Breaking the Rules (Pushing the Limits #1.5)(59)

I’m shaking my head before he finishes. “I can’t paint Aires that fast.”

“You can.”

“But I won’t.”

He doesn’t blink and neither do I.

“I’ve got plenty of people hoping for a shot and none of them are demanding a thing from me. Why should I do this for you?”

This will either work or I’m nailing my coffin shut. “You’re the one that said I was special, not me.”

Hunter laughs so loudly that people look up from their canvases. “Bring in your five best paintings and drawings tomorrow, but I want the Aires constellation on the next canvas. Got it?”

I clap like a small child at the circus. “Yes. You won’t regret it. I’ll get as much done as I can before I leave.”

Someone calls Hunter’s name, and he walks away, ending our conversation. My phone vibrates in my back pocket and the cup of joy inside me overflows with Noah’s text: On my way.

Me: I’ll be waiting.

Noah

Echo keeps the canvas angled toward her, and she swivels it from side to side as I fish the key card out of my wallet. She’s had a silly smile on her face the entire ride back from the gallery and while I’m not fond of Hunter, I miss seeing that type of light in her eyes.

“Are you going to let me see it?” I ask.

“Once we’re inside.”

The door clicks, releasing the lock, and when I push it open, the voice of an announcer mentioning a two-one count carries out of the room and into the hall. Echo wrinkles her nose, possibly having forgotten about our guests. “Or not.”

“You want me to put it back in the car?”

“It needs to dry. I should have left it at the gallery, but I was too excited for you to see it.”

And neither Echo nor I were eager for me to visit the gallery so she brought it to me. I hold the door open for her and Echo heads in.

“S’up, Echo,” Isaiah calls. His heavy combat boots hang off the side of the bed. When I come into view, he tips his chin at me. “Noah.”

“Hi, Isaiah! Hey, Beth.”

Beth lies on the bed next to Isaiah in the opposite direction. In her tank top and with her black hair falling over one shoulder, Beth is sprawled on her stomach with her feet bent in the air and her chin resting on her folded hands. She’s completely absorbed in the game. When Beth says nothing in return, Echo tries again. “Who’s winning?”

“I don’t have a f*cking clue nor do I f*cking care.”

Echo’s head ticks back.

“Back off, Beth.” I cross the room, drop a kiss on the curve of Echo’s neck and whisper in her ear, “She’d rip me to pieces, too, right now. She’s a bitch when the Yankees play.”

Her eyebrows rise. “Is she a Red Sox fan?”

Isaiah chuckles and we both throw him a glare, but he doesn’t notice as he’s absorbed in a car manual.

“Beth hates baseball.”

Echo’s eyes dart from Beth to the television to me then she waves her hand in the air for an explanation.

“She watches,” I explain. “Yankees only. It’s what she does and there are some things we don’t question about each other.”

“Just the Yankees?” Echo whispers.

“Just the Yankees,” I repeat.

“And she hates baseball?”

“With a passion.”

“That’s...” Echo says in a hushed tone. “That’s messed up.”

“We’re all f*cked up in this room, princess,” says Beth. “Get used to it.”

“Did you fall into some paint, Echo?” Isaiah asks, changing the subject.

Echo’s shoulder slumps as she pivots toward the mirror. She groans as she touches her cheek and forehead that are more red and pink than skin. “Dang it. Why am I such a mess?”

“I think it’s sexy as hell,” I say.

“I think I’m going to barf,” Beth mocks my tone.

Death radiates from the look I send her way. Enough that it should melt her. “Ever sleep in a tent, Beth?”

Beth focuses on the screen while raising her middle finger in my direction.

“Screw it.” Echo turns away from the mirror. “I need a shower.”

I smile, Echo blushes, then I laugh. Damn me for inviting Isaiah and Beth to share our room.

“Anyhow.” An excited glint strikes Echo’s eyes. “Are you ready? I hope you like it. It’s sort of...for you. But it’s not done, okay? I mean, something like this would actually take a while to perfect, so I guess I’m saying—”

“Echo.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s all good.”

“Okay.” Her fingers drum nervously over the top of the canvas before she repeats, “Okay.”

“I’m assuming that’s not the constellation Aires?”

“No. I’ll have to start on that tomorrow.” With a deep inhale, Echo pulls out a chair from the table and rests the painting on the arms and leans it against the back so it will stay upright.

Air rushes out of my body, and I sink onto our bed. It’s the same damned shock as when she drew my parents this past spring. There’s awe and joy and this ache that hits deep in my gut. I bend forward and rest my joint hands on my knees and stare at the sight in front of me.