Sculptor: A Steamy Romance (7 page)

Before I can react properly, my cell buzzes, and my heartbeat quickens when I see it's a message from Harold asking me to meet up with him again.

Ready or not, it’s time.

T
he past week
has been glorious.

Returning to work was easy, and I got a shit-ton of stuff done—like I had something new powering me.

Knowing Stella’s mine solved my focus problem, as I knew it would.

The knowledge that anytime I get an overwhelming urge to feel her warm mouth on my cock or bury it in her tight, wet pussy has made my work days a breeze. Plowing into her while she’s on my bed, my work desk, against a wall, takes the edge off.

I make her take that damned ring off, and if it’s left on, she knows she’s getting fucked hard.

I mostly call her to my studio, and it enrages me that she still isn’t free enough to spend every night with me in my house, lying next to me in bed, but she still has hang-ups about the whole thing being messy and improper. She wants to be completely free before she starts staying with me.

Plus she’s worried too much contact might alert someone to what we’re up to, that someone might see her.

I tried to give her the time she needs to handle her situation, but after today, I’m done—I’m taking care of it myself. She’s had a whole goddamned week and it still isn’t handled.

For now, though, I get to bask in the gloriousness of returning to the Miller home.

Seeing Mama Olu again was unexpectedly emotional—like a long-lost relative finally turned up after being missing for years.

I guess I could have still popped by now and then to see her, but it would have been a bit weird considering how clear Aaron made it that he no longer wanted anything to do with me, even though we’d been friends since we were eleven, and as far as I know, I hadn’t done anything to deserve being cut off.

And now here we are, seven years after our friendship dissolved, back in his room where we comfortably played video games over the years, watched TV, had sleepovers.

It feels ridiculously small now.

Truthfully, I'm thrilled to see my old best friend again, but I’m doing my best to hide it.

Aaron and I stare at each other for a moment before I break the silence.

"You want to tell me why you cut me off?” I begin.

He shakes his head, and I can tell he's in defensive mode.

"What are you doing here, man?” he says quietly, not really looking at me.

"I'm here for Stella."

“How’s that?” he asks, his sharp dark eyes suddenly arresting me. “You two buds all of a sudden?"

I shrug.

"Something like that. You've got a problem with me stopping by to say hi to your mom?"

"No, man," he says , looking away while doing that thing where he sort of grabs at his mouth and chin—a sure sign he's lying, or at least covering something up.

"Aaron, what's your fucking problem?" I ask, all pretense at casualness dropped, my voice rougher.

"You!" he says, looking at me again.

"And what does that mean? What the hell did I do to you?"

He makes a weird sound, almost like a scoff.

"What didn't you do?” he mutters.

"Aaron, don't make this all weird—the last thing Mama Olu needs is her boys fighting on her birthday."

"Her boys? She only has one, Derek, don't get confused. She’s
my
mom; yours died.”

My jaw tightens, and I have to take a moment to work on staying calm.

"You know just what the fuck I mean, Aaron. Look, I’m not looking to kiss and make up—I just want to know what happened. I can't think of a single thing I could have said or done, and it’s driving me crazy. Well, it used to, anyway.”

He takes a deep breath and I feel his energy lower.

He’s back to not looking at me.

"You remember that loan you gave me?” he says.

Sure—several grand borrowed that I never asked for back.

He started working on paying me back one hundred dollars at a time but that happened once.

I never pressured him about it, though—it came from the trust fund my mom left me that I finally got access to once I hit twenty-one.

"Well, there you have it,” he says as if he just laid everything out.

"I'm sorry—you lost me there, bud."

“I owed you! I
still
owe you money. How could I look at you every day knowing that? It's all I could think about while hanging out with you. Do you know how stressful that is? To be with someone while knowing you're indebted to them? And, to be honest, that whole loan thing was just the cherry on top considering what came before.”

I let out a deep breath.

Just when I was starting to understand…

“Can’t wait to hear this part,” I say.

He lets out a breath too, and I can see he's still trying to get his thoughts together.

Me showing up here today must've really thrown him for a loop.

“Okay, let's start at the beginning so I can build the picture for you.”

I nod, waiting for him to continue.

“We both avoided loser hell in school..."

So far, correct—he was the cool one, the smart jock, and I was his good-looking friend.

"We both joined the military..."

"Gotcha, I'm with you," I say as I make a motion with my hand for him to continue and hurry the fuck up.

Actually, this part of our lives baffled me back then—instead of pursuing the academic and sports scholarships offered to him at the time, he decided to enlist with me, and the reason is still a mystery, so hopefully we hit two birds with one stone with his answers.

"And then I ‘ring the bell,’ unable to hack it,” he continues, “and
you
go on to become a military superstar—special forces. "

I'm still not sure what this has to do with the price of tea in China.

“I never failed anything, but suddenly I'm a loser dropout who couldn’t get through training, and I couldn’t go down like that; I couldn’t let it go. I joined that biker club trying to be a bit more like you and hang with those cool kids, I guess. You know the rest," he said, pointing at his missing leg. “And then because of this, because I needed physical therapy and prosthetics all of a sudden, because of all these surprise medical bills, I owe you thousands and thousands of dollars.”

I let out a deep breath.

"So what I think you're saying is that after high school, you saw yourself in competition with me, you lost the first round, tried to compensate, and now you sort of blame me for losing your leg in a biking accident?"

I wait for him to deny this batshit logic, but he doesn't, so despite the years of our old friendship and the fact that yes, every now and then I can show compassion, I burst into laughter.

It takes a few seconds, but he has joined me.

"Get the fuck outta here with that bullshit," I say.

"Nah, I'm serious man. Although I don't really blame you—I was incredibly stupid. And ashamed for making such ridiculous decisions. You know how my parents were, yet I pretty much spat in their faces when I didn't pursue college right away. Just one stupid decision after another led to this,” he says, indicating his leg again, “and I only have myself to blame. There I was, trying to be more macho, tougher, and now here I am, less physically capable than ever. I don’t get to look or feel tough again."

I can't laugh anymore because that shit is real.

I want to ask him why he felt such a need to be more macho in the first place.

From where I stood, people were seriously cool with him.

Yeah, he was super smart and kind of nerdy, but his football stuff offset it.

He was like a new kind of cool—how could he have not seen that?

Did his fellow team members give him shit about his AP courses? The math competitions?

Why the hell would that stuff matter so much if he was still kicking ass on the field?

The good news is that now that we've had this conversation, we might have more, and I might get some of the answers. Most of all, I might get my old friend back.

“I didn’t care about the money,” I say gently.

He nods. “I understand that. But when you’re on the owing end, it’s not that simple. I wish I could pretend it was no big deal and just be normal around you, but I couldn’t get it off my mind. None of this would have happened if I’d just gone to college right away like I should have. Anyway, it sort of worked out. Got my degrees, and I’ve had steady work since. I can pay you back now—I’ve been able to for the past few years but it’s like you dropped off the radar.”

“Forget it, bud. Loan forgiven. Besides, I hear you’re saving up for a sweet upgrade,” I say, nodding at his prosthetic.

His face breaks into a grin—extra wide.

“Yeah. Check this shit out, man.”

He goes to his computer and pulls up images and info about the robotic part, and I have to hear him go on about the specs and materials and other nerdy shit I just nod my head to.

It does look pretty cool, though.

“How close are you to getting it?” I ask.

His light manner suddenly evaporates, and he seems weighed down again.

“Leave it to Stella, just a few weeks. My sister’s so transparent—she thinks I don’t know I’m part of the reason she’s marrying that guy. She wants to help me out.”

Then he looks directly at me.

“She obviously still has the hots for you, and I can tell you’re into her. I want my sister happy more than a bionic upgrade—I’m not willing to sacrifice anything else for my image; I’ve learned my lesson. But if you’re just playing her, definitely back the fuck off and let her be. If you really love her, stop her from marrying that guy. I’ll figure this thing out myself, and it’s actually not that far away for me.”

“Oh, don’t you worry, bud. Stella’s in good hands.”

* * *

T
he women look relieved
when we emerge, their eyes traveling over our faces and looking for clues.

Mama Olu smiles, but it’s like they made a pact not to say anything—at least not in the presence of everyone.

Stella comes to me and pulls me aside.

“Harold messaged me and wants to meet…”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No, I have to do this myself. But this is the end, Derek.” She smiles wide. “I’m officially breaking it off with him and giving him his ring back. And then I’ll officially be yours.”

“You were ‘officially’ mine long before that, goddess.”

“You know what I mean.”

“You’ll see what
I
mean. I won’t insist on coming with you right now, but I’ll need details at the very least. Where are you meeting him?”

She gives me the designated location.

Like I said—I’m not going with the goddess
right now
; I just need to grab something from the studio, and then if the goddess wants to throw her car keys at Harry Bechard, returning that gift too, I’ll be right there to pick her up.

* * *

S
ince being
out of military service, there are few things that catch me off-guard, even less the things that leave me with my mouth hanging in shock, even for a moment.

Harry Bechard is in my studio, standing with his arms behind him, looking around at various objects—the wooden faces, piles of sketches, abandoned ceramics.

I am less concerned that another person has tracked me down at this moment—which means I'll have to change my location at some point—than the fact that it's Stella's supposed husband-to-be.

Beyond the fact that this doughy motherfucker shouldn’t be in my studio, something is very wrong here.

What has he come for? What is he up to?
What has he found out?

I size him up, taking in his empty hands and making note of places he could possibly be hiding a weapon.

I can take him down if I need to.

I know this place well and I can make a weapon of anything.

"How's my project going?" he asks casually.

His nonchalance isn't fooling anyone, but I suppose that's the point.

There's an unspoken threat here, and I need to know how much he knows.

"Still on schedule," I say.

"That's what I like to hear. I'd like to see your progress."

It takes tremendous effort not to tell him to go fuck himself; Stella isn't free from this asshole yet, after all, and still has to meet with him.