And Evie was a genius. Like, certifiable. I’d seen her do mathematics on the fly in her head that I’d probably mess up on a calculator. Her family was way more messed up than my dad. But she’d scraped them off and moved on, going back to college to get her degree, fixing computers, living with, looking for a new house to share and now engaged to Mag, who was a super-cool dude and insanely into her.

Then there was Ryn, who had it just as together as Lottie. She was gorgeous and sexy and sweet and strong with a fantastic fashion sense and she’d just sold her first flip, a house she’d worked on herself. Now she and Boone were in the midst of waiting to close on their second because that was what Ryn wanted to do full time. Flip houses. And with Ryn as she was, I knew that would happen.

Last, there was Pepper, who had a daughter, Juno. And Pepper was the best mom in the world with Juno being the best kid ever, even if Pepper had zero support from her family and her ex was a total tool. Motherhood seemed effortless to her. No one messed with her or her kid, not even her family …or her tool of an ex.

Then there was me.

And I was none of that.

But seriously, it was embarrassing, dancing free and breezy by myself in a room then screwing it up and losing it the way I did. Doing all this not knowing Ryn and Axl were watching.

No, not embarrassing.

Mortifying.

I mean, on the whole I was shy around good-looking guys.

Very few weren’t.

But the one who saw me do that? The one Lottie had picked for me, tried to set us up, he’d asked me out, and I’d wanted to go, but I refused? That one saw me do it?

Forget about it.

And now …

I didn’t know.

They were good people. Good friends.

We’d been kidnapped together!

But what did I say?

When they were so together and didn’t let anyone shit on them, how did I explain why I continued to take care of my dad?

Especially when they knew it was him. They knew it was my dad who was the reason Ryn and Axl saw me self-harm.

And how did I share what I’d never shared? That I rented studio space, and worked on pieces, but never even attempted to show one, much less sell one?

Bottom line, how did I tell four totally together women who had been in my life for a good while, who all counted me as friend, that I had not let them into my life hardly at all?

Do unto others, right?

And I thought, if I cared about someone, gave them my time, and they didn’t let me in, how would I feel?

Not good.

Of course, I could just let them in.

But the longer I left it, the harder that became.

And now …was now.

I’d blown off Lottie’s pre-bachelorette party to go out to dinner with a (probable) felon.

And none of them had texted again after my text.

I wasn’t sure I could come back from that.

The only thing I was sure of was that, right then, I was going to head into my studio. I hadn’t been there in at least a week.

And maybe, what it used to be able to do—give me focus, calm, and an outlet to express things I didn’t even admit to myself—it would do again.

Not to mention, Brett had told me last night over steaks that he’d had a look (breaking in to do so, and how I didn’t feel disturbed and invaded by that, I had no idea) and he thought my stuff was “the shit.”

“Want that piece in my living room. The girl folded in on herself,” he’d said. “Think about how much you’ll charge. I’ll get you the cash and arrange to have it moved.”

He’d actually said that.

And the girl folded in on herself, a piece I called “After,” made of concrete and rusted iron with some copper wire and carefully selected bits of stone, was one of the favorite things I’d done so far.

I didn’t want to sell it.

It was me.

But if someone wanted to buy it …

On this thought, I got out of my car, went to the door of my studio, unlocked and opened it, walked in, and for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, stopped dead.

Because Axl Pantera was standing right next to “After.”

Right next to “After.”

In my studio.

Where I expressed …

Everything.

My heart lodged in my throat.

He was tall.

Beautiful body (and I meant beautiful, so beautiful I wanted to form it from concrete and shiny steel so it could live forever).

A thick head of spiky silver hair atop fabulous features—strong nose, square jaw, gorgeous full lips and the most remarkable ice-blue eyes I’d ever seen.

Truth be told, he wasn’t handsome in a classical sense.

He was more rough, though I’d prefer to call it roguish. With a high forehead, heavy dark brows, hooded eyes that were quite deep set and downturned at the ends which gave him a look like he was always alert, always assessing, didn’t miss a trick.

I had no idea where he got that silver hair. He couldn’t be much older than me.

But he worked it.

“How did you—?” I started to ask how he knew about my studio.

“Stood them up,” he stated. “Again.”

What?

“Pardon?” I asked.

“Lottie’s big thing. Gearing up. That was last night. Shower is coming up. Bachelorette party after that. Next day, wedding. And last night you’re … what? Kissin’ your dad’s ass?”

And for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, I found my body stunned still.

This time it was to fight the pain.

“Told myself to have patience,” he continued. “This shit isn’t easy. I know. My dad didn’t hide the fact he wasn’t all that thrilled with the way I turned out either.”

Uh …

What?

He was …

Well, Axl was …

Perfect.

How could his dad not be thrilled with how he’d turned out?

“You, it was dance. Me, track and field. Dad was a track star. Sprinter. Long jump. I was the same, but better. A lot better. Didn’t make the Olympics, though, and you would have thought me not doing that when the vast majority of athletes can’t, I was patient zero with the coronavirus.”

“I—”

“And I still see him. He’s my dad. Now he thinks I’m an idiot to quit school to go into the service. I wasn’t a gold medal winner with millions in endorsements, he wanted me to be what he became. An attorney. Work at his firm. He’s in the thick of it. He gets off on it. He doesn’t see or tries to ignore or just enjoys the fact the prosecutorial system in this country is fucked to the point it’s a joke. The penal system is the same. And I don’t find justice a game where you rack up wins and losses on your personal score sheet and that proves how big your dick is when sitting next to you is a person whose life is at stake. He does not appreciate my opinion on these subjects, but he’s a scrapper. His description of himself. So he brings it up all the fuckin’ time. Just to get a rise out of me. I try not to take the bait, but he won’t let it go until I either walk out or double down.”