Page 47 of Bad Influence
What the fuck did they do to her in those five years?
Shoving a hand through my hair, I push back from the window and walk out of the studio and into my room. I quickly change into running shorts and a T-shirt because I need to move.
Caroline’s bedroom door is closed, no noise coming from the other side. I know she won’t wake up but I still leave her a note and stick it to the fridge, right where her wedding card was until last night.
Her words from last night echo in my ear.
In case you don’t want to admit it to yourself yet, there’s not going to be a wedding.
I lock the door behind me and run down the stairs, exiting through the side stairwell. There’s a slight chill in the air which makes me glad I grabbed a hoodie. Putting on my headphones, I turn on the true crime podcast Eve has me listening to.
Though as I start my run, my mind immediately drifts back to Caroline.
She guessed it right. It’s definitely something I didn’t want to admit to myself. Not because I didn’t expect it or because I want her to have a happy relationship with Beckett. Because I didn’t want tohope.I didn’t want to give myself the chance to imagine a life where Caroline stayed in New York.
To be honest, I still don’t. What the fuck am I doing thinking that? Even if she doesn’t go back to California, there are too many complications between us to ever venture beyond what we have right now.Notthat Caroline wants to trade one brother for another.
At the end of the day, I’m a York and while I might have worked hard to be nothing like them, I still have some family traits. Like the need to always be on top, to possess, to never lose.
I’ve never been good at letting things go until they become unhealthy or I completely ruin them. In fifth grade, I had a friend whose family moved to another state halfway through the school year and I’m not sure I’ve gotten over it or forgiven him. Ican eat the same food over and over again without getting bored for months until one day even the name of said food will make me never want to eat again.
I survived law school out of sheer will and because I wanted to prove to my father that I can be better than him—I graduated with higher marks from his alma mater. But I never stopped painting. Painting is as much an obsession as it is a release. The only time I feel like I can be myself. I might not be able to create right now, but I’m not tired of it. I’m not sure I’ll ever be.
There’s only ever been one other thing I’ve obsessed over. The sweetest little angel. The one everyone said belonged to Beckett even before she could decide for herself, like she’s an object, and not a person. So many times my parents warned me not to indulge her, to keep my distance.
Which is exactly what I did. Not for them; to let her choose.
Now she’s at my apartment and I’m out here trying to figure out what the hell I’m going to do with her. What if she actually lets me paint her?
Shit, maybe Iwasdrunk when I asked her that. I’d only had one beer, but I don’t usually drink. Am I that much of a lightweight?
I enter Brooklyn Bridge Park and stop on the boardwalk, looking at Lower Manhattan across the river. There’s no one here at this hour so I sit down on the bench to watch the sunrise across the horizon. It’s not something I indulge in usually. The sun rises, the sun sets, and the sky is beautiful. It’s all the same every day. Even the artist in me doesn’t appreciate the displays put on by nature.
I should bring Caroline here. I already know she’ll love it. She wants to see the city and before she decides to explore on her own, I’ll take her.
With that thought in mind, I stand up and walk back to the apartment, pausing to get coffees and breakfast from Beanie’s. Luke is behind the counter and when he sees me, he automatically looks behind me as if expecting to see someone else. I glareat him the whole time he’s preparing our coffees. He’s met heronce.I’ve known her her whole life.
Caroline is still asleep when I return to the apartment and I set her coffee on the counter with her breakfast pastry. I’m about to head off to shower when my phone rings. I frown at the name on the screen before I swipe to answer.
“Are you dying?” I ask.
“I was going to leave a voicemail. Who answers their phone before six?”
“Who calls someone before six?” I ask.
“This is the only time I have available to call.”
“Roman, I’ve been your tattoos artist since I was an apprentice and you’ve never once called me. It’s how our friendship has survived so many years.”
Roman laughs and I find that stranger than the phone call. I’ve gotten to know my clients pretty well over the years and the only reason I can call Roman Maddox a friend is because the man doesn’t talk. I’ve definitely never heard him laugh.
“Right, okay. I was calling to ask a favor,” he says.
“Go ahead.”
“The guys want to get matching tattoos when we win the playoffs. I know you’re probably booked out, but any chance you’ll be able to fit us?” Roman asks. It’s followed by a thud and a feminine laugh. “Lavinia also wants to get a tattoo and I definitely don’t trust anyone else to give her one.”
“I got you covered, don’t worry,” I say. “It might have to be when the shop is closed.”
