He blinked, as if shocked I’d agree so quickly.
“It’d be right away.” He angled his phone out of his pocket. “I’ll text you everything. You’d need to sign a contract and an NDA.”
“Wait. What?”
His eyes lifted from his device. “The contract is so you don’t pussy out if the work starts to get to be too much for you. I don’t need you leaving me hanging. The contract locks you in. No getting out once we start.” His gaze was sharp. “The NDA is to avoid any potential problematic shit, i.e., loose fucking lips. The art you see stays between us. No photographs. No talk. I don’t need my shit showing up everywhere.”
I didn’t miss how he called me problematic again. He really didn’t trust me, but apparently that didn’t matter since I could hold a brush well enough.
I really didn’t want to work with this guy, but I couldn’t deny having the school credit wouldn’t hurt. I also didn’t want to care either about what Dorian would say.
I’d look over his little contract, and if things seemed on the up-and-up, I’d say yes. I wouldn’t care about Dorian Prinze, or his opinions about it. He didn’t own me.
At least, he wouldn’t anymore.
Chapter Eleven
Sloane
I ended up signing Ares’s little contract, and I told myself it had nothing to do with sticking it to Dorian. I told myself it had nothing to do at all with Dorian, and I was going to look out for myself for once. I could definitely use the help in regards to graduating, and what I did or didn’t do had nothing to do with him.
I told mys
elf these things.
Honestly, Ares’s project was an inconvenience. My brother was still sick, but at least, it’d get me out the house and not worrying about him. Bru all but pushed me out the door when I told him about it.
Anyway, after I did sign it, Ares’s text told me to meet at his house that evening, and I nearly regretted committing to him. The last time I’d been at this house, things had been fucked up as hell with his little lingerie prank, but then, I remembered he’d made my ass sign a contract and NDA.
He’d been serious about it.
Apparently, this guy was Van Gogh and believed his art held true value. As an artist myself, I believed this for everyone. Anyone who made art should have a sense of protection of it.
But it was Ares’s arrogance that truly got me. The guy was a tool and a half, and because he was, I couldn’t help but be more than curious about a few things. One was what kind of project was so massive he, of all people, felt the need to ask for help.
The other surrounded him asking me in the first place.
He didn’t believe me about the Dorian thing, just like the rest of Legacy, and he’d truly have to need help with something to ask an enemy. We’d been enemies even before.
He really must need help, and I could only sum it up to that. I also wondered if he’d told Dorian, but like he’d said, his relationship with his friends had nothing to do with me.
I cringed thinking about that, but forced myself to put that away. I needed to stay focused and just get this shit done with Ares.
I’d really forgotten about the size of this place.
The football player’s home was simply huge, surrounded by fencing, and the white columns on the home matched. His place reminded me of those old Southern estates down in Louisiana or North Carolina. It was quaint and lovely and the exact opposite of the bad boy I’d crossed one too many times for my liking.
Ares did have gates like the Reeds, but they were open, and I let myself inside. I followed the driveway up to the front of the house.
The driveway itself was wraparound, and I started to park before he came outside in a pair of paint-splattered coveralls and a tank. The tank was basically another scrap of a shirt, and I was honest to God surprised he didn’t come out here shirtless. This guy was constantly feeling himself.
He waved a hand.
“We’re going to the garage,” he said, and that made sense. If we were painting and getting messy, we probably shouldn’t be doing that in his nice house. I’d been in there, and it was immaculate.
He walked beside my car as I rolled toward a garage that held five or so cars. He had it open and told me to park in one of the empty spots. I noticed his Hummer there with the silver wolf scrolled on the front of the hood. The work obviously reflected his namesake.
I got out of my car, wearing my own set of work clothes. Funny enough, I wore a pair of paint-splattered bibs too, but my T-shirt beneath definitely left me more clothed than the Wolf himself.