throwing clean shot after clean shot.

“Ever played?” I ask Jordan, taking a seat in the chair next to hers. Her back is straight and her feet are tucked underneath, crossed primly at the ankles.

“No, I can’t say I have. Isn’t that full of sand?” she asks when Nala cusses Hunter out for scoring and gulps down the beer.

“Not too bad. They rinse it in the pitcher of water if it hits the ground.”

She recoils slightly. Pizza arrives and we let Hunter pay since he appears to be the only one winning at anything. Before he fishes out his wallet, he sinks the ball into Nala’s last cup.

“Fucker can’t lose,” Mal says, but we both know that isn’t true—or he wouldn’t be staying here to work on houses instead of going back on tour and defending his title.

We eat out of the boxes, spreading them on the low glass table in the center of my stamped concrete patio. I eye Jordan as she takes a piece, pausing when I watch her close her eyes after the first bite.

“Jordan’s in love.”

I swing my eyes to Nala. She motions to the pizza. “Carbs. She’s rebelling—stepping out on who she was and embracing beach life. There’s even a list. I took her downtown and got her some fish tacos today.”

“This isn’t as good those. They used fresh ingredients, this uses processed cheese and meat—why does it taste gourmet?” Jordan asks.

She hesitates, notes that her napkin is in her lap and already greasy from the pizza that was on it. And then she darts her tongue out and laps up a small spot of sauce on her hand.

“You have to sit for me.”

My voice is gruff—harsh. I don’t intend it that way, but between genetics and the pulsing my body feels right now, I can’t help it.

“Right now?”

“Right now. Tomorrow. The next day.” I set my slice down, appetite forgotten. The same need that has been rising in me since I saw this girl twenty-four hours ago is now at its peak.

Jordan’s eyes slide to the people behind me, but I ignore them. They’re probably as shocked as she is. I have never needed a specific person before—not like this. I’ve been creating art—real art that was more than doodles on paper—since we were fourteen-year-old assholes. Just about nine years later, Jordan is the first person I have ever asked to sit for me. Usually, I take a picture, memorize a feature, manipulate lighting, and create from there.

Not now.

I need this girl—I need her in a way I hate and can’t control, which makes me determined to control her.

“Do you have a portfolio?”

“What?”

Regrettably, she sets her pizza down next to mine on the box top, wiping her fingers. “A portfolio. You say you’re an artist. They say you’re an artist.” Malcolm makes some smartass comment I ignore. “But your walls are blank; you don’t have a website. Your Google stats are minimal—only a few of your pieces online with less than ten articles. You haven’t had a show in almost a year. There’s no record of any big or commissioned sales coming up, either.”

“Someone went stalker,” Nala says.

“I call it data compiling,” Jordan responds. Her hands clasp in front of her, holding in those nerves that seem to be a natural part of her, suppressed just beneath the surface at all times. “Either your manager isn’t doing his job, or you’re not doing anything related to art.”

Something else. This girl isn’t like I thought. Demure, yes… but smart. And bold, though she hides it with crossed legs and folded hands.

“I have a portfolio,” I say. And then, “If I show it to you, do we have a deal?”

Chapter 11

Jordan

“Why did we really go today? To the skate park.”

The minute the words are out of my mouth, I apologize. “I’m sorry. That’s rude—and none of my business.”

“Jordan, you’re going to have to adjust your definitions and lighten up. Asking a question when you’re curious about the answer isn’t rude,” Nala clarifies. “It’s human.”

I park and we sit for a second.

“I guess it was kind of like you dumping steak in your brother’s lap.”

“Prime rib,” I correct. Somehow that makes it even more gratifying. We get out of the car and begin walking. “I don’t understand.”

She swings her arms back and forth. “I was kind of a mess for a few years. Those guys… they were privy to that mess. They are also the closest thing to family I have. I haven’t faced anyone but Brooklyn in a while. Today I was testing myself, and them.”

I nod as we enter our building. “
Them
, or testing Malcolm?”

We key into our room and a smile creases her face.

“I’m not sure.” She sits on her bed and places the bottom of her feet together so her legs look like a butterfly. I sit in my desk chair, crossing my legs when I face her. “My history with Mal… it’s bigger than it is with Hunter and Brooks. The last time we saw each other, I made the mistake of acting on an attraction I thought was two-sided. His response made it clear that I was the only one attracted.”

“I’m sorry.”

She nods before she forces out a small smile. “How did today’s rebellion feel? As good as last night after you walked out on the family?”

I think back to the second I dumped the plate last night—even with the regret of walking out, it still makes me feel bold. Then I think of today—of meeting Nala’s friends, of hanging out in a backyard on the beach and feeling a little bit like it was the right place to be. Maybe San Diego wasn’t wrong… maybe I was wrong. “Pretty good.”

“And Brooks? Did you say
yes
to seeing him again?”

I skim my hair behind my ear. “I gave him my number and agreed to talk at least. Now that I know he’s not stalking me—I think he’s interesting. Seeing his work, I was impressed. I didn’t expect to be.” My nose scrunches when she laughs. “I guess that makes me a snot. I’ve known a lot of ‘artists’ in my time,” I clarify. “Mostly just kids who want an excuse to wander around the world with a camera and a credit card someone else pays for. My first impression led me to believe he was an oddball with a camera phone and an Instagram account.”

Nala stretches her arms over her head. “Brooks is definitely the real deal. I’ve see him stand in a crowd for hours—the same spot, just looking. When he finally picks up his camera… it’s amazing what he can see. And that’s only half of his talent.”

She’s speaking the truth. What I saw tonight when he gave in and showed me his physical portfolio—it was visionary. Emotional. Brutal, even.

Somehow, I’ve inspired him.

“I’m flattered,” I blurt out.

Nala’s smile is knowing as she lowers her arms, palms pressed together. “Oh yeah?”

“Stop it,” I say.