Thorne Princess(58)

“Shoot for the stars, Brat.”

I arched an eyebrow. “You mean, I can actually do whatever I want today?”

“Absolutely not.” His bored expression was impenetrable. “But I’m giving you a head start. For the next ten hours, you’re not on a budget. You’re allowed to spend your parents’ money however you like. I’ll deal with them. After that, you’re all booked for volunteer work.”

“Soup kitchen?” I asked groggily. It was celebrities’ go-to thing, so I figured this was where they wanted me to go.

He shook his head. “Reservoir cleaning and recycling.”

How sad is it, I thought, that my bodyguard knows me better than my parents do.





At first, I thought I’d hit Highland Park Village and go ham at Dior, Chanel, and Valentino. Normally, I only shopped in secondhand stores for environmental purposes, but for pissing-off-my-parents purposes, I figured it was time to renew my designer collection and donate older items to my favorite charities and thrift shops too.

As soon as Ransom and I reached the opulent shopping center, all royal arches and overflowing flower baskets, I realized no part of me wanted to shop.

That, in fact, shopping was a very depressing way to pass the time. Drawing joy from something materialistic never lasted for more than a couple hours. And…it needed to be said, most of the designer stuff was horrendous.

But it was much more than the act of shopping.

I was tired of the chase.

Tired of trying to fit in.

Tired of trying.

Designer clothes represented something I wanted to be a part of—glitz and glamour and sophistication. But deep down—or maybe not even that deep—I wasn’t a fan of consumerism. I mean, these companies wanted us to stock up on new, expensive clothes each season, even though last season’s clothes were perfectly wearable and still good to use. Overproduction resulted in waste and ecological damage. Every time I purchased a fashion item I didn’t need, I put another nail into this planet’s coffin.

“I don’t want this,” I heard myself say. I was rooted to the ground, staring back at an array of designer stores and upscale restaurants. “I don’t want any of this anymore. I have enough clothes. Nice ones, too.”

He stayed quiet for a moment, but I had a feeling he was relishing every word. More than that—I had a feeling he’d expected this to happen. That he somehow knew shopping wouldn’t make me feel better.

“I want to go,” I said.

“Where to?”

Good question. I wanted to get another tattoo. But I was still sore from yesterday, and also, I didn’t have anything else I wanted engraved on my skin. My tattoos all had meaning. Maybe I could sketch something real quick? I could…but I’d run out of hotel paper. And I guessed using a pencil, rather than the unreliable hotel pen, was a better idea. But the thought of holding a pencil and paper made me feel like a poser. Some pleasures were reserved for literate people only, and this was one of them.

A flashback of a sneering Hera assaulted my memory.

“What do you need my pens for, Hallie? It’s not like you’re gonna write something. Give them back. I’m studying for a test. And don’t ever steal from me again!”

Still…

Ransom had no idea about my…issues. I could draw as much as I wanted, and he wouldn’t judge me.

“Can we go to…Hobby Lobby?” I turned to him. I’d never been before, but it always looked like such a wholesome store. Nothing bad ever happened in a Hobby Lobby, I bet.

His face remained unreadable, but I could tell he hadn’t expected it. “Sharp turn of events.”

“Or I could call the paps again and find a subway grate à la Marilyn Monroe so my dress flies above my underwear,” I suggested sweetly. I wasn’t asking to go to a nightclub, for crying out loud. Work with me.

“Say no more.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket. “I’ll find the nearest craft store.”

It hadn’t been the cozy adventure I’d been seeking, but we were back in the armored Ford Explorer and headed to the closest arts and crafts store in no time, where I purchased a thick sketchpad, along with a charcoal pencil set that included erasers, sharpener knives, and a double-end pencil extender.

I’d used Siri to find out what tattoo artists normally used when they sketched.

I made my way to the checkout line, before Ransom—who was suspiciously quiet, even by his standards—put his hand on my shoulder. Marking the second time today that he’d touched me, casually. And the second time I hadn’t hated it.

I couldn’t let myself dwell on that. It probably meant nothing. I mean, if he liked me even a fraction, he wouldn’t insist on putting me through the misery of staying in Texas, would he?

“What?” I turned around.

“While we’re here…” He raised his eyebrows meaningfully.

I wasn’t following. I cocked my head. “You want to hit the yarn section and learn how to knit?”

“You know me too well,” he groused. “Or you can also buy a few drawing guides. Get the basics, you know. Drawing for Dummies. Set yourself up for success.”

“Why would I do that?” I only doodled for myself. There was no danger in that. No potential failure. “It’s just a hobby.”