Chapter 2

TWO

Today was a fucking banner day.

I shoved my wet hair out of my face and her eyes—which were already the size of an anime heroine's—widened. Right now, I was too pissed off to worry about the damn scar on my face.

I was tall and I knew my eyes were a creepy dark blue that looked black in low light. Add in the slash down my eyebrow and cheek from an accident in my workshop and I probably freaked her out. The rain-slickened streets kicked back every single headlight and streetlamp at me, making my eyeballs throb in my head. Just great. Now I was having an optical migraine to add to this exceptional day.

The woman had just gouged the side of my truck with...fuzzy handcuffs?

What. In. The. Fuck.

I stepped closer to her, towering over her even in her ridiculous leopard-printed stilts. The light show going off in my head left light trails all around her. "Wait right there. I'm calling the cops." I dug my phone out of my now soaked jeans.

"Wait. Can we talk about this?" She tried to brush her wet hair out of her face, and it just kept sticking to more of her.

"No."

She snatched my phone out of my hand.

Shock had me reeling back a step. That and because her glitter-bomb of a shirt was turning the world into sparkles. "For real, lady?"

"This is a mistake. I thought you were a different guy. I promise."

"I don't care." I reached for my phone, and she shoved it down the front of her shirt. "Don't make me go for that, Hellcat. Because I will."

She took an unsteady step back and fumbled into her huge leopard purse for something.

"If you're reaching for pepper spray, I'm going have the cop add assault to the destruction of property charge."

She shook her hair back. "Okay, I won't go for the pepper spray if you back up, Mr?—"

I ignored her. I hadn't been called mister anything in a damn long time. "Give me my phone back."

"Just listen for a second. It was a mistake. Haven't you ever made a mistake?"

Too many to count. I gritted my teeth and when she shrank back again, I realized it was more of an outside snarl. Too damn bad. "Phone," I demanded again in an even lower voice.

She looked around, craning her neck.

"Think someone's going to come help you, Hellcat?"

"It's Dahlia, thank you."

"Whatever."

She huffed out a breath. "Look. I'll pay for the damages. I know a great body shop." She rummaged in her bag again. "Somehow, I'll pay for it," she muttered. She dragged some sort of wallet-looking thing out of her bag, this time in screaming pink. "But you have no idea what kind of day I had today. And then I just caught the guy I was sort of dating with his tongue down some chick's throat?—"

"Don't care."

She huffed out an imperceptible mumble of words.

I honestly didn't care. I'd been in town for less than a week and this was the third fire I'd had to put out today. My store, Trick or Treat, had dealt with a damn electrical fire in the basement, and then one of my three-hundred-pound metal sculptures got lost in transit. Lost.

Three-hundred pounds. Unreal.

How did you lose anything three hundred pounds in a seven-foot crate?

And now my truck had been vandalized by some Carrie Underwood-wannabe, minus the blond hair.

My brand-new truck that I had just picked up off the lot today .

She popped open the pink monstrosity and an accordion of actual paper business cards fanned out. She plucked one out of the front part. "This is me. I have my own business so I'm not lying. You can find me here." She closed some compartment and opened the other side. "And this is to one of the best shops in all of upstate New York. I redesigned his bedroom. You should have seen the before and after." She held out the two cards. "Honestly, I'm good for it."

I took the cards. Of course the name of her company was Designing Women. Dahlia McKenna. The card was decidedly feminine with soft pink card stock that was quickly turning to a waterlogged rose, thanks to the storm raging above us. I shoved the two cards into my jacket pocket. "Let me see your license."

"My business license?"

"No, your driver's license."

"Oh." She sighed. "Can you hold this?" She shoved her soggy, sparkly bag at me with the handcuffs hanging off the side.

I shoved them back in with a growl of disgust.

"You don't have to be rude."

"I don't have to be..." I snapped my molars shut.

She dug out a bulging purple wallet out of the depths of her bag. She unzipped it and flashed me her license.

"Can I have my phone now?"

"Oh. Right." She shoved her hand into the front of her clingy top and fished it out. She looked down at it and winced. "Sorry about the body glitter. I'm on my way to a bachelorette party."

She was a damn sparkle from head to toe. Her hair was now inky black against her cheeks and neck, as well as clinging around her ridiculously dark eyes. Even her mouth was out of bounds with the rest of her face—lush and made for...

Nope. That was the end of that line of thought.

I blinked against the endless rain, but it didn't make her top any less sparkly. It reminded me of a disco ball—with a distracting level of high, perfect breasts on display—and black pants that were now molded to every curve.

She tried to rub the face of my phone against her thigh to dry it, but there wasn't an inch of her that wasn't wet.

I grabbed it from her and tried not to pay attention to how warm it was in my hand from her skin. I flicked the camera option on and lifted it to take a photo of her New York license. "You try to stiff me, Hellcat, and I'm going to the police." I took a photo of the LITTLE DICK on the side of my truck and then her waterlogged, shocked face. I shoved her ruined gift bag back at her.

Outraged, she actually stomped her foot. "You can't just snap a photo of me like that."

"Watch me." I took a photo of my truck outside the bar and another one of her for good measure before I climbed into my truck. I threw my phone into my cup holder and turned my truck over with an extra rev of my engine that was unnecessary but highly satisfying. She stumbled back and put her hand on a car for support.

She was hugging both her gift bag and suitcase of a purse against her chest as I backed out of the spot and left her standing in the street. I glanced in my rearview mirror and found her running after me with her phone in her hand. I couldn't help a laugh as she was taking a photo of the ass end of my truck.

As if she was the injured party at this point.

How the hell had I added this crap to my to-do list? Now I'd have to find a way to get my truck fixed. Maybe I should just deal with my insurance and get it over with through them. I highly doubted that Miss—I pulled out the pink card and read off her name again—Dahlia McKenna would actually pay for the damages. I tossed both cards in my console. I'd probably never get paid by her or the supposed body shop. Hell, I should probably just fix it myself.

How hard could it be? I had all the welding tools.

In storage.

The throbbing in my head intensified at the thought of my welding mask. The torch that used to feel like an actual appendage. Until it didn't. Until the metal warped and exploded.

Nope.

I shut the door on that night. My hand immediately went to the jagged skin under my eye, and I put it out of my mind.

Maybe I'd just put something badass on the side of my truck instead. It was so new, it didn't have any character, anyway. Not that I was happy with her version of graffiti, especially when it was false advertising.

No part of me was little, least of all my dick.

I punched the options on my dash and picked a playlist from Spotify to put the last of the memories to rest. I needed to bring down the anger a few notches. And get out of the city before the glitter turned into tunnel vision with my migraine and then I'd be really fucked.

I'd moved out of New York City because I couldn't handle the frenetic energy making my brain swell with noise and too many voices. Even before the accident, there'd been no space to think. Every time I'd turned around, there was someone asking me for something.

Collab with me!

When is your next gallery show?

I have an idea. We can create the next viral moment.

How do you come up with your ideas?

How do you.. .

On and on.

I'd worked my ass off to be a successful metal artist. It was all I'd ever wanted when I lived in Chicago. Just to get the ideas out of my head. The twisted darkness that was a breathing monster in my brain needed to go somewhere or I'd be living in a junkie flop house like my old man. So, I'd worked with whatever materials I could get my hands on.

And the easiest place to go had been the junkyard.

The things no one wanted had become my muse. I understood it. I'd been much like the old cars I'd torn apart with a blowtorch and metal saw. Maybe if I rearranged them into a cohesive piece that someone wanted—that would make them want me.

How was that for some self-awareness?

Fucking stupid.

Until it wasn't.

Until it actually worked.

I'd finally been able to get out of the stinking apartment in the shittiest south side of Chicago.

The minute I'd seen a way out, I'd left everything behind, including the monsters of my past. Even when I'd sacrificed the one person who didn't deserve it.

My fingers squeaked on the leather as I gripped the steering wheel. I had to find some way to show her I was worthy of a second chance. Macy was all I had left. I just wasn't ready to face her yet. Which is why I was in this small, up and coming hamlet outside of Syracuse to eat dinner instead of the new small town I called home. It was a small city, and Kensington Square had just enough people to allow me to be anonymous for a little while longer.

Until now.

Little Dick was now a flag on the side of my truck. Perfect.

I shoved my hand through my wet hair. I was soaked to the skin and my truck was fogging up from it. I flipped on the fans to defog as I headed out to the lake. Without other cars and their glaring lights reflecting off the rain on the road, I could manage the drive. Since the accident, my eyes were sensitive to light and night driving was pain in the ass even on a clear evening. But the torrential rain didn't help my splitting headache.

My dash lit up with a call and I swore at the name on the readout.

Maeve O'Dwyer.

Nope.

Absolutely not.

I hit the end button.

She'd leave a message, but I wasn't talking to my agent right now.

I didn't have anything for her. And I wouldn't for the foreseeable future.

My mind was as blank as my old dusty chalkboard, ready for the scrap heap. Including the broken frame and cracked slate—courtesy of one of my rage binges. The minute I'd stopped trying to force ideas to come, the anger had become so much more manageable. Which was why I'd sold the busted slate. The fact that I'd gotten an absurd amount of money at the auction still blew my mind. Just because I used to draw my ideas on a chalkboard, it had summoned a mint.

I wasn't sure why the billionaire in Turkey had wanted it, as well as the final piece in my Chaos vignette.

He'd hung them together.

Fucking bananas.

Once upon a time, I'd gotten off on the fact that people wanted my shit. They'd even paid astronomical prices for it. Now I couldn't look at any of it. It was all garbage—all trite, soulless garbage.

I'd sold every last piece. Like a dragon, I'd hoarded the money. I'd never have to work another day in my life—or for three lifetimes, for that matter. Every piece was a slice of my former life. The Chicago scene, the New York City scene, even my London work.

All another me.

The Devil of the art scene. One of the few artists who made money while they were alive.

Too bad none of them realized that each design had eroded part of me away. Until there was nothing left.

Just a pile of money.

The shadows of the one and only thing that had given me a tiny spark loomed ahead like a shadow against the endless lapping waves of Crescent Lake. I turned onto Harriette Lane and slowly eased my way over the rutted gravel driveway to my house.

The old Victorian on the lake. Right now, it didn't look like much in the headlights of my truck. The peeling dark green paint and jagged pieces of gingerbread accents that had worn away in the unforgiving wind and storms off the water couldn't detract from its austere beauty. Whomever had built this had possessed a flair for the dramatic, even adding Gothic accents to play up the spooky factor, and I wanted more of them. The large windows were in rough shape, but I'd replace them with stained glass. The turrets needed some over the top spires and the crumbling roof could use a widow's walk if I could make it happen. I wanted to be the scary house on the freaking lake.

My deep love of Halloween and horror had been a part of me for as long as I could remember. I'd been looking for an old Victorian since my accident. Having stupid amounts of money meant I could wait and find exactly what I wanted.

Add in the staggering amount of time I had on my hands, I'd scoured the internet for the perfect house. Then I'd tripped over a video of this house on Hamilton Realty's social media after I followed a hashtag.

I didn't even tour it. The video had been enough, then when I saw the location, I knew it was meant for me. Like the Universe was giving me a second chance.

Freaking Crescent Cove.

My sister's adopted hometown. Wasn't life some shit?

I slid out of my truck and slammed the door. My boots sunk into the wet gravel as the mud and silt from the waterline tried to suck my feet into the earth.

I wasn't going anywhere.

Me and Little Dick were here to stay. I shook my head in disgust before trudging up to my Airstream beside the old house. It needed way more work than I'd been prepared for, but I'd get it done.

Somehow.

Maybe here, I'd find a new Nolan Devereaux.

Maybe I finally deserved a second chance.