Heartbreaker (Unbreakable #1)

by Kat Bastion

  “Hi, Will,” the group replied.

  “I’m…this is my first time sharing.” He closed his eyes. “I’ve been here eight times. It’s only been five weeks since…” His hands trembled. He sucked in a shaky breath, brows furrowing. “My wife, Diane…” His voice broke. Then his eyes popped open, wild and unfocused. “I can’t. That’s all I’ve got.”

  A big guy to his right put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s more than enough. We’re here to help any way we can. When you’re ready.”

  The entire group nodded, eyes shining with intensity. “Thanks for sharing, Will.”

  When Will dropped his face into his hands, shoulders racked with silent sobs, the big guy’s hand stayed on Will’s shoulder while he nodded to a woman who began to raise her hand.

  “Hi, I’m Carrie.”

  “Hi, Carrie,” the group responded in chorus.

  “It’s been twenty-one months since my son Justin…”

  My heart ached for this brave group of souls, survivors trudging through the muck of emotions everywhere they turned. Carrie told a heartbreaking story, one of trying to do all she could for her son, but he’d been pulled under by depression, unable to claw his way out.

  Maybe I could help these people. At the least, show them distraction with a new endeavor. Running had done that for me and more. My distraction had set me free from my solitary life.

  Zoned out for the moment, rapid movement caught my attention. Logan waved, then got up and crossed the room.

  She pulled the brim of her hat down a little over her right eye, then tucked one side of her hair, part gloss-black and all of the pink streak, behind her ear. “You’re early.”

  I nodded, stuffing a hand into my jeans pocked. “I hope that’s okay. Wanted to set up. Get comfortable.” As much as was possible on a first day.

  “That’s cool. It’s the room across the hall.”

  At her chin-nod in the direction over my shoulder, I glanced back toward an identical door with a vertical window slot.

  “Thanks. This” —I tipped my head in nod behind her— “seems like a good group.”

  “It is. Tough as hell at first. But if we stick it out, it helps. Takes time.”

  “Like for Will.”

  “Yeah.” She turned, glancing the man’s way. “He’ll be okay. Ron’s gonna sponsor him.”

  “The big guy.”

  Logan nodded. “Ron’s my sponsor too. Will…he’ll make it through okay.”

  I didn’t even want to think about the alternative. Clearly the group held a vital role in their recovery. And if artwork would help a little more? I was all in. “I’ll let you get back. Just head on over whenever you guys are ready.”

  “Thanks, Kiki.”

  She gave me a quick hug, then crossed the room, skirting the chairs toward her own. When Carrie began to wrap up, Logan raised her hand while she took a seat. Carrie pointed at her.

  And as Logan began to talk, my feet remained rooted where they were.

  “Hi, I’m Logan.”

  “Hi, Logan,” the group chimed.

  “It’s been two years and three months since my mom took her life.” She sucked in a deep breath. “My mom committed suicide. I can finally say that out loud now. I’m starting to understand that she felt like she didn’t have a choice. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about it.

  “And I’m still struggling with depression. Some days I lose time: I find myself zoned out and hours have whizzed by since my last clear memory. When my body feels too heavy, each breath torture to pull in, and the whole world closes in on me, I seem to shut down. But the last few weeks, that’s been happening less and less.”

  As I listened to Logan share her innermost secrets, a small part of me felt guilty for eavesdropping. But a bigger part overrode the guilt. I’d eavesdropped on that roof, which is how I’d met her. She’d invited me onto her ledge. She’d also invited me to her group, to be a part of the private healing happening between these walls—wanted me to be a part of it.

  And if understanding Logan and learning about her peers helped me do that, then it had to be okay.

  Logan adjusted her hat again, tugging it up a little. “Some things are helping. I’m finally opening up to people. My brother…and I…made a new friend. She’s the first outsider I’ve told. And she’s cool. She’ll be teaching our art class after.” Her eyes narrowed, then scanned around the circle. “And you all had better go.”

  Which was my cue to get ready. I glanced at my phone. Fourteen minutes.

  “I’m still having problems at school…with other kids.” At her words, a part of me wanted to stay. But she’d already asked me for advice about kids and school privately on that rooftop. Now was her time with her peer support group. And she’d asked me to help her in another way.

  Nerves began to ping again as I crossed the hall and opened the door. But when I stepped through and walked farther in, I breathed a sigh of relief. The room was immaculate and bright; light radiated in from three big windows along the back wall. Long folding tables formed two rows five tables deep, a center aisle stretching down between them.

  Supplies had already been set out, and I wondered who’d done that. Probably Logan. In front of each chair, items were arranged like place settings at a dinner table. Two brushes on the left, assorted watercolor tubes on the right, a white, round plastic palette in the center, and an empty mason jar in each upper right-hand corner.

  “What do you think?”

  I jumped at the bass-toned voice an instant before my heart warmed.

  Darren.

  He stood in the doorway, a forearm braced on each side of the doorframe. His damp gray shirt clung to his sculpted torso. Dark curls of hair stuck to his temples, glistening.

  My breath caught at his raw beauty as I crossed the room toward him. “I think it’s amazing. You did this?”

  “Yeah. Figured you’d need a hand sorting it all out. There’s other stuff in the boxes in the supply closet. Didn’t know what paper to grab. There are different kinds, but not enough whole pads for everyone.”

  As I drew near, his delectable scent hit me—a mixture of his soap and his natural musk.

  He took a step back. “Careful. I haven’t showered yet. I’m all sweaty.”

  “I don’t care.” I fisted my hands into his shirt over his chest, then pulled him close, standing on tiptoe. He bent down and kissed me, tenderly.

  Then I leaned against his side and glanced into the room. “And it’s perfect.”

  He kissed my temple, then pushed me forward and swatted my ass. “Go. Help them find their inner artists. I’m heading to shower and then school. Last classes before finals.”

  “Really?” I turned as he began to disappear. “I hadn’t realized we were so close to the end of the school year.”

  He grabbed the doorframe, popping his head back into view. “Yep. After next Thursday, no more school.”

  The finality to his tone struck me. I thought he’d said he had another year. I wondered if his gig with Dino had changed that.

  “Good luck, baby. You’ll be awesome.”

  My heart warmed at the endearment, the first time he’d called me anything other than “Flash.”

  I smiled at him, all my anxiety forgotten. “Thanks.”

  He disappeared without another word.

  But I felt him there—his support. It lay in plain view in the carefully arranged art supplies. And I was there to support Logan. I’d come today for them.

  After assessing the paper situation in the supply closet, I chose a heavier weight better suited for watercolor. I tore off two sheets per student, placing them beside each setting of art supplies. Then I found a large pitcher and wandered the halls until I located a kitchen.

  Minutes later, as I filled the last of the mason jars with a few inches of water, after already adding red Solo cups beside them for brush rinsing, my students began to file in. Only seven sat down, Logan at a front table with Carrie right beside her, big Ron
across the aisle and a table back from them, and four others spread throughout the room.

  After a brief fifteen-minute primer on how to use their palettes and experimenting on their first page with washes and color intensity, we were ready to begin.

  “Okay. Now let’s try our hand at painting. There are no rules. Everyone has a different concept of what art is. Express yourself. But I do have a topic. Think of one memory filled with joy. Then paint a single image from it: a trigger for that memory.”

  My students nodded then their eyes grew unfocused in thought. Logan stuck the wood end of her paintbrush between her lips. Ron rinsed his brush, squeezed several paint colors into the divots of his palette, then began painting immediately.

  At the empty front table, I sat down and stared at the blank page, joining them, imagining a happy moment. Images of Darren flooded my mind: us with our feet on the wall as we listened to drag rhythms, watching fireflies on a warm spring night with anticipation humming through us before our first time, the incredible awe-filled expression on his face as he made love to me…

  Yet for some reason, the one moment that stuck in my mind more vivid than the rest was the first time we went on a trail run. At the top of the mountain, I’d raised my arms, energy buzzing through my veins, soul soaring with the wind, and shouted “be the tree” at Darren—at the world.

  I’d let go—felt free.

  Seconds later, the world showed me my mortality as I hung from a tree branch.

  Then Darren saved me.

  We’d laid on the ground, me draped over him, and experienced our first intimate moment together.

  With a grateful sigh, I began painting that tree branch. I paid special note to its rough bark. With a light touch, I swept arcing lines to create the tufts of soft needles. The branch, true to its original form, remained slender and strong—full of life and lifesaving.

  When I finished, I stared at it, remembering the moment with great clarity and fondness. That branch had literally saved me from a potentially fatal fall. Then it swung me into the waiting arms of someone who’d also saved me—who still fought hard to.

  My phone buzzed in my back pocket. Unthinking, I pulled it out.

  A text appeared. From Dino:

  Where’s my art?

  The question slammed into my chest like a sucker punch.

  A second text came through.

  Send pics of only your best pieces.

  A handful of seconds. The blink of an eye. All it took for my mood to plummet.

  “The best pieces are being held hostage,” I growled under my breath.

  Then a devious plan began to unfold.

  Later that night, I sat in my car. Forced breaths filled my lungs.

  Dark thoughts had overtaken my mind.

  Breaking glass.

  Alarm bells.

  Cold cuffs biting into my wrists.

  I gripped the steering wheel and glared at the innocent-seeming gallery.

  It mocked me.

  Plate glass stretched from wall to wall, showcasing beautiful pieces of art for onlookers to view. My art. Locked behind doors that had been sealed by the authority of the federal government. Stolen from me.

  My phone buzzed from the center console. I picked it up.

  The screen lit with a text from Darren.

  Watcha doin?

  I sighed, both irritated and grateful for the intrusion.

  Contemplating criminal activity.

  A blue bubble appeared immediately.

  Where?

  Without thought, I answered.

  Midnight Sky Gallery.

  Then I tossed my phone back. It lit up again, but I ignored it.

  Instead, I focused another scathing glare at the cause of my misery.

  The gallery looked like every other storefront along the street: wall-to-wall windows, lights out inside, as if calmly closed for business for the night.

  Yet the harmless, pristine picture it painted was all wrong.

  No thick chain with a heavy-gauge lock hung from the chrome door handle. No yellow tape stretched across the threshold screaming that something had gone horribly awry inside—but it had.

  It was bad enough my earned commissions had vanished, unpaid. To add insult to injury, that innocuous-looking storefront held my artwork hostage—some of my largest and best pieces. Wrongfully dragged into the undertow of someone else’s crime, I was days away from being homeless. And the federal government felt comfortable in their authority to bind my hands.

  I wasn’t the only one. Besides eight of my sculptures, acrylic canvases by several in-demand painters hung on the walls. And near the front window, silver necklaces by a renowned jewelry artist sat quietly on display. All those pieces were held captive behind prison walls made of glass, erected by crooks and reinforced by power-entitled bureaucrats who were indifferent to the difficulties facing a starving artist.

  I tightened my hands over the steering wheel, contemplating all kinds of nefariousness: driving my car through the glass, rescuing my artwork, spray painting my thoughts all over their pretty exposed brick wall.

  A dark shadow crossed in front of my car. Then another.

  In the space of a heartbeat, four large figures surrounded my front hood. They stared through my windshield.

  The one directly in my line of sight cocked his head.

  Darren.

  A sudden knock at my window startled me. Cade wound his fist and index finger in a vertical, circular motion. When I rolled down my window, his brows raised. “Open up.”

  I unlocked the doors and those four big guys all began to load inside.

  “No. I’m not sitting in the middle,” Ben argued.

  “No bitching. I drove.” Mase shoved Ben forward.

  The car rocked back and forth. I stared in the rearview mirror, mouth falling open, as three grown men squeezed into the back. Darren settled beside me in the front passenger seat.

  “Had to be a Prius,” Ben muttered.

  “Shut it,” Cade ordered.

  “So. How we doing this?” Darren asked.

  “Doing what?” My brain felt muddled from my earlier shady thoughts. And from too many mouth-breathers in the car. I tried to ignore the incredible presence of Darren sitting next to me, how my body pinged to life around him.

  To distract myself, I glanced at the rearview mirror.

  Ben stared back at me, with a look that said duh. “Breaking and entering.”

  Mase ripped open a Cheetos bag. “Pretty sure that’s a felony.”

  “Only if we get caught.” Cade reached into the open bag over Ben’s lap. Crinkling ensued. Orange dust began to float around inside my car.

  “No one’s committing any felonies,” I muttered. No way in hell I was risking orange jumpsuits on those pretty boys. Besides, that clusterfuck in the gallery was my mess. My cleanup.

  Cade reached forward from behind me, resting his hands on my shoulders. “You could have told me, Keek. I can help.”

  Keek. The nickname he’d called me when we were kids. A memory flashed of when he had just learned to walk. I’d come home from my first day at kindergarten, one pigtail undone, dress torn from roughness on the playground. But when I’d walked up the driveway and the neighbor’s three yipping Pomeranians growled and charged at me, Cade had tottered full speed between me and the fluffballs-with-teeth.

  I let out a heavy sigh. “Thanks, Cade. But I don’t want your money.”

  “We don’t want you in jail,” Mase mumbled around a mouthful of food.

  “I’m not going to jail. I did imagine smashing that pretty plate glass window and taking my sculptures back.”

  “Totally blows they’re locked up in there.” Ben’s brows furrowed.

  “The damn IRS is holding them hostage,” I snarled.

  “Didn’t those pieces sell at the exhibit in December?” Mase asked.

  I took a deep breath, then let out a heavy sigh. “No. Others did.”

  The next seconds dragged by, sil
ent. Like they’d all tucked deep into their minds, searching for the best way to tackle the problem. My thoughts swung back toward infiltration—Mission Impossible style. When images of me dropping from the ceiling in a ninja getup bordered on the ridiculous, I pinched my eyes shut.

  “I’m just so—” Emotion clogged my throat. “Aaahhhrrr!” I strangled the steering wheel.

  “That a technical term?” Mase leveled a stare at me in the rearview.

  “I know it well.” A loud crinkle echoed in the car as Ben snagged the Cheetos bag. “Live it on a daily basis.”

  “You need to lighten up, Mr. Live and Breathe My Bar.” Mase snatched the bag back.

  The Cheetos dust swirled thicker in the air. A cheesy scent filled my nostrils.

  “I know a great way to work out frustration.” Cade put a hand on my shoulder as he leaned forward and planted the other on Darren’s.

  “Dude.” Mase’s tone dropped. “We are not talking about Kiki—baby sister Kiki—having sex with Darren.”

  “What?” Ben blinked, stared at me, then at Darren. “You two are…”

  “Softball, idiots.” Cade reached over and punched them both at the same time.

  More crinkling ensued, followed by grunts and car rocking, as the three of them wrestled—as best as three grown men could in the backseat of a Prius. My dark thoughts began to fade as I watched the comical scene unfold.

  “Well, what d’ya think?” Darren, calm as ever, glanced at me.

  “Softball?”

  “Yep. Loading Zone’s game is tomorrow afternoon. You know we always need more players.”

  I nodded absentmindedly. “Yeah. I’ll go. It’s for charity, after all. And I really need to whack something. Hard.”

  The ruckus settled down in the back.

  The weight in the car shifted.

  In the rearview, I caught Cade settling back into his seat, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Seriously, though. About the government-being-an-asshole issue. Let me make a few calls. Dad’s got high-powered financial friends.”

  Ben turned toward him. “And our accountant used to work for the IRS.”