The Finished Masterpiece Boxed Set - Pepper Winters Page 0,34

go back.

Hauling myself from the soft couch, I padded barefoot toward my bag where I’d thrown it onto the kitchen table. Rummaging inside, I pulled out the envelope of cash Gil had paid me and opened it for the first time.

My legs promptly deleted all bone and became useless.

I slammed onto a wooden chair, clacking my teeth at the force.

No.

This can’t be right.

Shaking hands pulled out a wad of fifty-pound notes. A pile far too thick to warrant the few hours I’d spent being his canvas.

One, two, three, four, five...fifteen hundred pounds.

Holy shit.

Was that the going rate for a model, or had he—?

He never wants to see you again. It’s bribery to make sure you stay away.

Don’t read into this!

Oh, who was I kidding?

My heart raced, tumbling down the rabbit hole of why he’d given me so much.

I hadn’t been able to earn this sort of cash in an entire month doing other jobs. It meant I had rent and utilities covered. I could eat semi-decent food. I could—

I can’t accept this.

My shoulders rolled, fisting the cash with possessiveness.

It might be the correct rate for all you know!

If it was...why didn’t it feel right? Why did it feel far too much for the tiny role I’d played?

If we’d discussed payment beforehand, and I knew this was what he paid others, then maybe. But now, it just felt dirty. Wrong. I didn’t know why, but it reeked of charity from a boy who couldn’t stand the sight of me.

And that made my hungry tummy knot because he’d cheapened me. He’d added yet another sensation of not being worthy. He’d bought my silence and my obedience to stay the hell away so he never had to set eyes on me again.

Tears prickled.

You’re making this stuff up. Don’t jump to conclusions.

It didn’t stop pain lancing through me, remembering our kiss. Reliving the way his tongue touched mine, his taste in my mouth, his groan in my ears.

How could he kiss me as if I was utterly priceless and then fob me off with heartless cash?

He paid you for being a canvas! He didn’t pay for the kiss, O.

How could I be so sure? How could I be sure he didn’t give me far too much to ease his guilt over destroying everything?

I might be making up tales. I might be totally blowing things out of proportion, but Gil was the only one who made me irrational.

All I wanted was him. Yet he’d pushed me away, his money a firm goodbye.

Well, I had a good mind to give it all away.

To prove a point that I might be destitute and made a total mess of my life, but I wasn’t a charity case and I couldn’t be bought by a man who’d gone out of his way to confuse, ridicule, and condemn me.

I wanted to march back there and throw the money in his face.

I wanted to kiss that face and—

You can go back.

I stroked a fifty-pound note, a plan rapidly unfolding.

This was my reason to return.

This was my excuse to knock on his door, stare him right in the eye, and demand to know what the hell was going on.

But what if he doesn’t ask me to leave next time?

What if he threw me out physically? What if he hurt me like he had when I’d pushed him too far at school?

Ripping my fingertips off the money, I couldn’t be alone with my chaotic thoughts anymore.

Kisses and curses, hopes and fears.

I was hungry.

I was angry.

Today had been a cocktail of past and present, sex and shame.

I needed wine.

* * * * *

Sipping on my second mug of cheap supermarket pinot, I winced as I logged onto the laptop that I’d hammered to death looking for work. Instead of going to familiar websites and trolling for employment, I clicked on the icon of my least favourite location.

Facebook.

Ever since my accident, I hardly went on there.

It was too painful.

I wasn’t mentally ready to look at the photos of my fellow dancers, see their scheduled performances, read posts of friends complaining about early morning practices and late-night curtain calls.

Eventually, I would be happy for them.

But right now...it was a pitchfork to the heart.

Tonight, I managed to ignore my newsfeed and the urge to click on my dance troupe’s page, and instead became a sleuth, stalking the Master of Trickery himself.

I sipped another mouthful as I typed in Gil’s name, bracing myself for the search results.

Nothing came up.

Other Gilbert Clarks appeared—one in Scotland and a few overseas—but