Shelter Me: A Shelter Novel

by Stephanie Tyler

  I was confused as to why Brayden would be so upset about Grant's connection to Bane. He'd never mentioned Bane in any context other than the man’s status as a famous artist.

  Grant looked broken as he spoke, eloquently, about the loss of his brother and ended with, "I'm honored to be able to help young artists in Bane's name," before announcing the three young artists who would be awarded money to further their creative endeavors.

  There was much applause and picture taking. Grant ducked his head for most of it. I noticed because I'd seen him do it before, as if he didn't want to have his picture taken at all.

  I turned to where Brayden had been standing next to me, but he was gone.

  In his place stood Dan Turner. "I didn't realize you were such a big supporter of the arts," I managed.

  "Helps me when it comes time for the insurance investigations," he countered, then lifted a glass of what appeared to be water in my direction—a mock toast. "You're a smart girl, Ryn. Are you putting the pieces together yet?"

  I'm not a girl, I wanted to tell him, but the connections were like misfiring neurons and making it impossible to think in a straight line.

  Grant. Bane.

  Lucas.

  Brayden.

  And Dan Turner. "I want you to stop taunting me and tell me what you know. More than that, I need you to prove it…or leave me alone."

  "I don't think you can handle it."

  "Maybe not, but I'm not sure how that's any of your concern. You seem intent on my knowing this stuff, but I'm tired. And I'm prepared to report you and get a restraining order on you."

  "I'll get you your proof. In the meantime, ask Brayden to fill in some pieces. He knows a lot of them." He leaned in. "Ask him how Bane died."

  I narrowed my eyes, but before I could respond further, he was gone. I'll admit, I wasn't sure what I'd just demanded of him—it could be what threw my anxiety over the edge.

  I went to look for Brayden to do just that, my brain reeling from information overload, and ran into Lucas instead, who was engrossed at looking at one of Bane's largest-scale paintings. I knew he saw me, so I stood next to him, stared at his profile and waited a few moments before asking, "What are you doing here?" I asked.

  "Supporting a friend," he replied without turning to look at me.

  I looked away from him and joined his staring at the large, rough canvas, a brilliant wash of colors. On first glance it might look as though there was just maniacal paint slashes but no, emerging from underneath the vicious color was a beautiful sunrise. Night was over but morning light was coming fast. He'd held onto that, and I couldn't help but choke up thinking that he'd held onto himself, night after night, until one night, he couldn't. Whether it seemed like it was too long or he'd gotten upset with someone or his art wasn't coming out as he'd planned…he didn't fight. Not the way he had here.

  "He was wrestling with some major demons." Lucas stood behind me, staring at the painting.

  "Do you recognize them?"

  I saw a small tic in his jaw before he simply glanced between me and the painting. "I can recognize a demon from forty yards."

  He wasn't kidding.

  I turned back to the painting, and it was only then I realized I was staring at a colorized, final version of Lucas's backpiece. His tattoo was gray scale, most likely a smaller-sized original artist's sketch of one of Bane's most famous works, The Flame. But before I could ask Lucas questions—questions he no doubt wouldn't answer, Brayden found me.

  "Ryn, sorry, I—"

  "I'm not in the mood for sorry," I told him, my voice shaking from anger. "How did you know Bane?"

  "Who in the art world doesn't know him?" was his vague, bullshit answer.

  "Fuck you," came out of my mouth next, and he paled.

  "Ryn—"

  "No. No more 'Ryn, it's for your own good' speeches. You're all hiding things from me." I looked between Lucas and Brayden. "Maybe it's the same things or maybe different things…but somehow they're all going to connect. I feel it. And I've got enough shit to deal with in my own life."

  A hand closed over my shoulder. Grant. His eyes held the same haunted look I'd seen both Brayden and Lucas wear at times when he told me, "This isn't the time or place."

  "It never is with you guys," I muttered, but I let him steer me away from Brayden and out the door. Once outside, he loosened his hold but remained on alert for whatever unknown dangers lurked.

  "In there." He pointed to a coffee shop a few doors down and we walked to it quickly. It was relatively empty, and we took a seat in the back. He ordered up coffee and pie for both of us. "They've got the best pie here."

  I wasn't hungry at all. I shifted, watching him stir the cream into his coffee intently. "Will Lucas be mad I'm here with you?"

  He smiled. "Lucas is mad he's not here with you."

  "Are you going to tell me the truth?"

  He stared at me with steady amber eyes. "You know my truth. I'm Lucas's best friend and he's mine. I'd do anything for him. Bane was my younger brother, and, despite what anyone says to the contrary, he killed himself by jumping off the roof of a building in Miami when he was twenty-one years old."

  That knocked the breath out of me. Grant had spoken in a no-nonsense way, but there was no hiding the pain he felt. "I'm so sorry."

  "I was away—still in the military. On deployment on the other side of the world," he explained. I guessed that’s where the scar on his neck had come from. Up close, it was more impressive—a badge of honor. I could see the ragged edges and knew I’d have to paint him. "Bane left home when I did. I'd begged him to hold on for another year, until he turned seventeen, so I could save some money. But he wouldn't put all that on me. He said, 'One day I'll be sending you money, because you deserve it.'"

  He stopped, took a shuddered breath and I reached out and touched his arm. "You took care of him growing up."

  "That's how he saw it. But he took care of me just as much, and just as hard."

  A fleeting thought of the possibility that I might have siblings crossed my mind, and I wondered what it would be like to feel that bond, to feel such incredible pain once it was broken. "Who disputes that he killed himself?"

  "Turner."

  "So Dan Turner's interested in me because of my connection…to you?"

  "There's more to it than that, but Bane is a part of it." He sat back. "It's hard to talk about this with an artist, but I know you'll understand the most. Bane was an incredible talent, but there was a darkness there too. If he didn't have it, he wouldn't have been so good, and still, it cost him, every single day of his life. It was always a fight."

  I did understand, to a lesser degree, no doubt because of the memory loss—which kept me distracted, and curious enough to stop the complete descent into madness. "It's a hard gift to have," I admitted. "I worry that it will disappear if my memory comes back, but it would be a relief."

  Creativity was an intense, brutal taskmaster and it could strip me of everything if I wasn't careful. I don't think Bane was careful. Maybe he couldn't be. Sometimes it was easier to give in to it than to fight it, and I wondered if I'd eventually succumb to that point. "So Lucas and Brayden both knew Bane too?"

  "Yes," he confirmed. Maybe Bane's death was responsible for the tension between the two men. Before I could ask, Grant added, "I didn't meet Lucas until after Bane's death. And I met Brayden for the first time, unofficially, when you met Lucas at the gallery.”

  “And even then, Brayden had no idea you were Bane’s brother.”

  “Brayden didn’t know until tonight,” Grant confirmed. “Bane used to refer to me by a nickname to them. But I felt like I knew Brayden long before that,

  through my brother's letters. He'd write me all the time." His smile was wistful. "I can't tell you the amounts of money I've been offered to publish them, but I never would."

  I wanted to read them, because I was always jealous of someone's memories, their ability to recall them. I gathered them, inhaled them as if the
y could be mine if I tried hard enough. But Bane's would be far too raw and personal. "I'm so sorry—about my reaction. About your brother."

  "Your reaction was justified." He motioned for another cup of coffee. "I've been up thinking about that damned speech for two nights. I'm running on fumes."

  "I've been there."

  "I know." He paused. "Bane was like that. He’d need to be slipped a sleeping pill when he'd been up for three nights and started painting clowns.”

  “What’s wrong with clowns?”

  “He hated them.”

  I couldn't help but smile, because I'd been there. "For me, it was ponies. Like Rainbow Brite ponies. I called Brayden, convinced I'd come up with the next big thing. He drove to me at three in the morning and made me some special tea. I didn't wake up for days. Hey wait…"

  Grant grinned. "He learned that from Lucas—they both used to do it for Bane."

  I liked having something in common with Bane, if only to make Grant smile when they talked about him.

  "He wasn't like you, Ryn. He wasn't strong."

  I was going to argue that I wasn't either, but something stopped me. Maybe because deep down, I knew I'd be lying. "It's a hard gift to balance."

  "Always was for him. He was too sensitive. Took everything to heart. I got it—there was no way he could paint like he did and not be, but I also knew there was no way he could stay that sensitive and survive this world." He shook his head. "I offered to buy him a place away from everyone and everything right before I came back home. But it was too late. He'd already let too much of the world in, despite how hard Lucas and Brayden both always tried to shield him from it, and that really fucked with Bane bad."

  I’d always wanted to believe it was never too late, but looking into Grant’s eyes that night, I had to admit defeat.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Turner was waiting for me when the elevator opened. My apartment was down at the end of the hall but I didn't want him following me. I stood in front of him. "Why are you here?"

  "You spoke to Grant."

  "Yes. He told me how Bane died." I crossed my arms. "It doesn't sound like there's any way to hide what happened."

  "Right. A suicide's always a suicide."

  "He was troubled. Everyone who knew him said so."

  Turner shook his head slowly. "You're really in deep with these guys. They got you drinking the Kool-Aid fast and furiously. Are they helping you find whoever's stalking you?"

  I wouldn't share with him that I was sleepwalking and moving my own paintings. I wasn't making up the flowers, or the danger. "We're done. Anything further you need to say about the missing paintings can be done through Brayden's attorney."

  "What about your family?" he asked. "Or lack thereof?"

  "I have family."

  "Right—the café owner and her husband who took in a seventeen-year-old foster kid out of the blue. That's not suspicious at all," he commented.

  I fisted my hands tightly but resisted showing emotions. I'd been prepared for this, but still I couldn't get the damned words to come out of my mouth. He didn't look all that surprised and that's what got me talking. "You've done some digging on me, before I got involved with Lucas. Why was that necessary?"

  "Because before the age of eighteen, your story reads like a couple of US Marshals decided to get creative. I can't ask if you're in witness protection and you can't answer…"

  "I'm not."

  "None of this is good, Miss Taylor." He stared at me. "Do you have any idea how Lucas makes his money?"

  "I'm guessing you believe you know what Lucas does for a living." I crossed my arms. "What makes you think I don't?"

  Turner narrowed his eyes, trying his best to be a human lie detector. He didn't realize that, most of the time, I was impenetrable. "He's told you he's in security. You believe him. And you're playing a really dangerous game. You're way out of your depth here."

  "I'm just fine. Thanks for your concern." I went to move past him but he stopped me with his next words.

  "Jared Connor is still missing."

  I blinked and absorbed that information. "That's not my problem."

  "It very much is. Have you considered what I told you about Lucas Caine? That he's a dangerous man? If you have, take it a step further, because who better to draw you in than the man who's stalking you."

  The idea of that was horrifying, but I couldn't deny that Turner could be right. Not because I believed Lucas was capable of it, but because of my memory loss.

  I didn't say anything though, but Turner continued, "Every time it happens, it pushes you closer to him."

  Finally, I broke. "For what purpose? What gain?"

  "He becomes obsessed with artists."

  I was as obsessed with Lucas as he was with me, but I didn’t know Lucas’s relationship with Bane, not well enough to find truth in Turner’s words. I wanted to tell him so but I refused to belabor his point. "Go. Now."

  Turner began to comply, but not before pulling a folded manila envelope from inside his jacket. He handed it to me. "Read this if you want more truths. Otherwise, enjoy the Kool-Aid. You're not the first and you won't be the last."

  I wasn't surprised that Lucas was waiting for me inside my apartment. He opened the door when I was about to put my keys in the lock. "Turner's gone?"

  I glanced down the empty hallway. "Appears to be. Am I allowed inside my own place?"

  Lucas moved aside, his expression troubled. He shut the door after me and I dropped my bag, kicked off my shoes and turned to face him the way I would a battle. Because that's what this all was, what my life had been for literally as long as I could remember.

  Memory was a funny thing, a picture blurred at the edges, a fuzzy snapshot that flashed by too quickly to capture, never mind process.

  At least that's how it was for me…like a dream. All my memories were like dreams—I was never sure what was real or what wasn’t. Most of the time it didn't bother me…but nights like tonight, it was all I could think about.

  "You moved your paintings again," he said.

  "Really? That's what you want to lead with?"

  He stood there like a wall in front of me, big and tall and strong and told me, "You need to go. Leave New York before this work consumes you."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "You're sleepwalking."

  "Trying to find my memories," I pointed out. "You know that."

  "Someone's trying to push them out of you. And that someone might not have your best interests in mind," he reminded me.

  "It doesn't matter. I can't go on like this."

  "Yes, you can. You can keep doing your art and forget the things you might be better off not knowing," he said, and I blinked, because Lucas, of all people, knew how much I wanted—needed—those memories. I'd given up the idea of safety to do it, and in my mind, there was no turning back.

  "I'm not leaving."

  "You're letting this drive you crazy."

  "I'm not Bane."

  "No," he agreed with a wince. "But you're just as tortured."

  It was my turn to wince. "How did he die?"

  Lucas blanched. "He killed himself. Threw himself off a building in Florida before I could stop him."

  God, his voice sounded so raw and troubled. "You can't…you're not responsible. You know you can't blame yourself."

  "You can say it as many times as you'd like, but getting me to believe it?" He shook his head, looked at the ceiling and snorted a laugh with zero humor behind it. "Paint, Ryn. Live a quiet life. Sell your work but don't be a part of this scene."

  "Your back. The tattoo…"

  "He drew it on me. The day before he killed himself. Told me, 'It's you, man. The flame, looking for its fire.' He was like that. Impulsive. One minute you were talking to him and the next he was drawing on the closest available thing he could find."

  "Your bare back was the closest thing?"

  "We were on the roof, getting some sun. We lived in a warehouse, top f
loor. One of the perks."

  "You lived with him?"

  He nodded. "Three of us. Me, Bane. And Brayden."

  The breath caught in my throat. I would deal with Brayden later. "And the tattoo?"

  "After he died, I drank a bottle of scotch. Or three. And I went and had a tattoo artist make the backpiece permanent. Before the ink faded. And Bane, the night he died, he'd worked on the actual piece all night long. Finished it. And then he jumped." His last word was practically a growl.

  Turner's words rang in my ears: He becomes obsessed with artists. "Did you pose for Bane?"

  Lucas frowned. "Not like you're talking about. Not like I did with you. It was different with Bane. Everything was just different."

  He looked pained. I wanted to let him off the hook, but I didn't. "How? How was it different?"

  "You weren't there, Ryn."

  "That's right."

  "So let it go."

  "I've done that too much. Way too much." After I'd spoken, he stared at me, then shook his head, and got up to leave. "That's your answer? To run?"

  "I'm walking, not running."

  Are you coming back? That echoed in my mind but I refused to ask it. "You're bad for me."

  "Really?" His voice was low, dangerous, and his stare was from a man I almost didn't recognize. "Is that how you feel?"

  I couldn't back down now. "Yes."

  "Then I won't bother you again." He was gone before I could breathe. Which was good, because that breath ended up being a sob. A deep, ugly one, followed by several more.

  Hours later, I pulled myself off the floor, rinsed my face and began to paint. Even though the envelope taunted me the whole time, the urge to create was too strong to fight, and I'd done enough fighting that night.

  Only when I'd finished, and the sun started to rise over Manhattan, did I grab the envelope and open it.

  Inside was a single sheet of paper, a police report from Miami, Florida circa Bane's death.