Lost In The Darkness (The Lost and Found Series Book 1)

by K. L. Jessop

  “How are you feeling today?” Her soft voice doesn’t do anything to wash over the obvious question.

  The alcohol.

  Today is the first day I’ve not wanted to drink as soon as I’ve woken. Today will be a day where I won’t need it at all if Miss Know-It-All keeps out of my way. I drink to stop the madness. I drink because of the madness. It’s a furious circle and when it’s mixed with meds it’s a deadly combination but one I put my body under, hoping one day the pain will stop.

  “Fine,” I growl, taking the spray paints out of the draw and placing them on the floor next to my pallet that is awash with colours from where paint has previously dried.

  I don’t know what my mind wants me to work on today. I’ve no commission, which I’m glad of as they create pressure—good pressure—that can often end in the artwork being launched across the gallery if I should fuck it up. In the past, I’ve even missed deadlines because I haven’t been fucked to even look at paints when the devil has awoken.

  I like to create pieces that I like, not what everyone expects from me.

  Taking a large canvas that’s laid on the floor, I prop it up against the wall ready to start work. Grabbing the spray paints from the cardboard box, I take them out as I search for a mask.

  “You’re working down here today?” Pepper says, the surprise in her voice is like she’s never expected it of me.

  “You want me to answer your questions, don’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I can’t do that if I’m up there, can I?”

  I know I need to help her in order to help me, but sometimes I’ve no control over what comes out of my mouth. Emmet is constantly giving me shit for things. He’s been doing that since the very day he found me in the gutter with nothing but the clothes I was wearing and battered shoes that were way too small for me. That man deserves a medal for the day he decided to help me out. I’ve given him nothing but grief.

  “Would you like a coffee, Dexter?” Pepper calls from the other room.

  “I’m fine. I’ll get one myself.”

  “I’m sorry, let me try that again. Would you like a coffee, Dexter?”

  I turn to look at her through the large open square of the wall where the windows need to be placed. She’s leaning against the counter where the kettle and cups are, her arms folded, her eyes focused in my direction with raised brows.

  “I said, I’ll get one myself.”

  “Which means that you do actually want one, so all you had to do was say yes in the first place.”

  Jesus Christ this girl.

  Does she ever stop? She’s waiting for an answer, but all I can think of is that other than her mouth needing a filter, I know nothing about her, and it bothers me that I’m intrigued to want to know more.

  “How old are you?”

  She tilts her head to the side, trying to work out where I’m going with this. “Twenty-two.”

  “You don't look twenty-two.”

  “That's because I'm almost twenty-three.”

  There it is: the bite back—that fucking sass that makes me want to push her more when I’m trying hard not to acknowledge the feeling that is gradually seeping deeper inside me.

  “Do you always hit people with a comeback?”

  “Whenever I can, yeah. Now do you want a damn coffee or not?”

  I have to fight a grin as I don’t want to give her the satisfaction that she’s won this round. Only I’ve clearly failed because the beam that spreads across her face says enough.

  A nod is the only response I can give before she proceeds to make us a drink as I stand there watching her, wondering what the fuck is happening. My only friend is Emmet. He’s the only one I’ve wanted or needed in my life, but now, just by being in the presence of Pepper, I know she’s going to work like fuck to break me down, and I can’t have that: it’s too dangerous.

  Turning back to my work, I stand and stare at the white canvas, hoping that this blank square will give me all the answers I have no questions to.

  What the hell is happening here?

  “That’s great,” I hear her chirp up as if she’s having the best day ever. “I have to add a few bits, but it’s pretty much ready to publish. It’s looking really good already. Thank you, Dexter. You see how easy that was?”

  My irritation with her has been brewing for the last few hours. I’ve given her some details about how I got into art, minus the fact I was living on the streets, and she’s produced some social media page for me as well as hacking into my Instagram account that I had no idea Emmet had set up. It has kept her entertained for a while, but it has not kept her quiet. She’s been humming to herself, chatting to herself whenever she’s worked out what she’s going to do next and when she’s got no response to her own questions, she’s turnned and annoyed the shit out of me. Naturally, I’ve ignored her until I’ve got an abrupt call that’s made me turn around. That being said, it’s not stopped me secretly watching her each time I’ve stopped to change my paint colours.

  I release a sigh when I hear her move from where she is working, knowing she is heading in my direction and wishing she wouldn’t because I can’t seem to get a grip on anything when she is close. That’s partly why I ignore her, hoping she will somehow disappear, but she never does.

  Her fresh scent wraps around my senses as she comes to stand beside me, the heat from her body ricocheting against mine, causing my hands to grip hard to prevent the urge to reach out to touch her. I shouldn’t be wanting to touch her, but fuck me she is everything I’m beginning to crave and everything I shouldn’t.

  “Well, that’s… interesting,” Pepper says, looking at the painting after I’ve added the final touches. There are four coloured skulls on a white background, different colours dripping from their open mouths as if they are bleeding—as if the last part of life is seeping out from the cracks and wasting away, their souls finally dying.

  “It’s a little moody,” she says, tilting her head to the side to examine it.

  “It’s meant to be moody; that’s the whole idea.”

  “But what does it represent?”

  How I feel.

  The majority of my work is based on me. My moods. My life. My loss. I change it up and add in colour, so people don’t ask questions. The four skulls represent each part of me: The Good. The Bad. The Worthless. The Monster.

  Never in my work do I account for freedom. There’s no point. I’ve lived a life without it, and nothing is likely to change. I lost all sense a long time ago and the wretched world is my punishment and one I rightly deserve to bathe in.

  “It can represent anything you want it to,” I say, wiping my hands off on my jeans. “I don’t do designs based on meaning. I do designs based on what I believe people will like.” That is a lie. The paintings locked away upstairs of Tessa have so much meaning and more.

  “But don’t you need to have a purpose behind them in order to get creative?”

  I sigh, needing her to make some space between us as her fresh scent surrounds me. “The purpose is to get creative. Now, can I help you with anything, or are you going to stand there being irritating?”

  “Well, now that I’ve got you on board, there is something I need to discuss with you.”

  I can already tell I’m not going to like this. “Go on.”

  “You don't have a website.”

  I roll my eyes. Isn’t one page enough? “Your point being?”

  “How do people get to know who you are when there's no web page?”

  “They don't get to know me because it's the artwork they are after.”

  “But they need to have a little bio about the person behind it. They need a landing page where everything is in one place. Information, commissioned works, prints available, upcoming projects, links to—”

  “Isn’t that what you’ve been doing all day?”

  “No, that was social media pages. Although I still need to finish those. I need pictures of your work and prices.” She
looks around. “And we still need to work out what we’re going to do with this place. It’s about time we got things up on the walls to brighten it up in here. Oh also, we could—”

  “Please stop talking,” I snap, getting tired of hearing of all her ideas. I’m getting tired in general.

  “You need a website, Dexter.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  She does that famous fucking pose of folding her arms only this time she rests her weight on one leg so her hip pops out to one side, glaring at me through those damn long lashes that shield her big, beautiful eyes. Her face washes with annoyance, but I know she’s slowly starting to feel the pressure of my shitty ways and is likely to snap at any moment. And I’m going to keep pushing until she does. I want this hot head to break in any way I can make her. “So, tell me then, Dexter. How do you suppose you sell your prints online if there is no main base for people to fucking buy them?”

  “They can buy them from here,” I grit out.

  She looks around, opening her arms out. “From here? First of all, this place looks nothing like a goddamn gallery as the walls are bare and second, what exactly are they going to buy when all you seem to have produced is that painting.”

  I step closer, feeling my rage creep across my chest as my heart pounds with our sudden proximity. It had been the same yesterday, and I’d hoped it was a one off due to being close to a woman, but clearly that’s not going to be the case where Pepper-fucking-Livewell is concerned.

  “First of all, I have plenty of work to put up in here; it’s stored in another place. And second. Don’t fucking mock me in my own damn gallery.” Like the twisted fucker I am, I reach out and tug the end of her hair, grinning at her so she has to work out if I’m being serious.

  But her words that follow hit far deeper than I expect and leave my blood boiling. “You have a warped personality.”

  I step even closer than I want to and spit out my final words. “And a mind that’s in a war. Wanna play with fire? Keep on fucking pushing!” With that, I head upstairs, loathing the fact that the only reason I’ve walked away from this ray of sarcastic sunshine is because she’s got me fucking hard.

  Chapter Nine

  Pepper

  I scream into the cushion as I fall onto the sofa. Why? Why can’t he be… normal instead of being so fucking stubbornly cruel. I’d thought I was getting somewhere when he’d come down this morning and given me a few details to put on his new social media pages. It hadn’t been a lot, but at least it was something.

  Having him working in the gallery has been both fascinating and distracting. My eyes have been glued all day to how skilled he is when at work. The concentration in his body and the way his muscles flex with each brushstroke and each spray of paint he dances across the canvas is mouth-watering. But now it’s all gone to shit like I’ve pushed him too far… again. And I can see that I have.

  I’d never meant to cause him any sort of upset with my comment, but for a moment I hadn’t been able to work out which side of Dexter Wilson I was dealing with. The lines in his jaw when he’d gritted out his final words had hit home. The look in his brown eyes had been nothing but pain, telling me that he’s been completely shattered.

  I’d seen it. I’d seen every damn thing in that very second and for that, I’d had no comeback. But fuck me, that doesn’t stop me feeling like I am right now.

  Enraged.

  Aroused.

  Just the simple tug on my hair had created a sensation over me that was extraordinary. The shiver that had raced my spine was chilling, but the heat that flooded between my thighs had been what scared me more than ever. The man hardly touched me, and he’d managed to cause a reaction in my body that I want more of.

  “God, I’m in trouble,” I sigh, throwing the cushion across the sofa.

  My doorbell rings and I push myself up to stand. Heading over, I don’t expect to see my parents standing on the other side.

  “Pepper, darling!” My mum beams as her hands come out to grab my face before a kiss is planted on either side of my cheek.

  “Hey, guys, what are you doing here?”

  “Hello, princess,” Dad says as he comes in to give me a kiss on the cheek once my mum has filtered her way into my house. I usually visit them on a Sunday and speak to them during the week as they are busy with dinner dates or charity events the rest of the time, so seeing them here now is completely unexpected.

  “And you’re here because?” I ask as I close the door behind them once they enter. Two seconds in, and I’m already rolling my eyes at my mother as she checks my fridge and cupboards to see what food I have. I mean, I’m almost twenty-three and have been living independently for four years. Doesn’t she realise I’ve survived all this time on my own?

  “You don’t have much in the way of vegetables, Pepper. Are you eating?”

  “Not right now.”

  She scowls at me and I head over to where she stands in the kitchen. “Mum, I’m fine. I haven’t been shopping yet this week.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’ve been working, remember?”

  “How’s the job going sweetheart?” Dad asks, sitting himself down on my sofa, his legs crossed. He’s wearing his famous navy-blue suit with his pink tie, and it automatically makes me question why: Dad only wears that suit when he is going away on a business trip.

  “The job is going great. I’m really enjoying it.” Enjoying is debatable but if I tell them I’m currently working with the devil, my mum will go full-blown crazy and demand to know who she has to call to sort him out. Dad, on the other hand, is more laid back and lets things play out how they are expected to. They are like chalk and cheese.

  “I’m pleased it’s going well. And you’re doing okay?” He looks at me with that look—that ‘how are you doing without Persie?’ look.

  I leave Mum—who has now turned her attention to cleaning the breakfast dishes I left this morning before work—in the kitchen. I swear she forgets people work for a living, that we don’t all get to live off the wages of others.

  Sitting down on the sofa beside Dad, I give him a knowing smile. “I’m doing okay, Dad. Honest.”

  “Have you thought any more about going back to university?” he asks softly so Mum doesn’t hear.

  “I don’t think I’m ready. Not yet. And I’m not sure if I even want to.”

  His eyes turn sad and guilt rips across my stomach. Dad had always wanted his children to follow in his footsteps and be part of the family business in journalism, but with Persie gone and me still at a loss without her, I don’t think his dream is likely to come true.

  “Take your time, darling. No one says it needs to be now. I was just asking. No pressure.”

  Watching Mum in the kitchen raiding my cupboards, and having Dad here, too, sends a slight panic inside of me. Since Persie died, I’ve noticed Mum’s anxieties heighten and one of the signs that something is on her mind is when she starts fussing over things—or me. Don’t get me wrong, she’s always had an ‘overprotective mother’ side to her, but watching her now is something else. She’s even checking to see how clean my wine glasses are.

  And then there’s Dad in his business suit.

  They are not just here to see me; they are here for a reason, and I’ve worked it out already without either of them opening their mouths: they are going away.

  “So, where are you two travelling off to this time?” I question.

  My mother stills. Dad’s eyes fall to the floor and I could cut the tension with a knife. My parents haven’t left the country since Persie died because, not only have they been too wrapped up in grief to have a holiday, but I’ve also put them under stress with not being able to cope without my identical twin. Mini spa breaks have been the only things they’ve had, and all of those times they’ve taken me with them.

  Mum looks over at me from the kitchen and her face is full of anguish and regret, a sad smile tugging at her lips. “How did you know?”

  “Mum, you’re w
orking your way around my kitchen like you’re checking for rodents and other than greeting me at the door, you’ve not said a word.” I turn to Dad. “And you have your best business suit on that you always wear when you leave the country. So…I can only assume you’re going away. And due to the fact, you’ve not asked me of my plans, I can only assume you’re going off somewhere without me?” I pause, looking at them both. “Which is totally fine, guys, if that’s what you’re stressing about. You know, I am almost twenty-three and all. Don’t want mini breaks with my parents all the time.” I chuckle nervously and hear the click of mum’s heels on my floor before she sits down beside me without a word, glancing at my Dad with that knowing look in her eye—the one that makes my stomach flop. There’s more to this story, and I don’t think I’m going to like it.

  “Dad?” I look at him. “What’s going on. You are going away, right?”

  “Yes, darling. We are,” he says, clearing his throat.

  “So why this sudden tension that’s lingering over us.”

  “Because it’s come completely out of the blue and… Pepper.” Mum’s voice is full of sorrow. “It’s not a mini-break.”

  “So it’s a holiday. Which is great.”

  “Yes but—”

  “It’s Florida,” Dad blurts. “Your mother and I are going to Florida.”

  “Wow, that’s amazing!” I beam, knowing how much they’ve wanted to go. “I’m happy for you. How long are you going for?”

  Mum glances at Dad and he swallows, turning a little in his seat to face me. Dread suddenly fills me, even more so when he takes my hands.

  “Sweetheart, not long ago, I got a call from an acquaintance I have over there asking if I’d do a little business with him at a new firm he has set up. I accepted and we thought we would combine the trip with a little holiday.”

  “But that’s a good thing, right?”

  “It is, yes.” He holds on tighter. “But, as I said, it’s come quicker than we thought it would. However, the length of time I’m needed over there will mean we will miss—”