Sexton Brothers Box Set

by Lauren Runow

  “I’m honest,” he says. “Hey, at least you know she didn’t want you for your money. You’re always worried about that shit. She just saw you as a hot piece of meat.”

  “Thanks,” I say but find a slight sense of relief in his statement.

  Last night, Harper had a good time with me without knowing my net worth.

  “Hey, don’t stress. It happens to the best of us,” Ryan says. “April said they were only there because her friend had just gone through a rough breakup.”

  “Yeah, I know all about it.”

  “Then, take the night for what it was. A fun evening with a hot girl. Go paint another fucking mural somewhere to cure your broken heart”—he mocks me with his hand on his chest—“and come out with me again tonight to be my wingman.”

  If he only knew her naked body painted in a bed of roses was the image that flashed through my mind.

  Damn, she was gorgeous.

  I clear my throat. “What happened with the lawyer?” I ask.

  “It wasn’t meant to be,” he says matter-of-factly. Looks like that’s the theme of my morning.

  “I have a class in thirty minutes,” Chris groans as he looks at his phone.

  “And you can’t miss another, or you won’t graduate.” Ryan hits him in the arm, nearly pushing him out of his chair.

  We finish our breakfast as I hear some more stories of their night after I left the bar. When we’re done, we head over to campus.

  I have two lectures this morning and spend them drawing in my sketchpad in the corner. Each image is the same as the last—a beautiful woman with almond-shaped eyes and a bowed mouth. If I had colored pencils with me, I’d shade her eyes in blue.

  After my last class, I take the subway to the gym and get six miles in on the treadmill before hitting the weights. I’m showered and changed, and I still have a ton of anxious energy left in my system.

  My brother Bryce says that’s because I’m only twenty-two. He thinks I’ll slow down when I hit thirty. I hope that never fucking happens. I love this on-the-go feeling. The need to keep moving from one activity to the next and staying curious about everything is what makes me feel alive. It’s what makes New York the perfect city for me. A city I will soon be leaving.

  It’s a crisp afternoon, so I start walking uptown, toward my studio. It’s a place I bought shortly after I moved to the city. A sanctuary where I can escape. I chose Harlem because it’s a cultural mecca, a place of preservation and vibrant art. It’s home to the Apollo and Red Rooster and intricate architecture. It’s also home to some of the best jazz clubs in the city.

  Not many people I know feel the fire and passion of Harlem the way I do.

  Well, there is one person.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket. I snake it out and see Bryce is FaceTiming me. I should look to him like a friend, but he’s more like a father. Someone who is constantly on top of me, demanding the very best.

  “What’s up, big bro?” I say into the phone, not holding it directly to my face since I’m walking down 125th Street, and I don’t want to look like a total douchebag. “How did the event go last night?”

  “Another shit-show where Missy was put on the pedestal she didn’t deserve.”

  Missy. The thorn in my family’s side.

  I was fourteen when my mother passed away. Shortly after the funeral, my father brought around his much younger girlfriend, Missy Catrera.

  If anyone thought it was bizarre for a man of my father’s wealth and stature to be dating a twenty-one-year-old, they didn’t say a word to us. They even applauded his marriage to her four years later while my brothers and I cringed in the corner.

  We’ve known Missy since we were teenagers. She ran in the same social circles as Austin. I heard rumors the two used to date, which is creepy as fuck, considering she’s now sleeping with my father.

  Her presence in our family has been tumultuous, to say the least. Her money-hungry reputation has had Bryce and Austin seething from the moment Dad showed up with Missy on his arm.

  She’s the number one reason I don’t parade around the fact that I’m the son of West Coast newspaper and media magnate Edward Sexton. At the young age of fourteen, I was gifted shares in our media company, and when I reached the legal age, I took actual control of them. My personal wealth has seven zeroes at the end, and I haven’t worked a day in my life to earn one of them.

  “I didn’t stay long. I managed to sneak out before the presentation,” Bryce says.

  I look at my phone and see my brother’s face with the tired lines around his eyes. The guy works like a machine.

  “You left Austin there to play the good son?”

  “Serves the bastard right. He manages to skip familial obligations more than a dead man. He also got himself into a shitload of trouble last night.”

  I stop in my tracks. “What happened?” I ask.

  “Don’t worry about it. I have it all under control.” Bryce pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a deep sigh. “You can’t graduate fast enough.”

  I tilt the phone away from me, not wanting him to see the expression on my face. I’m a Sexton, heir to a media empire. With that comes obligation. With obligation comes sacrifice. One I know I’d be selfish not to make. I mean, who doesn’t want to work for the multimillion-dollar company his mother created from the ground up?

  “Just a few more weeks.” I try to keep a lighthearted tone.

  When I pull the screen back up, Bryce is looking off to the side, his mouth pinched and a deep vein protrudes in the center of his brow. I step out of the way of people walking by and hold up the phone, so I can give him my full attention.

  “What are you not telling me?”

  Bryce removes his glasses and rubs his eyes. “Father gave Missy half of his shares.”

  “Why the hell would he do that?”

  “She wants control.”

  “Of what? She’s already married to him. She has been for four years. She already works for the company. What more does she get out of being an owner?”

  Bryce drops his head back, letting out a deep sigh. Sometimes, I feel bad for him. Being the oldest Sexton brother, he holds the weight of our family on his shoulders.

  “So, what does this actually mean?” I ask.

  “Technically nothing … or maybe everything? I don’t know. I know I’m not going to like their end game though. California is a commonwealth state. They’re married, so she already gets half of what he owns. There’s got to be something I’m missing, a reason he would gift her his shares.”

  “Dad didn’t make her sign a prenup?”

  “Fuck, I don’t know. I always figured he had, but when they married, I was so buried, trying to figure out how to run a newspaper and spearhead a media company, that I didn’t think I had to question my own father.”

  “Lesson learned, right?”

  He groans. “Big fucking lesson learned.”

  “So, what’s the plan?”

  “You graduate, get your ass back here, and help me save the company our mom built.”

  “I know. I’m almost finished.” I start walking again, not wanting Bryce to see the falter in my face and using the cold air as my reason to be gritting my teeth.

  Of course, I want to move back to San Francisco, where my family is, but I can’t deny that I love having my anonymity here. I’ve had freedom to be the man I want to be, doing the things I want to do. When I go back, I’ll be hit full force with my new life as Tanner Sexton, President of Marketing and Advertising, Sexton Media.

  Yes, I’ll get to work in the most artistic department, and I’ll get to actually use my Columbia degree, but I wonder how much I’ll be doing versus telling people what I want them to do.

  That’s not really what I want.

  I want to create.

  I want to live, creating my art.

  But I also want to keep my mother’s dream alive. That is what I want above everything. She was the most inspiring woman I’ve ever met, and
her memory deserves to live on.

  “Austin and I just came out of meeting with Missy, and she said something interesting.” The way his tone levels makes me realize just how serious he’s being. “They want to split up the company and are saying they found a buyer for the print and digital properties. She said you could be persuaded into selling your shares.”

  I spoke to Dad and Missy a few weeks ago. They mentioned selling Sexton Media, but I didn’t think they were really serious. I feel like Missy has “amazing” new ideas every day. They can’t sell without us. Besides, keeping the company is for the best … right?

  “No, man. I’m with you to the end,” I say with conviction as I try to convince myself at the same time.

  “Enjoy your last few weeks of freedom and come home,” Bryce says. “I need you, Little Man.”

  “Are you always going to call me that?”

  He laughs at the nickname he gave me when he was eight years old. Apparently, my mom brought me home from the hospital, and Bryce’s first words were, “He looks like a little man.” It was cute at the time, but being twenty-two and six feet tall, I’m not so little anymore.

  “Okay, well, I have someone waiting on the office line and a meeting that started two minutes ago. Love you, bro.”

  “Love you, too.”

  I enjoy talking to my brother just as much as I despise it. I want to help him while, selfishly, I wish it weren’t my responsibility to do so.

  I walk up to my studio, and when I open the door, everything comes back full force. Everywhere I look, I see Harper. Especially when I see her Thank you staring back at me.

  I turn to my speaker system, flipping through my songs until I stop at “Crazy Bitch” by Buckcherry, and I laugh at how much this song reminds me of her.

  This place is a mess. Blankets and pillows are strewed on the ground. Paint cans were left open on the table, and my brushes have crusted over.

  I blast the music and clean up my studio. I toss whatever is soiled in the washing machine in the front closet and soak my brushes in the kitchen sink. I wasted a shitload of paint, but it was worth it, I guess.

  I’m drying my brushes when I stare up at the sheet on the wall again. I know I’ll never see her again, but I can’t bring myself to throw it away. I walk over and take it down from the wall, roll it up, and place it in one of the cabinets before scrubbing the floors.

  Two hours later, this place is cleaner than it’s been in weeks, and still, my body is tingling with anxiety. It’s not because of my conversation with Bryce. I’ve always been good at putting the drama away, compartmentalizing my feelings and moving on.

  I know it’s because of her. No matter what song I listen to or how much I clean, I can’t rid the feeling that there’s unfinished business.

  I put the last load of laundry in the dryer when curiosity gets the better of me, so I pull out my phone and do a Google search. Maybe it’s because I’m good at research or because I’m a twenty-two-year-old who knows way too much about social media, but I find her.

  Harper Doyle.

  There was only one Harper in all of the public school directories in Harlem. She teaches fifth grade, not far from here.

  Maybe Ryan’s right, and I need to paint something to get her out of my system. I place my supplies in my backpack and head out the door.

  Thankfully, it’s a cloudy night, so the sky is dark, and the street even darker. I walk around, my mind on nothing but her.

  I glance up to a set of lit windows of an apartment building nearby, wondering if one of them is where she lives. I never even asked where she lived. I didn’t think I had to. I thought I’d have time to get to know her even more, but I was wrong.

  My feet find their way to the elementary school. While my studio is on a popular street, well lit and bustling with businesses, the area just a few blocks over isn’t as nice.

  Right next to the school is a building that’s been abandoned for a few years and riddled with squatters. It’s a detriment to an area that has such vitality. I look around and find a beat-up door that blocks off the entrance to the vacant building.

  I don’t know if she’ll see this. I don’t even know if I’m doing this for her or more for myself. All I know is, my hands are itching to paint the vision I see in my mind, and the feeling won’t go away until I’ve put it out in the world—for everyone, or just for her, to see is still up for debate.

  Heading toward the door, I place my backpack on the ground and unzip it, revealing the cans of spray paint, leaving the top propped open so that I can have easy access to them and also grab and run if the need arises.

  With the red, I set the tone, coating the door with a light mist of crimson, so the rest will pop off the worn-out, dark door.

  Holding a can of black in each hand, I begin the forms of a man and a woman dancing close together. I have to use cardboard to make the details. With their fingers interlaced, the man is pulling her body close to his with his other caressing her face.

  Their eyes are locked on each other and lips slightly parted. I paint her sexy, toned legs while longing to feel them again. As I round out the curves of her breasts, I remember what it felt like when I held Harper’s in my hands.

  And, when I grab the blue paint, it’s only to show the color of her eyes before I step back to take in the mural I painted.

  It’s missing just one thing. I reach for the lavender, shaking it for a few seconds before writing, You’re welcome, across their bodies.

  7

  HARPER

  “Please tell me how is it I’m still scrubbing paint off my grout!” April says as she sashays out of the bathroom.

  I’m standing in the kitchen, popping a coffee pod into the Keurig. “Sorry about that.”

  “I wish you had let me see this body paint before you let it tint my porcelain pink.” She’s laughing, which is a relief. Most people wouldn’t be so kind to their futon-crasher making a mess of their bathroom. Especially since I’ve been evading her. When I woke up on Friday, I went straight to work and avoided her inquisition, and then I went straight to my parents’ house.

  I grab my filled mug and take a sip. “Trust me, by the time I got home, I was all crusty and smeared. I looked like a bad Picasso.”

  “It’s not every day your best friend has a one-night stand with an artist and then keeps all the goodness to herself.”

  “Pardon me for visiting my parents this weekend,” I tease.

  My dad needed some help with taking care of my mom, and it was a good excuse for me to hide from Aaron, who has been blowing up my phone since he saw Tanner kiss me.

  “Smart idea. Your ex came by here twice. Apparently, he doesn’t take lightly to you being manhandled by hot guys in bars.”

  I make a face of disgust. “He should have thought of that before he put his dick in another girl’s panties.”

  April makes a proud face. “Look at you, using profanity like an adult. I like this new you. I bet it’s because you got freaky this weekend.”

  “Dick is hardly profanity. And I didn’t get freaky.”

  “It’s okay. One-nighters are supposed to be freaky.”

  “It wasn’t a one-night stand. We didn’t even have sex.”

  She takes a dangling earring from her palm and puts it into her ear. “Oral play counts as a one-night stand.”

  I shake my head. “Too much body paint.”

  She pauses. “Finger play?”

  I don’t say yes. I don’t say no either. I just take another sip of my coffee and place my papers that were sitting on the counter inside my tote bag.

  With her earrings in place, she curves her brow and tilts her head to the side. “So, you finger-fucked like teenagers, and then you Coyote Ugly’d him?”

  I flinch. “You make it sound so scandalous.”

  “Did you or did you not sneak out in the middle of the night?”

  “Yes, Prosecutor. In my defense, there was nothing to stay for. It was a great night.” An amazing night. �
��I’d just gotten out of a relationship, and I’m not looking for anything serious. Staying would have been awkward.”

  April slides her coat on. “He probably wasn’t looking for anything serious either. He was pretty young.”

  “He wasn’t that young.”

  She grabs her briefcase from the floor. “He was a baby.”

  “Shut up. He was at least twenty-six, twenty-seven.”

  She points down. “Lower.”

  I shrug my shoulders and go back to packing my bag. “Doesn’t matter. I’m never seeing him again.”

  April adjusts her collar in the mirror by the front door before running a finger around her mouth to fix her lipstick. “Too bad. You could use a fling with a body-painting sex machine.”

  I could.

  “Maybe he’s bad in bed. I mean, he didn’t even try to have sex.” I feign indifference.

  She gives me a deadpan stare. “Did you orgasm?”

  I glance up at the ceiling. It’s none of her business.

  “Exactly.” She sounds pleased.

  I drop my eyes to her. “The only reason I stayed out that night was because I thought you’d have someone here yourself.”

  April opens the door. “Yeah, yeah. Keep telling yourself that. You had fun with him.”

  “I did not,” I lie.

  “Have a good day at work, dear,” she says as she closes the door behind her.

  I love her like the best friend she’s always been to me. What I don’t like is how she knows me better than I know myself.

  It’s not that I don’t want April to know about my night with Tanner. It’s just … everything that transpired seems so special. I’m afraid, if I start to talk about it, I’ll realize it was all just a dream.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  I clean out my cup and hang it from the mug rack on the counter. With my tote bag in hand, I put on my jacket, and I’m out to catch my bus.

  I cling to the metal bar on my way uptown. There’s a guy next to me, reading a Stephen King novel. He’s really handsome with light-brown hair and a suit under his overcoat. I want to snap a picture of him and submit it to the Hot Guys Reading Instagram page, but knowing my luck, I’d probably get caught and then have to explain to him why I was taking a picture.