Page 29 of This Bitter Sweet Temptation
If not, what else?
Where does this wild-ass goose chase end?
I’m ready to help her lug it to the ends of the Earth, if necessary. Whatever and wherever it takes to make it someone else’s problem so I can get paid.
Only, if she decides to keep it, what does that mean for me?
Leonidas’ terms didn’t specify a hard end date. Just an open-ended commitment as long as she’s sorting this out.
Cleo takes a sip of coffee and sighs. “That’s better. I swear, sometimes I think I should have a caffeine drip.”
“You’re too young to be so tired,” I say.
Her eyes are heavy when she looks up. My mouth goes dry.
“I’m not a kid. My muse doesn’t work nine to five, and traveling around for art shows when you’re juggling cheapflights can be rough,” she says. “I’ve been drinking coffee for like ten years too.”
“Too long. You’re what, twenty-one now?”
“Twenty-three. Just had my birthday a couple weeks ago,” she admits. “But I’ve also been drinking wine for about eight years. Dad didn’t guard his stash at home half as well as you.”
My fingers tighten on my mug.
No, Gordon Blackthorn, professional fuckup extraordinaire, wouldn’t. Just thinking his name leaves a bad taste in my mouth, knowing how much he stressed Leonidas out.
Same for his estranged daughter, Elvira.
It’s a bittersweet reality that the old man built his twilight years around his grandkids for good reason.
I shake my head slowly, keeping my lips sealed so I don’t piss her off. No need to attack the black sheep openly on Leonidas’ behalf.
What’s done is done and it wasn’t my life.
She laughs a little before we lapse back into silence.
Only now, it’s not as tense or unpleasant.
It’s not like we don’t have enough thoughts to fall back on. I’m sure her brain has birds in it, just like mine, scattering at a hundred miles per hour.
“Honestly, it’s a little overwhelming,” she says after a second, picking at the edge of her mug. “Being left something this important.”
“I get it. You didn’t think he’d leave you a lost treasure.”
“I didn’t even know itexisted.” She chews her bottom lip. “And I mean, you know my dad.”
“I’ve heard about him, yes,” I say cautiously, stifling the contempt that rubbed off on me.
The way she reacted last night tells me it’s a sore subject. She’s a Blackthorn, after all.
So it’s probably not a good idea to press her, much less tell her I know how shitty and reckless Gordon can be.
Leonidas always had so much regret whenever he’d bring up his nephew. How Gordon could’ve been great if he’d only learned patience, how to handle rejection, and put a damn lid on the bottle. If he could’ve grown up without blowing himself to pieces.
That’s part of the creative journey. Knowing how to take an arrow to the ribs, break it off, and stagger forward, stronger than ever, rather than bleeding out.
Gordon couldn’t do that.
He thought the Blackthorn name was synonymous with genius. He expected his connections to do the heavy lifting.
