Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 106754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Because Kade and June?
They can never be.
In a daze, I finally find Parker in the driveway, the car already running.
“Took you long enough,” he moans as I make my way to the car, but I refuse to look at him. He looks too much like Kade, and it fucking hurts.
“Let’s go, little sis,” he says as I sit in the front, and he revs up the engine.
And all I can think about is Kade fucking that girl on the hood of his car and me wishing it were my body he was abusing...
17
Parker
I come back home that day, knowing she'll mistake me for my brother. I did this on purpose, and truth be told, I can't fucking wait to see June's reaction when she sees me.
I'm locking up the front door when June comes down the stairs, coming to a standstill on the bottom step as she tentatively whispers, "Kade?"
"Nope," I reply jovially, turning around to face her with a grin. It hurts that she still hopes it's him. But it also feels damn good to disappoint her. And to see interest flash in her eyes just fucking once when she looks at me... Even though she thinks I'm my twin. "Just me, Parker."
"You..." She swallows thickly. "You cut your hair?"
"Yeah." I run my hands through my hair. Shaved on the sides, longer on top—a mirror image of my brother's. "Do you like it?"
"It's..." June digs her teeth into her bottom lip, looking nervous. "It's just like Kade's."
"It's just a haircut." I approach her, pulling her into a hug. "But it fooled you, didn't it?" She's rigid in my arms, almost pushing me away slightly as I kiss the top of her dark hair. "What?" I pout. "You don't like it?"
"It looks... good on you," she finally manages. When she pulls away, her expression is hard to read. I know I've confused her, and it suits me just right. Now she's even more torn between the two of us, and I'm going to work it in my favor. "Come with me. I wanted to show you something in the attic."
I follow her up the rickety stairs leading to the top layer of the house. There, she's laid out a fuckload of new art supplies. There's a canvas, acrylic paints, and oils, and too many paintbrushes to count. I pick one of them up, eyes shining brightly as I turn to face June.
"You did all this for me?" She nods. "That's fucking amazing, little sis. You didn't need to do this."
"I wanted to." Her smile is warm, the awkwardness from a few moments ago already forgotten. "You deserve it. For putting up with me while I was in a foul mood this whole time. And you can always come up here and paint. The light is great because of the skylights."
I agree with her. I step toward the blank canvas. I've always loved them—just bare, blank whiteness stretching over the easel. The desire to paint fuels me, rushing through my veins and filling me with the need to express myself. I haven't felt this way in a long fucking time, and with a start, I realize I've missed it. I've been so preoccupied with Kade and our stepsister, I've totally neglected my talent. It's a damn shame because I was really fucking getting somewhere with my art before Kade ruined everything.
"Are you going to paint?" June asks, barely able to hide the excitement in her voice. "I won't bother you, promise. I'll stay out of your hair." She squeezes my forearm with a soft smile playing on her lips. "I'm so glad you're getting back to it. You have so much talent, so much potential."
I smile in response, but my attention isn't on my stepsister anymore. Instead, it’s on the blank canvas before us. Wordlessly, I pick up a wooden palette and begin mixing colors. June lets me be, walking downstairs and leaving me in peace for the next few hours.
I paint without a goal in mind this time, and it's oddly fucking freeing. Art has always been a way for me to express myself. I started painting after Dad's first lesson in June's bedroom. I needed to get the pain, the emotions, out somehow. But Dad never gave a shit about my paintings. He would just grumble when someone mentioned them. Mostly, he did a good job keeping up pretenses, acting like I was still his son even though he'd told me plenty of times I was nothing but a fucking monster. But not when it came to my painting. He never supported it, but Rachel did.
June's mother was creative herself, and she loved watching me work. She told me I had the talent she'd spent decades wishing for. Even though she was artistic, Rachel couldn't paint or draw for the life of her. It made us form our own special little bond. And what did I get from that? It only hurt fucking more when we lost her, too.