Feuds and Reckless Fury by K. Webster

 

Canyon

Imanage to make dinner awkward as hell, which pleases me to no end. Seeing Alis all flustered was better than the tacos Quinn made. It has me wanting to poke at him even more.

After dinner, Alis disappeared, leaving me to help our dads clean up. No one offers where he went, and I’m too stubborn to ask. I’ve just loaded the last plate into the dishwasher when Quinn answers my question without me having to ask.

“He’s in his studio.” Pride washes over Quinn’s features lighting up his green eyes and revealing a wide smile. “He won’t mind if you go take a look.”

Curiosity gets the better of me. I give Quinn a nod and then follow him through the house to a door. Quinn doesn’t enter but instead gestures for me to go inside alone. As soon as I step into the space, it’s as though I’ve gone someplace different altogether. The rest of Quinn’s home is massive and sleek, something I already noticed—at least from the living room—the few times I’d been forced to come here before I knew Dad was fucking him. Every detail of the house is meticulously designed and decorated to match the only room I’d ever really been in.

Not here.

In this room, the lights are bright, and it’s fairly sparse when it comes to furniture, but it’s littered with projects, both finished and unfinished sculptures. Standing in the middle of the room with his back to me, Alis is hard at work on a clay piece that looks to be a man’s torso. He’s bent over as he closely inspects it. The familiar beat of “Still Be Friends” by G-Eazy, Tory Lanez, and Tyga plays in the background.

I expect to get a nasty look from Alis, but he’s in a zone, focused on his work. There’s a stool in one corner, and I silently slide onto it so I can watch him. He uses a metal tool to carve along the clay, adding more definition to the right pectoral muscle on his sculpture. I let my stare roam across the various pieces in the studio. They’re all incredibly detailed and intricate. If I didn’t hate the guy, I’d be impressed with his talent.

But I do hate him.

I stiffen at the reminder.

“The shoulder is wrong,” I blurt out, announcing my presence.

A metal tool clatters to the table, and Alis’s body goes still. Slowly, he turns his head, an annoyed glint flickering in his deep brown eyes.

“It’s not finished.” His tone is defensive. “Go away.”

“Don’t be like that, bro,” I sneer at him, pleased as hell to throw the word that dug into me all day like a knife back at him. “I’m only trying to help.”

“I don’t want your help.”

He turns back to his sculpture, dismissing me. As if I’d actually leave. It’s like he still doesn’t understand my level of dedication to the ruination of everyone who lives in this house.

“Still here?” he snaps.

I bark out a laugh. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

He ignores me, his focus once again on his project. I can tell the moment he forgets I’m here because his body goes from being tense to loose again. Quickly, he carves and pokes and smooths the brown clay. His finger dips into the navel of the sculpture. The delicate way he rubs inside of it has me lifting an amused brow.

“Don’t mind me,” I say as I slide off the stool and approach him. “Keep making love to him. I’m into voyeurism.”

He pretends not to hear me, though I do notice the way his neck muscle ticks. I have the urge to run my finger along the skin there to see if it feels as tight as it looks.

I try not to read into that desire as anything more than curiosity.

“This should curve in more,” I tell him, teasing my finger along the shoulder muscle on his project. “It’s too flat.”

“It’s not too flat,” he argues back, his deep, empty eyes like bottomless pits of hell. “Get the fuck out of my studio.”

I reach behind me to grab the material of my shirt and pull it up over my head. He goes from pissed to shocked in half a second. His gaze sweeps over the muscle in question, the artist side of his brain taking over the sane part of him. He studies my flesh with critical eyes that bring warmth dancing across my skin.

Which is stupid.

As if I care about what he thinks of me.

My body is not just defined, but it’s solid with hard-earned muscles, so there’s nothing to be ashamed of, even if he is frowning hard. I slightly flex my triceps, making the muscles pop just as the sculpture should be. With his stare flying back and forth from my body to his clay piece, he seems to forget that he hates me and uses me to perfect his art.

I shouldn’t be helping him.

But the thought of him seeing me anytime he looks at this artwork is enough to have me holding still. It’ll be a sweet sort of torture. The gift that keeps on giving. A monster for a muse.

I’m not an idiot. I know Alis finds me attractive. Using that against him is a temptation I can’t walk away from.

I’ll slice into Alister Sommers with any weapon I can.

This one might hurt the worst, which has me grinning.

“Your evil smile doesn’t intimidate me,” he mutters, brown eyes briefly finding mine before they’re back on his art. “But if it makes you feel better, go ahead and believe it.”

“Does my dick intimidate you?” I taunt, pretending to reach for the button on my jeans.

“If I add that to my piece, I’m going to need more clay.” His challenging smirk rattles me for a moment. “Remember, I felt how big your hard-on was in the kitchen.”

Fucker.

“I wasn’t hard for you,” I snap back, taking his stupid bait and letting him win this round.

“Oh,” he says, feigning surprise. “If that was you soft, I can’t begin to imagine what you’d feel like hard.”

His words have a flood of embarrassing heat rushing down to my dick. To my utter disbelief, my cock thickens in my jeans. I’m frozen in horror, but he’s once more distracted by the clay. I let out a relieved breath of air that he didn’t witness what his stupid words did to me.

“We don’t have to be enemies,” he murmurs, his brows furrowed in concentration. “In fact, it would benefit us if we could find a way to be civil to each other.”

I clench my jaw, raking my gaze over his stupid bleached hair that doesn’t match his dark eyebrows. My eyes settle on his pink bottom lip that’s slightly swollen from the way he tugs on it with his teeth when he’s focused.

“I much prefer this arrangement,” I murmur, my words coming out husky for some reason.

His lips kick up on one side in a teasing grin. “You half-naked and alone with me?”

Explosive anger detonates inside me. I grab hold of the front of his shirt, yanking him across the table beside his sculpture. He grunts as the edge presses into his stomach. The deep, dark windows into his wicked soul bore into me far too closely for my liking.

Fuck.

His scent floods my nostrils—lime and coconut. It’s an odd scent that has me curious. He doesn’t smell like a typical guy. He smells like pie.

“Why do you smell like that?” I demand, distracted by the way his hand, stained by the clay, grips my wrist.

“Like what?” His brows furl in confusion. “Clay?”

“No. You smell…”

“What?”

“Sweet,” I growl. “Like pie or the beach or summer or some shit.”

His grin is wide and victorious. “Why don’t you have a little taste and see for yourself?”

I release him, jerking my hand back as though he burned it. The smugness clouding around him is cloying and toxic. I don’t like verbally sparring with this little fucker.

I’d rather beat his ass the good old-fashioned way with my fist to his face.

“Watch your back tomorrow,” I snap, storming toward the door.

“Oh, brother, doggy style is so much fun,” he croons in a taunting way. “How did you know I prefer to bottom?”

“Fuck you, Wonderland.”

“One can certainly hope.”

The fucker winks at me, and it’s all I can do to hightail it out of that house before I get my ass landed in jail for stabbing Alis Sommers with one of his stupid sculpture tools.

It’s after midnight when I hear the front door open.

Unbelievable.

I fling off my blanket and storm through the house until I find my sister. She’s trying to sneak in, but I’m ready for her.

“What the hell?” I demand as I take in her disheveled appearance. “Where have you been?”

She rolls her eyes, which grates on my nerves. “None of your business because you’re not my dad.”

I get a whiff of beer, and it takes everything in me not to go off on her. Sure, when I was sixteen, I had already started drinking sometimes with my friends, but it doesn’t mean it’s okay for my little sister to do the same.

“Want me to call Dad?” I threaten, crossing my arms over my chest.

“As if you’d actually talk to him.”

“I had dinner with him tonight,” I throw back at her.

Her lashes blink hard as she considers my words. “You had dinner? With Dad?”

“That’s what I said.”

“What about Mom?” she snaps, waving angrily toward Mom’s room.

I let out a harsh breath of air, shrugging. “It’s not like she cares anymore anyway.”

My words may as well have slapped Carrie because she stumbles back, holding her hand over her mouth as tears fill her blue eyes that look just like mine.

“She’s depressed, asshole.” She swipes away a tear that escapes before poking me hard in the middle of my chest. “But that’s what the men in this family do, huh? When shit gets tough, they bail.”

“Carrie, that’s enough—”

“You’re right. It is. I’ll find my own ride tomorrow.”

With those words, she storms into her room, slamming the door behind her. I wait for Mom to get up to see what the commotion is about, but the house is silent.

I walk down the hall and peek in on our mother. She’s sleeping peacefully in the same position as before. Bending over, I plant a kiss on her head and turn off the television.

“Night, Mom.”

“Night, Canny.”

I cringe as I stand in the dark and listen to her soft breathing. Did she hear Carrie’s and my argument? Does she think I’m a traitor too?

Guilt is a stifling cloud around me. I suck in a sharp breath and bolt from her room. It isn’t until I’m lying face down on my bed that my heart and erratic thoughts begin to calm. By one in the morning, I realize I haven’t messaged Naomi to tell her good night.

But then I think about what an asshole I was to her earlier today. She’s still pissed, hence why there’s no text waiting for me. With a heavy sigh, I toss my phone away from me. My thoughts drift from the girl who deserves better than my moody ass to someone else.

Taunting, dark brown eyes mock me from behind my lids as sleep overtakes me.

Fucking Alister Sommers.

He may not have been the one to start this shit—that’s on Dad and always will be—but it’s him who will end it because I’m committed to destroying him.

And once I’ve broken them all, I can fix Mom.

Carrie too.

Maybe even me.