don’t think he can take care of himself?” I ask calmly even though all I feel is anger.
“Come on, June.” Kade shrugs, the corners of his lips curling upward. “It’s Parker. Sure, he paints, but… he’s never going to make a living doing that, is he? And someone needs to pay for his shit. I don’t want it to be you.”
That makes me fucking angry even though I have no right to be. It drives me insane he’s giving me money when he knows I have more than enough—at his and Parker’s expense, no less.
It drives me crazier that he sought me out for this. Not for saying sorry. Not to try to win me back. To give me this blood money and pretend we’re done now, he’s done his job. Because that’s what Kade does. He clears his conscience, and then he’s gone. Fuck family. Fuck the fact we made love, and I know he felt something, just like I did. Fuck his words telling me he loved me. Fuck it all. I get up abruptly, the bills scattering on the floor.
“Thanks, but no thanks, Kade,” I say coldly, and I look him right in his broken eyes. And there I see the hope, the unasked question, him begging me to forgive him, to make it all better. But I’ve been making it better all my life, and I’ve had enough.
Goodbye, innocent Junebug.
Hello, June fucking Wildfox.
“See you,” I say viciously, turning around to leave. But I change my mind, turn around and place my hands on the table, looking him dead in the eyes. “Just so you know?” I say innocently. “Parker’s not so much like you after all.”
My eyes sweep his body.
“He’s a better fuck than you ever will be,” I lie. Seal his fate. And I don’t wait around to see him break, because I’m broken enough for the both of us. I leave with my head held high, and my heart in tatters at my feet.
I spend all day at work, and by the time it gets dark outside, I wonder how I even managed to do that. I’m shaking on the ride home, and when I get in the house, I can barely stand. I crumple on the barstool in the kitchen, and I think of Parker. He had fun at work for a few weeks, but the excuses are already starting to roll off his tongue. He’s tired, hungover, inspired to paint all of a sudden—anything to get him out of doing this. And it fucking hurts to know there’s some truth in Kade’s words. Maybe Parker really can’t take care of himself.
For some reason or another, Parker doesn’t come to look for me, and I feel more alone than ever. But then I have a fleeting thought. I could go to the attic right now. I could look at his painting. And somehow, that simple thought makes me feel better. Like seeing what Parker sees me as might negate the fact that I’m a coldhearted bitch. So I do exactly that.
I tiptoe to the attic, knowing exactly where to step from years of spending time in here with my stepbrothers. The stairs don’t creak, and I make my way up, carefully opening the latch door when I get to it. It lets off a tiny sound, and I cringe, waiting for Parker to come storming from his room. But nothing happens. I smile a little and finally climb up until I’m in the room.
The ceiling is slanted, and it’s so different than the day he painted me in here. It’s dark, and gloomy, and kind of scary. It gives me the chills, but I’m not about to back out now. My eyes find Parker’s painting covered with a white sheet, and I make my way over to it. I only hesitate for a moment, knowing he would not want me looking at it. But then I tear the sheet off. And I stare.
There I am, painted in beautiful watercolor, my hair dark as the night, an inky black, my blue eyes glowing like sapphires. But my mouth is twisted strangely, and so are my hands. And I’m not lying on the couch, I’m on my knees. And I’m on a leash. I stare at the painting in horror.
Parker’s painted me with an expression of such profound sorrow and hurt, it pains me to just look at it. My robe is split down the middle, but instead of revealing my breasts, all there is