Old Ink (Get Ink'd #3) - Ali Lyda Page 0,73

his vision with the world. Of allowing his fans to shower him with attention and adulations. There will be shows and tours and lectures and European trips— well, do you think you could fit in with this lifestyle? Truly?”

Shock had stolen my voice. As did the next painting we stopped in front of. It was a different style, clearly realism with nods to the Renaissance. It was a man’s body painted in the curved, ethereal lounging reminiscent of the female forms used so long before. The man in the picture was naked, a book in one hand and his erect cock in the other, his red hair spilling in curls around his shoulders.

It was Reagan—but younger than I’d ever seen him.

“I painted this, you know,” Ian mused. “Having a lovely boy toy provides the best—albeit brief—inspirations.”

He walked away then, leaving me to gape at the painting. It was intensely erotic, Reagan looking so at ease with being on display.

My chest constricted; it was suddenly hard to breathe. I loosened my tie. There were several memories that resurfaced as I stared at the canvas, listening to the sounds of the party milling outside: When I was clearly out of place at a school dance in my old, ratty clothes, everyone else in Sunday best because their parents could afford Sunday best. Or the birthday parties I’d been invited to, only to have those invitations dry up as soon as it became known I didn’t bring presents because I couldn’t afford to.

Or the times Christian would come around with my dad when I was a kid, and all I could see was how my dad’s other son was smart and rich and so comfortable in his own skin, I couldn’t help but feel like an imposter. Because if my dad had made that son, what the fuck had gone wrong with me?

I didn’t belong then and I didn’t belong now. My suit was borrowed. My education was lacking. I had no real skills yet, and couldn’t keep up with any of the people in the next room. And fuck me, if I went to Reagan now and told him I just wanted to go home? He’d bring me home, but I’d be the one who’d ruined his night because I couldn’t handle the heat.

Without giving myself time to second-guess my decision, I used my phone to request a rideshare. Then I ate the food on my plate as I waited. It tasted like nothing, and my body was wound so tight I knew I’d crash in an hour.

My phone pinged fifteen minutes later. I left, giving Reagan one last glance as I did. He was surrounded by people, and he was glowing, magnificent and confident. And Ian’s hand was on his shoulder, possessive and proud.

Reagan didn’t notice me, and I didn’t wave goodbye.

It wasn’t until I was almost home that I texted him to let him know I’d left. Then I stared at my phone, waiting for his reply. It didn’t come. I had time to pay for my ride, go inside, and lie to my brothers about feeling sick and needing to go to bed. I was able to take a long shower, brush my teeth, put on pajamas, and lie down before my phone rang. It had been over an hour and a half since I’d texted. That’s how long it had taken Reagan to realize I’d left.

“Jesus, Channing, is everything okay?” he asked when I picked up.

“I’m fine.” I knew I sounded curt and honestly did not give a fuck. This night had been a disaster from beginning to end. “I was tired, so I left.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He was hurt. I could hear it.

“Why did it take you an hour and a half to realize I wasn’t there, when you were the one who said you wanted to share that part of your life with me? When you knew I wasn’t comfortable there?”

Silence filled the line. Good—I didn’t want to talk to him. I was still hurt and afraid that if we kept going, I was going to get mean and lash out. “Look, you were having a great time. You looked happy, and I didn’t want to ruin it, so I left.”

“I’m sorry.”

A dry chuckle escaped. “Ian was kind enough to show me your old work… and his painting of you. So that was cool.”

“Fuck,” Reagan cursed. “I’m—”

But I wasn’t ready to hear how sorry he was. I just needed...sleep. Time to decompress. “Hey, Reagan,