We’re quiet the entire drive to the Art Institute’s parking garage. Alex stares out the passenger window, while I try to focus on the road. Traffic is heavy in Las Vegas at this time of night, so we’re forced to sit in uncomfortable silence at every red light.
I want to say something, but I don’t. I can’t think of the words that would get Alex to forgive me, and I can’t bring myself to warn her of her situation any longer. She’s a big girl. She can take care of herself, and it’s her decision who she gives her loyalty to. She deserves that freedom. Who am I to try and take it from her?
The fucking don of the familia. That’s who.
I pull into the parking garage and glance at Alex. Her hand rests on the door like she’s preparing to jump out at any moment.
I go back to staring out the windshield and wrack my brain for something, anything, to say to her.
She’s probably right to refuse to help me. She would need to betray Nikita, and she’s right that he’d kill her if he found out. Maybe he would do worse. I flinch imagining the tactic he would use if he suspected my interest in her was genuine. She’s safer far, far away from me, but unfortunately, she’s no safer with him. The best thing for her would be to lay low, become a fly on the wall and attract no attention. It might be possible if she wasn’t so irresistible.
I was never going to hurt you.That’s what I should say. Maybe she’ll believe me. Hell, maybeI’llbelieve me. Every time I see her, she becomes more of a person I want to know and less of a prize I hope to collect. Maybe I never would have hurt her, even if I hadn’t seen that drawing of me in her car. Maybe it was an excuse for myself to get out of harming another woman who’s burrowed herself into my mind.
It’s too late for that, though. The damage is done.
I park next to her car, and Alex darts from the vehicle before it fully comes to a stop. She hurries to her Bug, and I watch her for a minute, letting my engine idle and gripping the wheel tight. The parking garage lights are dim, so I don’t have the clear view of her changing that I had last time, but it feels like a violation to watch now anyway. I turn my head forward and drive out of the garage, but when I’m at the exit, I let the engine idle again.
I’m frozen with my hands on the wheel and my eyes gazing at nothing while I let my sins play out in my mind. I’ve locked them away for so long, never allowing myself to fall into the deep depths of remorse. How many times have I told myself I shouldn’t be sorry? How many times have I lied to myself by saying it wasn’t my fault?
I never even apologized. After everything that happened with Sophie, I never spoke to her again.
Why does Alex remind me so much of her?
My phone buzzes, and I blink away the memories. I pull my phone from my pocket and glance at the screen. It’s one word from Lorenzo.
Done?
I slide the phone back in my pocket and place my hands on the wheel. I let my foot up off the break, but when I see a figure dart across the street, I slam it back down.
It’s Alex, heading into the Art Institute. She’s changed back into her ratty clothes, and her bag is slung over her shoulder.
Without thinking, I throw my car into reverse and skid back into the garage. I find the nearest space, park, and rush toward the entrance Alex walked through. She must have had a key because the door is locked.
“Fuck,” I growl, letting go of the handle. I roam the building, searching for an unlocked door or window, and I run into a maintenance worker taking out the trash. They startle when they see me, but after I feed them a bullshit story about trying to surprise my girlfriend who’s working on a project, they let me in.
When I get inside, my eyes roam the empty, dark corridor. I walk quickly, searching for a light under one of the closed doors, and finally, on the second floor, I find one. Light streams out from the open doorway, and Alex doesn’t notice when I step inside the room. Her back is to me, and she’s leaned forward toward a canvas with a paint brush in her hand. Earbuds are secured in her ears and faint, muffled music registers.
I walk toward her and don’t stop until I can see over her shoulder what she’s painting.
It’s a woman. She stands off in the distance with a dark array of colors surrounding her. It looks like a storm, except it’s swallowed her up instead of only above her head.
She’s wearing a white, torn dress, and her hair waves in what must be wind, revealing a disfigured face. Her arms and bare legs, shown by a rip in the dress, are littered with what looks like scars. The scars are what Alex works on now, she’s adding them to the woman’s left arm.
Alex glances behind her at me and startles. She puts down her paintbrush and takes out her ear buds.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, her eyes narrowing.
I ignore her question and point to her painting. “This isn’t abstract.”
“Yeah, well, you’re not the only one who can lie.”
She stands and wipes paint onto her apron, and then she crosses the room to retrieve something. I stay rooted in place and stare at the painting.
“Is this how you see yourself?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even, unaffected.
Alex comes back with a sponge and sets it on a stand next to her paints.
She scoffs. “Disfigured? No, Settimo. I own a mirror.” She looks at the painting and brushes loose strands of hair out of her face. The rest of her hair is pulled back in a ponytail. “It’s how I wish I looked.”