Rogue Beast (The Rourkes #12) - Kylie Gilmore Page 0,27

Rourke can suck it.

Garrett

Harper Ellis can suck it.

Where the hell does she get off? I did her a favor after she dragged my name into it, pretending we were a couple. This is the thanks I get? I jog downstairs, on my way out for my morning run. She’s pissed off because she thinks I stole her spotlight. I was amazed the press thought I was a model since it’s not something I ever considered before. And then she puts me down, saying it’s crap and means nothing. I bet she thinks I’m using her to get a leg up in the entertainment world when I’m the one who was used. She’s lumping me in with her ex. And I treated her well too. To think I really hoped this was the start of something good between us.

Now that I think about it, modeling could be something to consider. My mom did modeling when she was younger. She made enough to pay for college. It could be a lucrative side gig for me. I’d never leave my family’s business. I eagerly followed in my brothers’ footsteps with a tool in my hand from the time I could walk (the kiddie version). This is what we do as a family. But wouldn’t it be great to have the money to buy the house I’ve always wanted instead of renting? Harper’s too wrapped up in her own stuff to see what it’s like for other people.

I open the front door to the apartment building, step outside, and camera flashes go off in my eyes as reporters yell questions at me.

“What does Colton think of the two of you?”

“Will Harper Ellis be the next American princess?”

“Any projects in the works starring you and Harper?”

I cross my arms over my chest. “I have one thing to say, so listen up. That’s all you’re gonna get from me today. Harper and I parted as friends. End of story.”

I jog down the sidewalk, heading toward the park. The fuckers trail behind me, still shouting questions.

I pick up speed, and after a while, they stop. Pays to be in shape. You’re welcome, Harper. Now you’re free of the guy you thought was using you. From here on out, it’s my own efforts that will determine my future. I’ll talk to my mom about modeling tonight.

I clench my jaw, pissed all over again about Harper putting me in the same category as her asshole ex. I should’ve known a celebrity would have a big ego, thinking everything’s about her, hating to share the spotlight. I don’t have time for that bullshit.

My mind flashes to her trembling hands just before her speech.

The way she offered me one of her last tiny squares of chocolate.

Okay, so she’s not all ego. She’s a real person with insecurities just like everyone else. I’m still not going there. I’m insulted, and I deserve better after how well I treated her.

I stick to that righteous feeling all day. Until I arrive at my parents’ house for dinner that night. My dad takes one look at me and says in his naturally authoritative voice, “We need to talk about this press, son.”

And I know right there I won’t be feeling so righteous anymore.

He gestures for me to take a seat on the dark blue living room sofa. My mom waves to me from the kitchen, where she’s preparing her famous pot roast and potatoes. It’s an open floor plan—living room, kitchen, dining room all in a row, as is typical of Brooklyn rowhouses. They keep the pocket doors separating the spaces open.

I smile at her and take my seat. “I’ll be in to help in a bit.” I’m eager to talk to her about getting started in modeling. I have to strike while the iron is hot. On my current pay, it’ll take years before I can afford a house.

“Sounds good,” she says, smiling at me.

I turn to my dad, who’s sitting across from me on the matching loveseat, spine straight, shoulders back. I swear he could sit anywhere—from a barstool to a ratty old recliner—and look like he’s sitting on a throne. You can take away his crown, but he will always be king.

“Seems you’ve become a local celebrity,” he says.

“How did you hear about it?” I didn’t think my parents read the society pages or gossip rags.

“Mrs. Bianchi told us,” he says. “Apparently, she has a Google alert on all of us Rourkes.” He barely holds back an eye roll—too undignified—and exchanges a