by K. L. Jessop
But what had brought tears to my eyes and had me running was the unmoving body I’d seen at other side of the room as I’d turned to leave. I’d never seen the man before but it made no difference. His face had been grey, his lips blue, and when I’d realised the reality before me, the ice-cold shiver that ran down my spine had had me running.
He was dead.
That day had taught me a lot, and I’d left the house and never looked back. Our mother had been the reason we fled, but Clyro had been the man that fed her habit and caused her to abandon us. My only task from that point on had been to survive as I’d looked for my Tessa.
Years later, I’m still without her, and sometimes I wish I’d never fucking survived.
Chapter Seven
Pepper
Dexter Wilson is a fucking arsehole.
Not only has he shut the door in my face, but he’s also been blasting out Linkin Park for the last four hours, and I’ve been able to hear every damn word they’re singing through the floorboards. I’ve given up trying to get through to him since I can hear nothing but my own voice, and have resigned myself to closing the gallery and coming to the local coffee shop—for refreshments and to use the bathroom because he wasn’t able to hear my yelling when I needed to use his.
Regardless of the fact he’s looking a little brighter today than he has all week, he’s still got under my skin. Again. How hard can it be to give me a few minutes of his time? It makes me question whether he actually wants people to know who he is when it comes to his work.
My phone pings with a message from Malcolm in response to the rage text I’ve sent him.
Malcolm: So where are you?
Me: Sitting in a little café eating a cheese sandwich that’s dry as fuck.
I wish I had something more appealing for my lunch. The café is gloomy and dim, the wood furniture is old and rickety, the people behind the counter look fit to retire and the music that’s playing is worse than the roar of Linkin Park.
Malcolm: And he hasn’t come back down?
Me: Haven’t seen him since this morning. This job is going great! *sarcasm*
Malcolm: I hear it, girl. Wow. He’s some boss.
He’s certainly something. He’s sex and aggression in one form.
I don’t tell Malcolm that Dexter bought more alcohol this morning—he gets a little creeped out at things like that as his uncle had been an alcoholic before he died—but the question hasn’t stopped spinning around my mind since I saw Dexter re-enter the gallery with a bottle of Jack Daniels. This isn’t the first time I’ve witnessed this and something tells me it won’t be the last.
Is he an alcoholic?
Is that why he’s so up in the air?
Is it why Emmet said he’s not all bad?
Why do I even care?
Malcolm: So, you’re still staying there? No?
I read over his message, doubting everything I’ve said previously. I need a focus to keep me grounded, but do I need the hassle?
Looking out of the window, my eyes travel to Dexter’s building and, more importantly, to the man who now stands out on the rooftop balcony. His shirt is off, giving me a perfect glimpse of his chest and the shadings of the tattoo on his arm. His hair is still down as he leans over the edge of the railing. His head is low as though he is deep in thought while he holds the bottle of whiskey in his hand.
I’m in two minds whether or not to run to him, to make sure he’s careful in case he is drunk, but I don’t because when he stands and takes a few steps to his left, it’s clear from the way he walks that he’s perfectly fine.
I watch him closely, trying to work out the mystery behind the beast as he looks up at the sun shining bright in the sky. But as if he knows I’m watching, his head comes back down and he looks in my direction. I can’t see his eyes clearly as he’s too high, but the heat that runs through my body is enough to acknowledge the fact he’s affecting me from such a distance.
He’s looking this way. He’s looking at me, and for what seems like a lifetime, he doesn’t take his eyes away and I can’t bring myself to move mine. He’s troubled, pained and clearly scarred, but my God he’s perfection to look at.
The sudden sexual desire he’s caused with just a look has me pressing my thighs together, and all my frustration slowly leaves my body. What is it about this man?
Finally, he moves, taking a swig of his JD before turning and heading back inside.
And as if this morning never happened, I text Malcolm back.
Me: Yes. I’m staying.
I decide to not return to the gallery after lunch. Instead, I travel around the city, exploring and experiencing the different types of street art that line our streets with colour and stories.
Through my recent research, I’ve learnt that London has become the biggest destination in the world for its street art, and from what was first said to be vandalism and disrespect, great artists such as Banksy and Blek Le Rat have risen. They’ve slowly wowed the city with their masterpieces and their following has grown wider over the years.
Brick Lane—one of London’s cultural areas that provides al fresco bars and international food and drink markets—is where the colours of spray paint first started and is the home ground for street art development. Camden Town, right in the very centre of where Dexter lives, offers street tours for tourists where hundreds of works are provided for those with further interest. Brixton is another part of this modern world where new features appear daily. Everywhere you look, stories are told through sprays of colour that connect to the foundations of the urban world.
There is so much I never knew and so much more I want to know.
Parking up my scooter once I return to the gallery, I place the key in the lock and wait for the shutter to open before I head inside only to have my uplifted mood cut in seconds.
“Where the hell have you been?” Dexter’s deep voice halts me in my tracks. He stands in the doorway that leads up to his home, now with a shirt on thankfully, looking annoyed but not angry.
The inner bitch inside me decides to give back as much as he throws. “Why? Did you want to sit and talk fairy tales and stories after all?”
His jaw muscles tighten and there’s a look in his eye that I can’t read. I place my helmet on the table at the side of me before I take off my leather satchel and coat, hanging them on the back of my chair.
Sitting down at the desk, I don’t give him any eye contact.
“I came down and you weren’t here.”
“Well, you did tell me to leave. I thought you’d be pleased I’d gone.” I fire up the laptop, having no clue what I’m going to be doing as I’m still waiting for information from him. “I thought I’d make use of my time and educate myself on the art of the city because let’s face it”—I finally look at him—“I’m not getting anything from you.”
The more he’s near, the more irritation creeps over me, and I can’t work out if it’s because he’s dared to question where I’ve been or because he’s standing there looking sexy as fuck in a black vest, blue jeans and bare feet.
“So you took off without a word?”
I’ve noticed he’s lost the bottle of alcohol now and replaced it with a coffee cup, but that underlining edge of vexation is still in his presence.
“If I’d have known you were that bothered, I would have left you a note.”
He comes over to the opposite side of the desk, places his hands on either end and leans in. He smells of whiskey, shampoo and all things that make him divine, and the heady mix fills my senses, his long hair hanging in a messy wave that I want to run my fingers through.
His eyes, so brooding and deep, burn into me and he growls out, “You’re here to work, remember?”
That’s all it takes. I stand, mirroring his position across the desk as the fury inside of me at his behaviour bursts from the seams. “Yes, Dexter. I’m here to do a job, which would be a lot fucking easier if you were to give me the information I need in order to get y
our arrogant arse known to the world.”
“Your point being?”
“Point being that if you didn’t hide away all the time, things would be a lot easier for me to do my damn job.”
He’s silent for a moment, his jaw muscles moving as his eyes dance back and forth with mine. “If you don’t like the way I run things around here then why don’t you quit?” he growls.
I lean in a little further, showing him he doesn’t scare me, even though I’m shaking on the inside—shaking because I’ve squared up to this man I hardly know anything about; shaking with a desire that I shouldn’t be feeling but can’t control because this beast is making me all kinds of crazy. He’s far too close for comfort and my inner bitch is loving every second of it the more it entices him closer.
I drop my gaze to his lips, imagining what it would feel like to have them on mine before I dart back up to his heated stare. “Because I’m not going to give you the satisfaction of giving you what you’re after.”
His eyes fall to my lips this time, and he’s about to say something when we hear a chuckle in the gallery doorway.
Looking over, I see Emmet standing there with a shit-eating grin on his face.
“Well well. What have we here?”
I don’t know whether to be thankful that he’s arrived or mad at him because, going by the look on his face, he clearly knew that this would happen when he hired me. Either way, I’m glad of the reprieve when Dexter pushes off the desk and steps back to greet his friend.
“Right on time. You can sort her out with the information she’s so desperate to get.”
“Because it’s clearly to hard a job for you to do?” I bite back.
He turns his head towards me, his face still unreadable. “No. I’ve got some things I need to do that are more important.”
“Of course you have.” I can’t help the eye roll as I sit back down in my chair.
All the while, Emmet still stands in the doorway.
“What is your damn problem?”
I sigh. “Dexter, I’m not even going to waste my energy repeating what you already know.” I turn to look at Emmet, hoping he will help cut the tension that has suddenly escalated within minutes. “Hey, Emmet. How are you doing?”
“Good thank you, Pepper. I would ask you the same but by the sounds of it, you’re a little… stressed.”
I raise my brows and smile, getting my point across. “Dexter was a little annoyed that I left the gallery without telling him. But, like I said to him, I went out to educate myself while I waited for him to provide me with information for the social media pages.”
He looks over at Dexter. “You still not done that yet? What have you been doing all day?”
Getting shit faced.
Dexter’s loud sigh fills the space around us as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “I was painting.” Then he shoots a look at Emmet and it’s like his next words clarify everything to him in one statement. “I was watercolour painting?”
Watercolour?
This is new information to me. However, the word is clearly some secret code because Emmet’s face changes to a look of understanding as he nods at his friend.
“You do watercolour, too?” I ask softly, knowing I’ve done wrong for asking when Dexter cuts me a look.
“I wasn’t talking to you. And you can go now.”
“Dexter, give her a break.”
I hold his gaze for a few more seconds before I have no choice but to look away. Pain stares back at me so strongly that I feel it run deep.
Getting up from the desk, I make myself useful by putting the kettle on, still feeling Dexter’s eyes on me.
“Anyway, Dex. I’ve brought your favourite because I’m kind like that,” Emmet laughs.
I sense Dexter’s presence at the side of me and my skin warms with the closeness of him before a box is placed on the table.
“Macaroons,” I say surprisingly. “You like macaroons?”
Dexter’s eyes narrow. “So what if I do?”
“They are my weakness.” I grin, thinking back to all the times Persie and I would fight over the last one. She’d loved them, too, and every Saturday when we were growing up, we would get some to share with each other as we watched movies on the sofa. “What's your favourite?”
“I don't have one.”
“Chocolate is his favourite.”
“Haven't you got bad guys to catch?” Dexter throws back at him.
“Finished for the day.”
I look back at the box, the knowledge of what flavours the different colours contain making my mouth water. “Chocolate is good, but have you tried the—"
“Why are you still here?” he barks back.
I slam the coffee cup on the counter, glaring at him. “Like I’ve not been trying to get through to you today and yesterday when I tried to talk to you through a door—”
“Oh yeah, you have a job to do.”
“Whoa, you made her talk through the door?” Emmet chuckles. “Jesus, Dex.”
“It’s only a few questions, Dexter.”
“That’s what they all say.”
“I’d be out of your hair quicker if you’d just cooperate.” I outstretch my arm towards the computer. “I can’t help build your profile if I’ve nothing to go on. I need to know things like, how you got into art for example.”
“Street art,” Emmet replies, coming in between us and taking a macaroon from the box. “He drew pictures on the ground.”
I don’t miss the glare that Dexter throws at him.
“Okay, great. What age did you find an interest?”
“When he was fifteen,” Emmet says with a mouthful.
“You see. Easy questions. Now if I can get the answers from the man himself, I can start working.”
“Are you always this persistent with your work?” Dexter cuts at me.
I cross my arms and rest against the counter. “Are you always this much of an arse instead of giving straight answers?”
“Oh, I like her,” Emmet says, pointing at me but looking at him.
“Shut up, Emmet,” Dexter growls, scrubbing his hand over his face. “Will you keep out of my way once I’ve given you these damn questions?”
I can’t help but grin, knowing I’m about to have a victory here. “Of course.”
He studies me long and hard, his jaw muscles moving like crazy as he grumbles. “Fine.”
I shoot Emmet a look and he’s grinning like an idiot. Meanwhile, I have to stop myself from doing a happy dance to mark round one with the beast.
Chapter Eight
Dexter
Jesus fucking Christ, this woman is fire in every possible way: her body, her eyes, that goddamn mouth of hers… She is making me feel things I haven’t felt in a long time, and she’s making me want to do things to her that I shouldn’t.
I can’t remember the last time I had a woman, felt the softness of warm skin under my fingertips and held them only for the purpose of feeling good.
Sex is sex—a physical need that requires satisfying and is a desire that is over and forgotten about in several minutes. If Pepper carries on giving me back as much as I throw at her, I can’t be held responsible for my actions. This little firecracker is more than just a brunette with a mouth on her: she’s a bundle of fucking delight wrapped in everything I want to take off.
I sit on the bottom step of my stairs after quietly coming down to watch Pepper in the gallery. After I’d agreed to her demands yesterday and cursed at Emmet for bringing her here, I went back upstairs and left them both to it. I’d had to leave; I hadn’t been able to stay around her much longer as her attitude had been sending all sorts of signals to my dick. I’d needed to leave and get my shit together and JD and music had been the only answer.
Today is the start of a good day—I can feel it in my bones. The depressing times of this past week are slowly fading out and the cloud that has been hanging over me has shifted. A good phase is coming, and as much as I welcome the som
bre times, the brighter days seem like even more of a punishment. Life seems to be one big punishment; each new day brings something else and this past week has been in the form of a woman.
Today, Pepper is a vibrant mix of coloured denim: pink skinny jeans that show off her curves, a purple shirt with pearl buttons and a light blue denim jacket—not forgetting the Doc Martins, only this time they are jet black. Her silky hair falls around her shoulders so effortlessly and those bright blue eyes are like the light of everything I can’t have.
She sits at the desk in her computer chair—which I now want to upgrade for her to make sure she’s comfortable—as she looks at something on the laptop, deep in thought, her eyes flickering from one side of the screen to the other. Her brows furrow now and again before her slim fingers tap at the keys.
I could sit here all day and watch her because, in this quiet moment, observing her from a distance, I’m overcome with a sense of calm that I’ve never experienced before. If I’m honest, I’d felt it the moment I first saw her in the gallery and that had angered me more than ever. I hadn’t wanted to believe in the change she had created—I still don’t. So now, as she looks up at me and finds me watching her, I wake the gremlin inside.
“Dexter. How long have you been there?”
Not long enough.
The surprise in her voice says it all, but I can’t reply to a word she says. Like my true twisted self, I push her aside like she doesn’t exist and enter the gallery with a grunt. Walking past her, I step inside the other room and start to find the things I need in order to paint. I can feel her eyes on me, burning into my back, but I refuse to look at her. She’s got me down here, I’ve said I’ll answer her questions and I don’t owe her anything else. I know I’m being an arsehole, but I’m only doing it to save her in the long run. Everyone leaves as soon as they see the devil side of me. Even as a youngster, everyone left me eventually.