The Lion and the Artist

by Veronica Sommers

  The Lion and the Artist

  by Veronica Sommers

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 by Veronica Sommers

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author's intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher. Thank you for your support of the author's rights.

  First Edition: July 2020

  The Chapter Playlist

  Chapter 1—Somebody That I Used to Know (Gotye)

  Chapter 2—Never Really Over (Katy Perry)

  Chapter 3—Just the Girl (The Click Five)

  Chapter 4—You're Beautiful (James Blunt)

  Chapter 5—So What (P!nk)

  Chapter 6—If I Can't Have You (Shawn Mendes)

  Chapter 7—Treat You Better (Shawn Mendes)

  Chapter 8—She Will Be Loved (Maroon 5)

  Chapter 9—Safe (Us the Duo)

  Chapter 10—Don't Go Breaking My Heart (Backstreet Boys)

  Chapter 11—All In My Head (NKOTBSB)

  Chapter 12—Ready For It? (Taylor Swift)

  Chapter 13—Call It What You Want (Taylor Swift)

  Chapter 14—Can't Fight the Moonlight (Leann Rimes)

  Chapter 15—The One (Backstreet Boys)

  Chapter 16—Just Like Fire (P!nk)

  Chapter 17—End Game (Taylor Swift)

  Chapter 18—Despacito (Luis Fonsi)

  -1-

  Somebody That I Used to Know

  "Another fifteen minutes!" Laura sings. "And then we'll be there! Beach house, baby! Summer's last hurrah before we mutate into college seniors!"

  I groan. The thought of senior year fills my stomach with a heavy sludge of dread and fear. Dread, because I know how much work will be involved—how many hours I'll spend fidgeting in dull classes, aching for the chance to create marketing campaigns that will actually be seen by someone other than my professors and classmates. Fear, because I know that after this school year, I'll be out on my own. Anchorless, adrift in the vicious, churning maelstrom of The Real World.

  But I need to forget all that for now, and focus on the single, much-anticipated week of coastal fun that lies ahead of me.

  And I need to get Laura to 'fess up. She's been sidestepping my questions during the entire five-hour drive to the beach, refusing to tell me who else is sharing Carynne's beach house with us for the week.

  "Now will you tell me who else will be there?" I demand.

  "Don't be mad, Marilyn." Laura glances over at me, her wide blue eyes uncertain.

  I frown. "What did you do?"

  "Well, Carynne invited some boys, and I didn't know that until this morning. I didn't have any say in it."

  My heart drops. "Oh, no."

  "Yeah, Jeremy's one of them. He's pals with Cliff, I guess. They're friends from way back in grade school, or something."

  "Jeremy, as in my ex. Jeremy will be there. I can't believe you didn't tell me."

  "Would you have gotten in the car if I had?"

  "Hell no."

  "See?" Laura jerks her head, justified. "You'd have stayed behind and missed out on all the fun. This way, you can still come along and enjoy yourself. It's a free week at a beach house, Marilyn! We'll just steer clear of Jeremy, and his friend."

  "Friend?"

  "Jeremy is bringing Oakland Ashton."

  I groan. "No way! You know I hate that guy."

  "Yeah, but why, exactly?"

  "He's a player. One of those super-obnoxious alpha male types who thinks he can flash a smile and saunter right into any girl's pants."

  Not that Oakland Ashton has ever tried to get in my pants. When I was dating Jeremy, I had to be around Oakland on occasion by necessity, since he and Jer are friends and fraternity brothers. But he always treated me with an indifference bordering on distaste. No attempt to make conversation, or smile, or fake even a modicum of friendliness—which, given his reputation, grated a bit. Not that I wanted a renowned panty-snatcher to put the moves on me, especially not while I was dating his friend—but the fact that he barely looked at me without a veneer of disdain didn't do much for my self-esteem.

  "You're quiet," Laura said. "You're really mad at me, aren't you?"

  "I'm disappointed, yes. I was looking forward to this, Laura, and now it's ruined." I feel ridiculously close to tears. I've been working my butt off all summer—extra courses, waitressing, volunteering at the animal shelter on the weekend, a data entry job on the side—and I deserved this week of fun. I set aside money carefully to fund it, so I wouldn't have to panic and check my bank account every time the group wanted to go out for drinks or food. And now—Jeremy and Oakland will be there. My problematic ex and his friend who despises me. For an entire week.

  "I'll run interference," Laura promises, her voice showing her desperation to fix this for me. "We don't have to hang with everyone else very much. We'll hit the beach, go shopping—it's really just about scoring a free place to stay."

  "Yeah, okay." Maybe it won't be too bad. "How much longer till we get there?"

  She's driving over a causeway that spans a glimmering swamp. "Ten minutes, maybe?"

  I roll down the car window and lean my head against the frame, gazing up at the cloud-flecked blue sky, drawing deep breaths of the salty breeze. Feathery palmettos and tall oaks dripping Spanish moss skim past the car. "The air smells amazing."

  "That's right," says Laura. "Deep breaths. Deep breaths. You'll be fine." Her voice trails off, almost as if she's talking to herself instead of to me, and I glance over at her. Her fingers are tense on the steering wheel.

  "You okay?" I ask.

  "Me? Oh, sure. Fine. Just a lot of stress from the summer, you know. Weird stuff going on—but this trip will make it all better, I know it."

  A few minutes later, Laura follows the GPS directions and turns onto a pot-holed lane that slices through sandy hills and thick grasses straight toward the sea. When the car breaks from the scanty tree cover, I see the house and the ocean at the same time.

  First, a field rippling with coarse sea grass. Dunes surging just beyond the narrow two-story house, built up on stout pillars in case of flooding. The place is small, weather-beaten, its siding a cloudy blue that probably used to be brighter. Peeling white shutters flank the windows, and a set of questionable-looking steps leads to the front door.

  "There's a porch at the back," Laura says. "The house is kinda small, but Carynne said her parents liked the privacy of the place. They put less money into the house itself, and more into buying up the land around it so they'd have a nice quiet beach."

  "Makes sense." But my heart is thudding dully, anticipating seven-ish days of being cooped up in that tiny house with two boys I don't like. Well, I still like Jeremy. He's a sweet guy. Smart. Quiet. Except when he drinks. Except when he can't tell when to stop and he turns coarse and angry and feral.

  I didn't break up with him the first time he hit me. I told myself he was just drunk. I thought I could talk to him, point out the problem with his tolerance level, and explain that whenever he was out drinking, he needed to quit long before his buddies. He just couldn't handle the same level of alcohol without getting furious and violent.

  I did talk to him the next day, after he sobered up. He saw the bruise on my face and cried, and promised he'd never drink
so much again.

  And then, a month later, it happened again. He stumbled into my dorm room, slurring and red-faced, demanding to know why I hadn't come out with him that night. He didn't listen to my explanation about a paper being due. It all escalated from there, and when I approached him, hands out, to calm him, he threw me backward into my dresser. As my spine connected with the edge of the half-open drawer, I knew it was over. No matter how much I loved him.

  I was lucky to have no injuries more serious than a deeply bruised back. I had to move carefully for the next few weeks, but I healed—at least, my body did. My heart, not so much.

  I didn't tell anyone why we broke up. Maybe I should have. Maybe, if I had, Laura would understand why partying at a beach house with Jeremy could be more than awkward for me.

  As Laura's car growls to a halt and she switches off the engine, my stomach twists inside out and climbs up to clog my throat. My hands are shaking.

  Jeremy's maroon truck sits at the other side of the gravel space. He and Oakland are already here.

  I can't go into that house and face Jeremy. Not yet.

  I leap out of the car. "I'm going for a walk on the beach." I stumble over the words. "Be back soon."

  And before Laura can protest or persuade me otherwise, I run for the narrow path snaking between the dunes. I run until my sandals dredge too much sand, and then I pull them off, drop them, and run faster, bare feet flying over the hard-packed beach prickly with bits of driftwood, down to the cool, damp sand. I turn left and pound across the empty beach, racing against the panic and the pain. My hair whips behind me, one slim strap of my tank top slipping off my shoulder.

  Out of the corner of my eye a shape emerges, dark and bulky, and I glance aside, heartbeat surging. A man, running parallel with me several paces away. Eyes with a faint Asian angle to them—a broad, straight nose that hints of African descent. Tightly curled black hair. Smoothly muscled arms and an expanse of broad bronze chest and lean stomach.

  Oakland.

  He doesn't look at me, but I know that he knows I'm there. Again with the indifference, and the rudeness.

  Anger spurs me, and I pick up my speed, my bare legs flashing fast as I can drive them. I used to run track in high school, and I still run as often as my schedule allows. I'm fast.

  He's faster. He keeps pace with me easily, not even seeming to strain. As much as I hate it, I have to give up soon. My lungs are tightening, aching, and my leg muscles are tiring quickly.

  Sharply I veer away from him and run straight into the ocean.

  He follows a smooth curve that keeps him parallel to me, splashing into the waves on my left. I wade further in, until my denim shorts are soaked—and further, until I'm up to my armpits in warm salty foam. I glance at Oakland again, and this time he's looking at me. His eyes are vibrant grass-green, almost unnaturally green. He doesn't smile.

  I close my eyes and plunge headfirst into the ocean.

  It's blissful, cleansing. I'm alone now, fully submerged—encompassed and embraced by the liquid roaring in my ears. I'm covered and comfortable. If it weren't for that pesky little thing called oxygen, I would stay under here forever—no work, no school, no complicated exes or well-meaning friends.

  But I've just been running, and I can't stay under for long. I burst out again, slicking back my wet hair, wiping under my eyes to clear any traces of running mascara.

  Oakland is nearer than I expected—an arm's length away, the blue water rippling across his chest, his broad shoulders exposed. Water beads on his tanned skin, and where the sun catches the drops, they glitter like diamonds. Like magic.

  If he would say something, it would be less awkward. But he only looks at me—into me—with those brilliant green eyes, and I feel a tingling, terrifying blend of annoyance and arousal. The not talking, the proximity—it's too intense, too intimate. As if he and I are beyond words, when in reality we've barely ever spoken.

  I need to say something. Something normal. Because I've been staring back at him for too long.

  "I needed a run," I say.

  He speaks, a low ripple of sound that blends with the rush of the ocean. My eyes fall to the curves of his full mouth. "Me too."

  "I didn't know you'd be here. That you and Jeremy would be here, I mean."

  "I knew you would be."

  "You—okay. Did Jeremy know? Did he—how is he?" I haven't spoken to him in two months.

  "He's fine. He's excited to see you." Oakland's lip curls slightly, as if he can't imagine why anyone would be excited to encounter me. Why does he hate me so much?

  "I should go see him." I turn toward shore.

  "Do you think you two might get back together?" His voice is louder, insistent, as I struggle through waves and sand and wet clothes, back to the beach.

  "Is it your business?" I snap.

  "He's my friend. Yeah, it's my business."

  Angrily I whirl, but my breath catches at the sight of him emerging from the water, the liquid streaming off his crisply defined abs, gleaming on the hipbones that jut from his swim trunks. A damp line of hair trails from below his navel, down to—parts unknown.

  I scrape my scattered thoughts together. "Let me guess—you'd rather Jeremy and I stay apart?"

  He nods once. "You weren't good together."

  True, but probably not for the reasons he thinks. Time to confront this guy once and for all. "What's your problem with me?"

  "My—" His stoic expression shatters, and he looks genuinely confused.

  "Yeah. You've never liked me. I'd go so far as to say you seem to actually despise me. Why?"

  "I don't—"

  "I'll have you know that our breakup was entirely Jeremy's fault. Your pal has some serious anger issues. As his friend, you should already know that. And I don't appreciate you treating me with such scorn when Jer is the one who needs an intervention."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Never mind." I turn my back on him and stalk back toward the beach house. "Just stay out of my way this week. It's clear you dislike me, and I'll tell you right now, the feeling is more than mutual."

  I can feel Oakland's eyes on me as I walk back to the path, collect my sandals, and stomp up the steps to the front door of the beach house. The door pops open, and I'm engulfed in a pair of strong freckled arms and a fragrance like warm, newly-trimmed grass. Jeremy's mane of wavy red hair brushes my cheek. My body tenses all over, and for a moment I forget to breathe.

  "Marilyn!" Jeremy crows. "You're here!" He draws back, eyebrows raised. "You're all wet. And not in the good way." He winks one pale blue eye at me. "What'd you do, jump in the ocean?"

  Okay, so that's how we're going to play it. As if nothing happened. As if we're still friends. As if I never had to hobble from his room, bruised and bleeding, and call an Uber to take me back to my apartment. As if I never soaked the back seat of that Uber in a flood of hot, heart-broken tears. As if it was just a friendly breakup, a mutual understanding of incompatibility, instead of a complete demolition of my heart.

  Before I can answer, Jeremy's eyes skim past my shoulder. Oakland's heavy footfalls cause a chorus of creaks as he ascends the steps—a silent, oppressive presence moving in behind me. At his approach, a delicate tingle travels up my spine.

  "You're wet, too," Jeremy says. "I thought you were going for a run."

  "I did. I ended up in the ocean."

  "Same," I mutter. "Got a towel I could use? I don't want to drip all over Carynne's parents' furniture."

  At that moment, a streak of brown skin, big turquoise earrings, and dark hair whizzes past Jeremy, knocking him aside. "Marilyn!" Carynne squeals.

  "Um, hi." I return her hug lightly. Her enthusiasm is a little overwhelming, especially given the fact that she and I aren't that close. Our primary connection is through Laura, and with summer school and work to keep me busy, I've barely seen Carynne since May. Apparently that doesn't faze her one bit.

  "Gosh, you're soaked," she says, squeezing th
e fabric of my tank top. "Come in here. I'll get you a towel. Want a soda? Sparkling water? Snack?"

  I'm dragged inside, bundled into a towel, and shoved onto a comfy pearl-gray loveseat before I can speak a word. Carynne wraps a towel around Oakland's waist and installs him next to me. I shrink into the corner of the couch, as far as possible from his bare arm and muscled shoulder. He's pressed against the opposite armrest as if he's trying to avoid catching the plague from me.

  It's awkward at first—polite small talk, catching up. Not saying anything real or visceral. Jeremy's eyes keep skimming my face and my body, and there's a glint in his gaze that tells me he'd be open to giving our connection another shot. He talks loudly, almost desperately, about how he's been partying less and working hard.

  And then Carynne breaks in with a long list of places we must visit while we're here—bars and restaurants and boardwalks and outlets.

  "We should bring in the luggage first," I say, rising. "And I should change before we go anywhere."

  Jeremy bounds out of his chair, red curls bouncing. "I'll help with the luggage."

  When he's standing in front of me, like this, he's only about an inch taller than I am. He's stocky and powerfully muscled, which makes him seem bigger. But when Oakland unfolds himself from the loveseat and straightens, he dominates the room instantly with his height and his half-nakedness. I can't help staring at those undulating abs, at the smooth, silky brown skin of his stomach.

  I tug my eyes from his abs and look up. He's smirking, green eyes glinting. He noticed my attention. Damn. I turn away, flushing. "Yeah, Jeremy, that would be great if you could lend a hand. Laura brought all her earthly possessions, as usual."

  "Did not!" Laura clatters down the steps after us. "I just brought the two suitcases. And the duffel bag. And my laptop bag. And of course my beach tote, and the extra cooler. The folding chair, too. The umbrella—oh, okay, fine. I guess it is a lot."

  The house has three bedrooms, two of which are furnished with double sets of rustic bunkbeds, neatly made up with crisp sheets and white woven blankets. Seaglass sparkles in Mason jars, and slabs of driftwood are bracketed to the walls by way of rough shelving. Seashells, strung on hemp, festoon the ceiling and the ends of the bunkbeds. The blue and white rugs on the floors match the blue and white curtains fluttering at the open windows. The whole place is simple, airy, and pleasant. Nothing luxurious, but everything essential.