Breaking the Rules (Pushing the Limits #1.5)(95)

The jerk actually grins as he rolls back in his seat. “I guess you’ve put me in my place.”

Is he laughing at me? “Yeah, I guess I did.”

“Do you mean what you said about my paintings?”

I wish I could scream yes, but the answer is, “No, but you’re still a jerk.”

“Calm down, Echo. I knew you were Cassie Emerson’s daughter the day I looked at your sketchbook. Your last name was all over it. I was playing you just now. I wanted to see how you’d react when people gave you hell about your mom and, believe me, I took the nice route. Entering the art world with the rumors and stories surrounding the two of you, it’s not going to be easy. So take a deep breath, rein it in and put the painting back on the easel. I’m not kicking you out.”

I straighten, and people begin to laugh and talk among themselves. They’re not laughing at me. I can feel that. It’s supposed to be with me. It’s supposed to be that relieved breath once everyone understands that this intense moment was never serious.

Hunter chuckles at something someone said as he unbuttons his shirt and grabs a new one out of the closet behind him.

“Did she fail?” someone shouts from across the room.

“No,” Hunter answers with a wide, white smile. “I like girls who have fire.” But then he lands his gaze on me. “I do suggest a more subtle reaction if we are in public. Some people don’t find outbursts as amusing as me.”

I rake a hand through my curls and stare at the man in front of me. “You know what happened with my mother?” And me?

He shrugs off the question. “I know what most people do—the rumors, but those scars are going to confirm what people think they know. But don’t worry, none of it bothers me.”

“Well, that’s nice,” I say absently. This was my dream. These were my goals. Hunter knows the rumors, and he made it into a show.

“Before you get angry, know that I did it to prepare you.”

It’s like I’m walking in a fog. “Prepare me?”

“What happened between you and your mom in my opinion is between you and your mom, but those scars will open you up to more speculation. Consider this my first lesson to you about life in general. People don’t care what really happened—the truth—they care about what makes them feel better, what puts them higher on the scorecard than someone else—even if it’s a lie. So I’m preparing you, because your mother is scheduled to show at and attend the Denver festival. The same festival you’ll be attending and showing at.”

I stumble back as if I’ve been struck by a wave. Hunter has angled away from me and doesn’t notice how I’m drowning in the currents. Flashes of different emotions jerk me around like a riptide. Each time I try to kick up, another thought, another volley of feelings, yanks me back down into the depths.

My mother is coming.

Hunter has put me in the show, so that means that I’m good enough. For art. For someone...I matter. The people in Denver—they’ll be watching, they’ll be judging—they’ll be waiting for the confrontation between me and my mother.

“Long story short,” Hunter continues. “While your scars don’t bother me or anyone here and you don’t owe me any explanations about how you got them, you’re going to run into plenty of people who will be bothered. There will be people who feel like you owe them every secret in your mind. If you don’t want to deal with that at the showing, I suggest you wear long sleeves. Attending the festival with your mom around and your skin exposed will be a brave move. While you’ve got fire inside you, I’ll be honest, I don’t see you as that type of a risk-taker.”

Not brave.

Not a risk-taker.

Long sleeves.

My eyes jump to his as my entire body stings like a slap to the face.

Hunter has opened his mouth again, and words of some sort are coming out, but I’ve settled into this numb. I like numb. I like losing the ability to hear or understand or comprehend what others are saying.

Numb is safe.

Numb doesn’t contain pain.

Numb helps me walk out the door.

Noah

For the second time in my life, I purchase a dozen roses in the hotel lobby, but this time they’re pink instead of red. The roses made Echo melt last time, and I’m hoping for the same reaction now, or at least a half smile.

Echo can zone when she paints, and part of becoming the man she needs is to learn to give her the space she requires, even if she’s asked for a year. But that doesn’t mean I can’t woo the shit out of her when she returns.

I’ve got a hell of a hole to dig myself out of. Echo told me last night—this morning—she wanted more. I thought she wanted more as in the guy with the money, the guy with the job. What I didn’t get was that she was no longer interested in a boy; she desired a man.

Taking care of myself, throwing a punch—it’s what I thought being a man was, but what Echo craves is the guy who has the balls to walk toward her, talk out our crap and stick when it gets tough.

Not the guy who accepted dating advice from a messed-up girl with motives of her own. Not the guy who freaks each time another guy peeks in Echo’s direction. She deserves the man who will not just stand by her on the easy calls—the sitting in hospital rooms, the attending of gallery showings—she deserves the man who will stand by her when it hurts like hell to do it.