Another Stroke of Fate (The Carnal Exhibitions Book 2)

by LW Barefoot

  He searches my gaze and digs deep. I can’t hide the truth. I can’t even believe it myself. They’re so much alike. Will Evan eventually be that cruel, I helplessly wonder and Evan sees it. His gaze turns from helpless concern and caring to anger then all out rage. That long dead fear I had of him comes roaring back to life.

  He doesn’t give me a chance to answer him as he storms from the room. Leaving me more confused than I’ve ever been in my life.

  I study the finished painting sitting on the easel. It’s the darkest of the collection and I feel like I painted it with blind eyes and empty emotions. I poured too much of myself in it. I walked away from it after the final brush strokes with a sense of dread. And now it’s like seeing it for the first time.

  I call Jamie and look away from the first piece of my work I’m not proud of. I should have gone back to New Orleans with him when he left. I feel bad about having to ask him to drive all the way out here but he doesn’t answer my phone calls and my text messages go unanswered.

  I sit in my studio for the last time and I’ve never felt so alone. I could call Tom but I know he’s busy since he left the other night without a goodbye.

  Waiting for Jamie to call me back, I move to Evan’s bedroom and start packing my things. It becomes second nature to pick up my stuff and shove it in my suitcases.

  My eyes skim over Evan’s things and I force myself not to dwell on what I’m giving up and how much it hurts, but then again, I remind myself of Evan’s words that this could never be love.

  Brad comes to find me and for the first time since we’ve met, he doesn’t have much to say.

  “Come join us for dinner, Harper,” he pleads.

  “I need to go home, Brad,” I tell him as I zip up my last suitcase.

  “It’s getting late and we have to eat. We’ll talk about getting out of here after dinner,” he promises.

  I reluctantly agree to come downstairs after I shower and change.

  While I get ready, I can’t help myself when I reach for Evan’s cologne bottle. Running the sprayer under my nose, I inhale, but it’s nothing like the real thing. Nothing at all like the scent coalesced with Evan’s personal chemistry that I never want to forget.

  Harper

  I memorize the details of the house as I make my way to dinner. I almost stop from going in the library because Stacy is alone. I decide against trying to brave it and instead try to blend in with the tapestry when I lean back on the couch.

  This is the first time I actually witness her working on her laptop. After a few minutes, she looks up.

  “Hi, Harper,” she says.

  “Hello.”

  Her focus strays to my neck and refuses to look away.

  “It’s that bad, huh?” I ask.

  “I’m sorry,” she stutters and shakes her head.

  “Don’t worry about it. I should have covered it up with concealer.”

  “I can’t believe Evan would do that,” she whispers.

  “Evan didn’t do this,” I correct her.

  Her eyes shift up to mine.

  “Then that explains why everyone’s late for dinner.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ll see,” she looks worried.

  She turns her attention back to her laptop after offering me a sad smile.

  Evan eventually swings in the room and plops down on the couch across from me. I take in the details about him that are out of character. His tie is off, the first few buttons are open at his neck, and the sleeves of his white dress shirt are rolled up. My pulse stutters when I notice blood staining the white material in a splatter like pattern. His hands are clean, but his knuckles are split open.

  I bolt when Evan’s heated gaze crashes with mine. There’s nothing reflected in his eyes but pure anger. He no longer sees me. He stares at the marks on my neck and his nostrils flare.

  I stand and leave. Walking past exclamations from Brad when I rush out of the room. I need out of here to clear my head. Martin walks past me on his way to the parlor as I retreat to another room to call Jamie again. He has a full tray of tumblers with varying shades of cocktails.

  “Good evening. Would you care for a drink?”

  “Please don’t judge me,” I exclaim as I locate mint leaves floating around the ice, guessing that it must be some kind of mojito. The ones Stacy drinks every night before dinner.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he mutters with a grin.

  Martin winks as I lift the two glasses and walk toward my destination.

  I’m pacing and I can feel the weight of my tears as I keep checking my phone. I finish the first drink and I want to laugh. Martin has been cutting back on the rum he serves to Stacy. She’s not only wearing on my patience. I immediately feel bad about judging her.

  I stare at the screen on my phone willing Jamie’s number to flash with an incoming call or text message. It’s so unlike him not to answer.

  “I was going to ask if one of those were for me.”

  Grayson stands in the doorway with his hands in his pockets watching me.

  “What are you still doing here?” he questions me.

  “Don’t worry, I got the message loud and clear. I’m leaving, you don’t have to take out the trash,” I choke.

  “You weren’t supposed to hear that, Harper.”

  “It doesn’t matter because Evan’s done what you told Joe he would.”

  “What’s really going on between you two?”

  “It’s not really any of your business,” I snap at him.

  “Ouch, you see, it is very much my business. You’re in an impossible situation and I find myself willing to help you out of it.”

  “My whole life is an impossible situation, could you help me out of that? Isn’t that what your dad wants you to do?”

  “I’m not here to hurt you, Harper. You have your FBI friends and a new identity at the snap of your fingers if that’s what you truly wanted an entirely different life. What I offer is something different. You wouldn’t even have to change your name again.”

  “Why would you want to help me, again?”

  I remember Evan’s party and try to imagine if I had left with Grayson when he offered. I finish the watered down drink and set the glass on a side table without dropping it. Grayson has my rapt attention.

  “I’m tired of watching beautiful women get destroyed by Hawthorne’s.”

  His shoulders drop a fraction with his admission. Sincerity shines out of his traitorous green eyes. His shock of sandy-colored hair is the only difference between him and the ‘legitimate’ Hawthorne men.

  My experience with his dad has me intimately aware of what it could be like to be broken down by him. I assume Grayson is referring to his mother.

  “They take every good and honorable thing and devour it. You change, you think it’s for the better, but Harper, trust me it’s not. Especially for someone in your peculiar situation. On top of everything you’ve been through, Evan would expose you and that’s what you’re really scared of isn’t it?”

  Tears fall as I shake my head in denial. Grayson’s studied me from the minute he came here and even before that. He’s been paying too much attention to my reactions and he knows what and who I’m scared of most.

  I shouldn’t trust Grayson, but who better to know firsthand the cruelness of those around me. I’m stronger than this, I know it, but he’s just hit my Achilles heel. My weak spot for moving forward.

  Grayson innocently hugs me when I start shaking, burying my head in my hands. I don’t even care that he’s seen beyond everything to my ugly truth. I just want to crawl back to New Orleans and away from this place with its walls closing in around me.

  “Get your hands off her,” Evan’s voice ripples through the room in a quiet rage and causes goosebumps to spread across my skin.

  Grayson’s hand languidly strokes up and down my back. I don’t even want to look at Evan. That familiar panic creeps back in and refuses to subside.

  “H
arper,” Evan growls.

  It’s my first warning.

  Grayson’s eyes meet mine.

  “My offer still stands, Harper.”

  He means it, as in right now.

  Evan’s grip wraps around my wrist. He pulls me from the room and Grayson’s concerned face. Grayson looks at me with sympathy and expectation, challenging me as I follow Evan.

  The Sculptor’s Impatience

  One step on these dark streets has the ability to change things. There are temptations to see past the sin that’s so prevalent it forces me to take a second look. Such contradiction, that’s what truly makes me uneasy about New Orleans.

  The belief I once had of the city being dishonest is long gone. I’ve come to see that it could perhaps be the most noble city of them all. There are no attempts at covering up its sin and debauchery.

  I’ve watched musicians get lost in their sound on the streets, careless about who watches their performance. Artists in their studios through all hours of the night and out in the open working their fingers for that glorious release of creativity.

  Maybe the city’s not honest as much as it is unapologetic. There’s no shame or remorse on the faces I’ve seen in the last few days I’ve been here.

  “5, 4, 3, 2, 1…”

  An old woman whispers staring off in space as I walk by her table in Jackson Square. She repeats the countdown and my earlier thoughts pull my attention to her, along with her chanting numbers. Her eyes glazed over and her head shakes slightly. Her dyed hair is coarse and her skin has a ghostly pallor to it regardless of the burnt umber shade.

  “Come to me,” she beckons to me.

  “No thanks, I’m late,” I say, only because I’m the only person within hearing distance of her.

  Not one of these fortune tellers has tempted me for anything more than a glance. There’s something about the lies they wield and sell to unsuspecting people that makes me hate them. Those twisted words could have the power to change lives and it shouldn’t be so easily delivered. Their lying tongues deliver false hope and the sick world we live in already has enough of that.

  “You are late, my dear artist. I won’t bite.”

  She punctuates the ‘are’ motioning with her arm for me to come forward. The flickering gas light bounces off her solid white eyes.

  I stand in front of the small folding table between us. I look around the Square. It’s late and the artists have packed up and left, along with the street performers hours ago.

  “Your preferred medium isn’t really paint, is it?” she pushes.

  She goes back to her countdown of ‘5,4,3,2,1.’ I take a seat when she hits one. I see everything so crystal clear I wonder what it’s like to see nothing at all. Her question mixed with the fact that she can’t actually see, I find intriguing.

  “Hold out your hand,” she instructs.

  “No,” I refuse her, second guessing even sitting down on the rusted folding chair.

  “Come now, I don’t want your money.”

  She waits patiently and her eyes move back and forth with no use, as if searching for me in the darkness she’s trapped in. I rest my hand in her outstretched one. The second our skin touches she pulls away and hisses as if I burned her.

  “I was right about you,” she says, as she purses her lips. “There’s blood on your hands.”

  I look down and my clean hands are in contrast to the darkness.

  “But not the right blood,” she continues.

  I pull out a couple of crisp twenties and place it in her withered hand, mindful to avoid touching her skin with mine. I stand to leave. She’s played a very intriguing mime and like I said, I’m late.

  “Your purpose won’t end well,” she exclaims and places the cash on the opposite side of the table, gesturing for me to take it back.

  I stack more money and scoot the larger sum toward her, brushing her fingertips with it.

  “Ma’am,” I say dismissing her. My back turned when she speaks after a rushed countdown of her ‘5,4,3,2,1.’ As if it’s a prayer and would serve to protect her. I turn back around because I’m intrigued.

  “What’s with the countdown?” I prompt.

  “You’re focused on number one, but in order to reach it, you must start with who is standing in the way. Your beginning is really your end,” she says, turning her face to me and if her eyes were of any use, they would see through my missing soul.

  “Redirect your focus and draw the blood that deserves your ire,” she murmurs.

  Her voice changes entirely as she shudders her exclamation. Her body starts to quiver and I reach out to calm her. She curses again when I touch her, screeching loud enough to draw attention and then it turns into a low growl. I step back and move to the shadows, keeping my attention on the witch. She starts marking an invisible cross over her, like most good Catholics do. She picks up her walking stick and starts tapping the slate and moving toward Saint Louis Cathedral as if she just spoke with the devil himself.

  I think about the fortune teller’s exclamations and suggestions, watching her find solace in the old church. I keep thinking about her on my way to find Sarah.

  I’ve caught voices depicting ghost stories through the haunting hours of the night. Such sinister monsters creep around this place, but they’re not ghosts. Real and evil creatures stalk and devour opaque innocents, even the ones that attempt to immerse themselves amongst such darkened corridors.

  I listen outside a deteriorating building on the outskirts of the Quarter, walking distance from Jackson Square. I keep weighing the witch’s words and bouncing around ideas as I wait.

  I’ve been more than generous with Sarah. She didn’t reach out to me when her time was up. She’s scared and alone. She ran to the only person that could care less about her and I want to observe the irony that it isn’t me.

  I could have given her everything she ever dreamed of had she delivered on her one single life-altering promise. It changed her life because she lied to the one person that shouldn’t be lied to.

  I haven’t come across someone so despicable and hateful in years. Sarah’s actually quite appetizing to me. She’s so shallow it makes my mouth water. My need to extract judgment overpowers my need to see Casey. She’s exactly what I came here for, but I find myself mystified by Sarah.

  I loved Casey and her innocence, but Sarah sparks that match of hatred I haven’t felt since my last murder. It burns and I feel it deep. I think it started when she willingly offered to hurt Casey, saying that she tried to get rid of her before she ever sought me out.

  My obsession with Casey hasn’t dimmed even after all this time, I thought she was six feet under. Beneath my anger towards her, there’s love.

  This desire for Sarah is different because she’s dangerous. I want whatever insurance I can have to protect Casey from this devious creature and the people she’s associated with. This false connection she has to her ex is a feeble excuse to get something she wants. Maybe the witch’s countdown starts tonight.

  I haven’t lasted as long as I have as a free man without doing my homework. I’ve followed Sarah, easily falling in my old patterns as if riding a bike. No matter how much time has stretched out, I feel the familiar itch to extract beauty from such ugliness. Sarah is exactly the type of woman who turned me on to killing in the first place.

  Whatever actions she took to get Casey out of the way backfired.

  Sarah’s light hair shines under a flickering streetlight as she walks out of the building with tears streaming down her face. Her head bent down and the wetness on her cheeks just sealed her fate.

  My need to capture, torture, and put it down with paint is overwhelming. I will thank her when her death hangs in the balance between us. Thank her and snuff out her life. I found my emotions, my creativity, and my hatred because of her. She will merely serve as an appetizer before the main course. I will pull out Casey’s location from her sooner than later.

  Sarah’s high heels and the broken aging slate are a te
rrible combination. She hits the ground with a quiet thump, using her hands to push her body off the sidewalk. I offer her my hand as she looks up at me. The look in her blue eyes alone make my pulse pound. The smile I give her is genuine and makes her eyes reflect surprise and horror.

  She slips her hand in mine. She doesn’t have any other choice.

  I feel her tremble as I take her under my arm and breathe in the last air of her freedom.

  Harper

  Evan succeeds in pulling me towards the master suite. I don’t attempt to cover up my tears or wipe them away. I don’t fight him off either.

  He unceremoniously pushes me in the bedroom and locks the door.

  “Why are your bags packed?” he asks.

  He’s really pissed now.

  I walk away from him, putting much-needed distance between us.

  “I’m leaving,” I admit.

  There’s too much distance, too much ground to cover. I hate that he makes me so hot and cold. I hate that I’m considering what Grayson said to me just moments ago. How could Evan send me soaring and then push me back down to Earth? Maybe the highs and lows are too much. I’m pacing and frustrated.

  “Like hell you are,” he spits.

  My resolution to fight for Evan didn’t include me fighting against him, so I hold my tongue.

  “Is this you getting back at me, Harper? I knew there would be resentment at some point but you fooled me.”

  Did I fool him? How?

  “Is it a fight you want, gorgeous?”

  The only other time my fear of Evan has spiked this high was after he saw Grayson and me together in his ballroom the night of his party. If Evan wants a fight he should walk back downstairs and work things out with Grayson, not me.

  “Are you mad that I interrupted you two? Did you really want Grayson the other night in the ballroom?”

  Evan’s arm pulls me harshly against him. If I thought the tears were subsiding I was wrong. His words hurt more than his actions. I’m tongue-tied and confused about what I should say.

  “Fuck you, Evan,” I bark and try to push his arm off of me.