Page 54 of Rebel
“Either.”
Her eyes widen a fraction, but she says nothing as I grab my t-shirt and redress, pulling on my cut. The drawing is crumpled because I dropped her on it, but the lines and shadows are perfect. I want to ask if I can take it, but that will show her far too much of myself.
Instead, I run my gaze up and down her naked body. Damn, she’s fucking beautiful.
There is a churning in my lower stomach, something twisting up my insides that I’m not used to, and if I don’t get it out, it’s going to cause issues.
“Why did you draw him?”
Kinsley looks at the portrait behind me.
“I can’t explain it without it sounding… intrusive.”
“You talked to him?”
She shakes her head. “I watched him.”
I could quip about that being creepy, but hold my tongue. She’s standing naked in front of me, not in the least bit embarrassed or trying to cover up.
“Sometimes, a person catches my attention. Not because I’m interested in talking to them or learning about them. I see things that intrigue me.”
“What did you see in Stryker?” I take a step closer to her.
“You’re his friend.”
I ignore that comment. “Stryker is a closed book.”
I’ll never give away anything else about him, but it’s a struggle to hold back what might be some stupid form of jealousy. Over a fucking painting. When mine is right beside it.
“You can’t see it in the painting?” She cocks her head.
“I don’t want to fucking look at it again.”
She’s quiet for a moment, then lets out a small laugh. It pisses me off, but I don’t rise to it.
“He’s carrying a heavy weight he hides behind what people perceive him to be.”
Fuck, that’s the most succinct way I’ve heard anyone describe Stryker. Most people think he enjoys violence. He hides his pain so well, yet Kinsley saw it. And captured it in that painting.
“He can never see it,” I tell her.
“You weren’t supposed to see it, or that,” she points at my portrait with a frown. Then she shakes herself and changes the subject. “Shit, it’s cold.”
There is a blanket on the bed, which I tug off and wrap around her. It surprises her, and she studies me in silence.
This is getting too deep for me. I’ve made my point about Stryker’s painting, and I have shit I need to do.
In a moment of weakness, unexpected to her and myself, I kiss the top of her head, leaving her speechless, which is fine by me because I don’t think I’ll be able to answer any of the questions she might have about that.
“Lock up after me,” I say, taking a few paces backward.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” she repeats my earlier words, amusement in her eyes rather than the usual bratty attitude.
A vibration in the back pocket of my jeans reminds me I have to go. It’s why I don’t argue with her, but walk out of the room and head outside.
I’m careful about checking my surroundings as I head back to the clubhouse. At least Katrina didn’t hang around when I told her the bar is closed and if she wants Raven she should call her, not show up here.
That didn’t go down well, but I’m not here to keep anyone happy.
