“Which would be what?” I asked, ridiculously breathless.
“I’m going to make you come so hard, so many times; the only thing you’ll be able to think about is what it will be like when I’m finally inside you again.”
14
TENLEY
The tension didn’t dissipate as we headed to the diner, but at least when he was driving, his attention was on something besides me. I was achy and irritable after his teasing. Was this what guys felt like when they were left hanging? Hayden was distracted while we had breakfast, but I didn’t think it had to do with sexual frustration.
When we got back in the car, he tapped the steering wheel nervously. “Do we have time to go somewhere?”
“Sure. Lisa isn’t picking me up for an hour.”
“Okay. Good.” He kissed me on the cheek before he put the car in gear.
Hayden drove down back streets until we reached Hyde Park. As we went deeper into the maze of streets, the houses grew progressively larger and the front gardens more elaborate. He stopped in front of a two-and-a-half-story Victorian complete with turret and a circular front porch. Huge planters were on either side of the front steps. The windows were leaded glass and the shutters were painted a sharp black, a lovely contrast to the brick. The house was beautiful.
“This is where I grew up,” he said, shifting the car into park.
“It’s incredible.”
“It was. I guess it still is. I didn’t appreciate it as much as I should have when I was a kid.” He took my hand, rubbing my knuckles with his thumb. “It took a long time to sell after my parents died. Nate took care of it because I was too young to do it on my own. It’s been up for sale a few times since then.”
“Is it because of what happened?”
Sometimes events left a shadow. When Connor and his family died, the house still retained an echo of their presence. I wondered if with Hayden’s parents’ death, the echo was more like a scream.
“Legally you have to disclose a murder to potential buyers, so it was a deterrent. Last year it went up for sale in early fall. It was a good time of year to sell. Everything looked Norman Rockwell perfect. The leaves had turned yellow and orange and the gardens were fantastic. My mom was all about her gardens.” He paused, caught up in a memory.
I waited for him to continue, aware Hayden didn’t share this information with just anyone.
“I came to an open house because I was curious, you know? The family living there had turned my parents’ bedroom into an office. It didn’t look the same, but it still made me panicky to be in there.”
“I can only imagine.” I squeezed his hand.
“There was a safe built into the wall. My mom hung one of her paintings over it to keep it hidden. Whoever bought the house did the same thing, which was the point, I guess. But it freaked me out because the art on the wall was one of those medieval angel prints. It threw me because the one my mom had up was an angel, too, except modern. And the color scheme was way different, but it still freaked me out. . . .”
He lapsed into silence, chewing on his viper bites as he looked out the window at the house. “I have this fucked-up memory from the night my parents were murdered.”
I shifted to face him. Hayden rarely spoke about his parents, or the events surrounding their deaths.
“I’ve never talked about this with anyone. And I don’t know if I’m remembering things wrong since I was so fucked up.” He played with my fingers as he gathered his thoughts. “The moment I opened the door to their room, everything became hyperclear, but at the same time I sort of . . . stepped outside of my body. You know when you’re in a dream, and it’s like you’re watching the events from outside yourself?”
I nodded. “I know exactly what you mean.”
“That’s what it was like. That painting that hid the safe was the same one my entire life. It wasn’t valuable or anything. It was a piece she’d done when she was in art school. Most of them were landscape paintings, except this one. It was an angel, but it was done in shades of red. It was . . . dark.”
“Dark how?”
He contemplated the question. “It was just different. Usually the things she painted were beautiful. This one wasn’t like that. Not conventionally, anyway.”
“Like the tattoo on your shoulder?”
“That was the first big piece I got after my parents died. Damen put it on me. It wasn’t meant to be beautiful at all, but the things my mom painted were. This one was beautiful and disturbing at the same time.
“When I was a kid, like five or six, and my dad was away on business, I’d come into their room in the middle of the night. I’d make my mom sleep on his side of the bed. I told her it was so I could have her pillow ’cause I liked it better.
“But it was really so I didn’t have to see that painting, ’cause it scared the shit out of me.” He looked away. “Anyway. The first thing I saw when I cracked opened the door was the painting. It was lying on the floor. I didn’t understand what had happened, at first. Then I saw my parents. There was so much blood.” He shuddered. “Even after I realized they were dead, I kept fixating on that stupid painting.”
“You were in shock.”
“I guess. There was spatter all over the wall and the floor. I worried that the blood was on that painting, but it blended in and I couldn’t see it. I knew when the police came they’d take everything that wasn’t nailed down as evidence, and I couldn’t stand the thought of losing it. Not because I liked it, but because of what it meant to my mom. I couldn’t force myself to go into that room and do anything about it, though.”
His eyes shifted from the house to me, his expression one of guilt and shame. I understood them both so well.
“It was like if I could just put the painting back where it belonged, it would undo what happened, and I would be okay. Except I couldn’t go into the room. I went downstairs and called the police and destroyed the living room because I was too scared to go back upstairs. I just wanted it all to be an awful trip. I kept hoping my mom would come down and tear me a new asshole because of the living room.”
“It must have been terrifying,” I said hoarsely, imagining his pain.
“I don’t know why all this shit is coming back now, after all these years.” He stared out the windshield, his gaze unfocused.
I could guess as to the reason.
“You know what the most fucked-up part is, though? In the crime scene photos, the red angel painting wasn’t there. I swore up and down it had been on the floor. I remembered it so clearly, but crime scene photos don’t lie—right?” He looked at me for confirmation. It was awful to realize he didn’t trust his own memory.
I didn’t know what to say. “Do you know what happened to the painting?”
“If it’s anywhere, it would be in a storage unit across town. That’s where Nate put everything that wasn’t auctioned off after we sold the house.”
“We could look for it, if you want. I’d be happy to go with you.”
“Maybe after the holidays or something.”
The front door of the house opened, and a woman stepped out with five teens. They headed down the front steps to the black minivan in the driveway.
“The house was bought by some foundation and converted into a group home,” Hayden said.
“Was that hard for you?”
“No. I was glad, because I don’t think a family should live there. It’s like the house is tainted by what happened.” Even though it was hot in the car, Hayden shivered. “I can sit here and look at the outside and it’s mostly manageable. But being inside wasn’t good for me. After I went to that open house, I flipped my shit.”
He twirled a lock of my hair around his finger and watched it unfurl like a ribbon. “I hadn’t been with Sienna in months, but that night . . . I went to her. It was so fucking dumb. I was angry at myself for what happened to my parents, and I wanted to stop feeling . . . anything. It was the worst thing I could have done, and the last time I was with her.”