Drawn to You — Volume Two Page 2

  “I have something for your mother,” she says.

  My heart skips as I watch Vivian pull a small bouquet of roses from the wet plastic bag on her arm. Their beautiful pink hues match perfectly with the plaque for my mother’s ashes. The flowers are delicately beautiful. A description once so aptly described my mother.

  “I thought it would be nice to bring her some flowers.”

  “Thank you,” I manage to say.

  Despite the sea of names, it isn’t hard to pick out my mother’s memorial plaque. Hers seems to be the only one with a rose pink tint and gold lettering.

  Rosaline Isabella Knight.

  It’s surreal to see my mother’s name among the rest of the city’s dead, and it takes every fiber of my being not to break down in tears at the sight of it. The bitterness I feel toward Stefan has consumed me since I learned of my mother’s passing. It’s all I’ve thought about. I know she committed suicide because she thought she had no one left, but I never expected her to feel that hopeless. It doesn’t matter which way I spin this—Stefan will always be partly to blame. He took everything from me and from her. My eyes trace the hundreds of other plaques that sit abandoned beside hers. The surrounding flowers are dry and brittle. I’m almost certain they would come apart at the slightest touch, and for some reason, the thought of my mother’s ashes sitting here next to them eats away at me.

  It seems even in death, my mother’s life has been reduced to just another name on a wall.

  TWO

  TRISTAN

  THE WORLD AROUND me is one chaotic blur of hospital waiting rooms and doctors in white coats. I should be used to this by now. My mother wasn’t new to this, but it’s not my mother who’s lying in the bed across the room. And it isn’t my mother who the doctors just said would never be waking up from a coma. It’s Emily and Nicholas’s brother, Alexander.

  The sight of him lying on a hospital bed looking so broken and fail is unnerving. I’ve never really had a connection with Alex the way I did with Nicholas and Emily, but it doesn’t make seeing this any easier. I pace the room feeling the need to reach out and comfort those around me.

  “He has to wake up,” Emily cries.

  “He will!”

  Nicholas storms past me and proceeds to slam his fist against the gray hospital room wall. It vibrates with the pressure of his hand and fills the room with a booming echo. The sound of Emily’s broken voice calls to me from the other side of the room. Her frame sits curled in a ball on top of a chair as she rocks her body back and forth. It seems I’m destined to watch those around me suffer. I must be cursed.

  “Please stop, Nick,” Emily cries. “Tristan, make him stop.”

  Nicholas’s gaze never leaves Alex’s bedside as I stop to give him a quick squeeze on the shoulder. If I could help him somehow, I would, but the best thing I can do now is to comfort Emily. I walk over to her and wrap my arms around her shoulders. Her pale fingers curl around the ends of my hair just below my neck as she sobs into my chest in soft tremors that pull apart the very depth of my soul. The need to console her makes my very heart ache.

  “Emily, look at me.”

  “No, I can’t.”

  I lift her chin with my index finger, forcing her to meet my gaze. With a shaky breath, she finally gives in and looks up at me with watery eyes laced with pain. She blinks away tears from her eyes. Damn it all to hell. I wish I could draw every thread of tears from them and fill them back with stars.

  “You’re going to be okay,” I say.

  Her small frame presses against me sending electric waves of tension running through my veins. My cock throbs at the sensation and memory of two weeks earlier.

  “Let’s give Nicholas a minute,” I say, lifting her into my arms. Emily’s petite frame sags against me as I carry her across the room and outside.

  “Tristan,” she murmurs into my chest. “Tell me I’m dreaming. Tell me Alex is okay and that he’s going to wake up.”

  I cradle her in my arms squeezing her against my chest. The sensation is hauntingly familiar. I held my mother this same way when I found her passed out on the floor. It hurts just thinking about her. I didn’t make time to see her enough. God, I miss her. I wish she were here with me now, but I know that will never happen.

  “I’m going to take you home,” I say, squeezing Emily.

  “No, I don’t want to leave!”

  I spot Stefan rushing down the hall toward me with a haunted look in his face. His broken gaze washes over me as he spots Emily sobbing in my arms. For a moment, I feel happy. Happy that Stefan finally understands what it is to lose the person you love most in this world. He’s incredibly lucky he still has Nicholas and Emily, but I know Alex meant something greater to him. Alex meant his succession. It meant Stefan’s name would live on. Now there’s the possibility it will be forgotten over time. Much like my mother, he’ll be reduced to just another name on a wall.

  I force myself to purge the bitter thoughts from mind and focus on the blonde angel whose hands are wrapped around my shoulders.

  “Tristan, could you please take Emily home?” Stefan asks.

  The edge in his voice is undeniable.

  “Yes.”

  I leave Stefan to mourn for his son. As much as I hate that he hurt my mother, I can’t be the monster that takes pleasure in watching his world crumble around him.

  * * * * *

  I watch her lips curve into a smile as she falls asleep on the couch. The house around us is empty of all light with the exception of the television that’s on. Despite the need I feel to tell her how much she means to me, I leave things as they are.

  I slide my book of Lord Byron’s poems underneath her hold for her to keep. It’s the one thing I’ve kept from Stefan’s library all of these years. The thought of leaving it behind for her to read is more comforting than any pleasure I’ll get from re-reading it. Emily’s eyes flutter open momentarily at my touch before quickly closing once again. I lean in, capturing her lips in a chaste kiss. The memory of it will stay with me always.

  THREE

  TRISTAN

  FOUR YEARS LATER…

  TWO A.M.

  It’s the blaring echo of my cell phone that violently pulls me from my sleep. The sound resonates throughout my art studio with an intensity that could wake the dead. My eyes blink toward my nightstand as my hand fumbles in search of my cell phone. Who the hell is calling me now? Despite the cascading city lights that engulf the outside of my studio, the inside remains lost in darkness.

  I find my phone barely hanging on at the edge of the nightstand. Curiosity gnaws at me as I swipe the screen and enter my passcode. There aren’t many people who have my personal cell phone number. Most of my clients contact me by email. To my surprise, along with the missed call from a private number, there’s a notification of a new voicemail. I hold the phone to my cheek and play the recording. A familiar voice floods the line.

  Nicholas StoneHaven.

  “Hey, I know you’re probably busy or asleep, but I was hoping you’d come out and have a drink with me. I really need to talk to you, buddy. All right, call me.”

  My gaze lingers over my phone as I scroll through my contacts. Up until recently, keeping my distance from the StoneHaven family has been surprisingly easy with four years of school and then working on my art. I’ve never thrown myself into something the way I did with my paintings after the domino effect of destruction that followed my mother’s death. It took all my strength not to seek out Emily when I found out about her mother selling Alex’s death to the tabloids. I never liked Evelyn, but I didn’t think she would sink that low for money.

  I thought, with time and distance, I could forget about the way I felt for Nicholas and Emily, but the truth is, I can’t. The bitterness I feel toward Stefan hasn’t gone away, and I’m not sure if it ever will, but I refuse to hate Emily and Nicholas. I won’t make them pawns. The anger I’ve carried since my mother’s death has already disintegrated enough.

  I repl
ay Nicholas’s message over again, and a wave of guilt washes over me at the sound of desperation in his voice. I should just delete the voicemail and pretend I didn’t hear it. If he asks me about it later, I’ll just tell him I never got the message. In the past four years, we’ve both kept in touch, but I’ve even kept him at arms length.

  A text message flashes across the top of my phone in a bright green bubble.

  Nick: Why haven’t you called me back, asshole?

  I smile. He really knows how to sweet talk someone. Another text message buzzes in just as I unlock the phone screen.

  Nick: I’m just going to keep texting you until you come have a drink.

  He’s a persistent asshole. I’m fairly certain it should be considered a negative thing but, somehow, Nicholas makes it seem charming to women. I tap a text into my phone.

  Me: Nice to hear from you too, Nick. Drinks tomorrow?

  Nick: Too late. I started without you.

  Me: Are you drunk?

  Nick: Fffffuck yeah.

  Me: Please don’t tell me you’re driving.

  Nick: The hotel took my keys. Pick me up.

  Me: You haven’t changed, buddy.

  Nick: It’s been too long since we hung out. Shit. Paparazzi are here.

  I stare at the text, and the memory of my mother’s words before she died come rushing back to me.

  “They’ll ruin every good thing about you. Don’t let them.”

  Against my better judgment, I text Nicholas back.

  Me: What’s the name of the hotel?

  Nicholas: The Somerset.

  Me: Stay put. I’m coming to get you.

  * * * * *

  I pull into the valet circle in front of the prestigious Somerset Hotel. It’s not the hardest building to pick out, especially when it’s practically made of gold. As I curve the corner, I spot Nicholas in a heated discussion with a small group of paparazzi. This is not good. Before I have a chance to hand the valet my keys, Nicholas swings at the cameraman in front of him. FUCK. The valet gasps as I park my car, throw my keys at him, and rush out of my car.

  I push past the other hotel guests just in time to stop Nicholas from doing any further damage. It takes him several seconds to realize I’m holding him back from beating the shit out of the cameraman in front of him. The look of surprise on his face quickly fades into a look of relief. His grip tightens on my arm as he leans in and gives me a quick hug as a flutter of cameras flash behind us. Even if Nick doesn’t say it, I knew he wasn’t sure if I would come tonight. I grimace at the barely cloaked smell of whiskey on his clothes as it soaks into mine.

  The paparazzo Nicholas hit slowly stands and cautiously inches back from the two of us. He massages the side of his face as the skin beneath his eye starts to swell. The rest of his skin is inked in angry red blotches.

  “You owe me a fucking camera!” he says, spitting right in front of us.

  Nicholas turns with a scowl. “You wish, asshole. I’m not paying for shit.”

  “Nick, let’s go.”

  “Yeah, go home, rich boy. I can’t wait to sell these to US Weekly. I bet they’ll fetch big bucks.”

  The look of pure satisfaction on the paparazzo’s face sends a rush of anger through me. What a dick. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised the StoneHaven family is still a main target for the press, though. After their brother, Alex, died, the paparazzi became vicious. There wasn’t a single press member that didn’t want to scoop a story about the death of the heir to a multi-billion dollar publishing company. I can’t count the number of articles I read on the subject. I wanted to burn down every newsstand that carried them.

  FOUR

  EMILY

  “SO WHERE ARE we headed again?”

  My roommate, Augie, looks over at me with an irritated expression on his face. He’s pissed because we’re late to a dorm party at NYU, and we’ve been driving around Manhattan trying to get a hold of my drunken brother.

  “We’re looking for the Somerset Hotel.”

  “Have I mentioned I’m going to kill Nicholas?”

  “Take a number.” I laugh. “I’m pretty sure my father will handle that one for you.”

  Augie rolls his eyes as he pulls a cigarette from the pocket of his T-shirt. He lights it up and hits the window before the puff of smoke can hit me in the face.

  “Em, I was supposed to meet that sexy tuba player named Harvey. I think he was going to ask me out.”

  He is never going to let me live this down. If Augie misses his chance with the sexy tuba player, he’s going to hate me for the rest of this school year. And that’s not something I want when I have to sleep in the room across from his.

  “I promise you we’ll make it to the party. We just need to pick up my brother first.”

  I shake my head in frustration as I hold my phone to my ear and re-play my brother’s voice message on my phone. Sis, I need you to pick me up. The habit of his is getting older by the second. Why didn’t he just call a private taxi? And why didn’t I just ignore his text. Any smarter, younger sibling would.

  Damn, Nick. I love my brother but for once, I wish I could be the younger sibling in this situation. I should be out partying with my friends and getting drunk. Not him. Instead, we’re spending Saturday night speeding across Manhattan. Maybe, I’m just looking for an excuse to get out of this party. The only reason why I’m going tonight is that Augie and my best friend, Ceci, convinced me to. Apparently, I act way too old for my own good. At least that’s what they keep saying.

  “I think I can see the hotel.” I point to the towering gold building down the street.

  “Are you sure? It’s going to be a bitch trying to get over,” Augie says, pushing his way to the left side of the road. “And why the hell didn’t your brother just take a taxi? There’re dozens of them here.”

  Ignoring Augie, I unlock my phone and tell my voice command to dial Nick’s number. To my dismay, his cell goes straight to voicemail. Fuck. We better not have driven all the way down here just to have him not be here.

  “Nick, pick up your phone! I’m here. Call me back.”

  I turn to Augie with a sorry expression.

  “So you’re going to have to park, and I’ll run in to get my brother.”

  “Just remember, Emily… Harvey.”

  “I know, I know. I’ll flag you down when I get back.”

  My dress flares as I speed-walk past the valet and head toward the front of the Somerset Hotel. A flash of cameras draws my attention toward TAP, the lush outside bar that frames the side of the hotel. There’s a crowd of men in suits hanging near the front watching the beautiful women as they trickle in and out of the bar. Not too far from them is a growing crowd of paparazzi. Perfect. I’ve almost gotten used to not having to deal with them, but they seem to hang around like vultures in this area of the city.

  “Fuck you!”

  I hear Nick before I see him. The anger in his voice sends a streak of anxiety through my chest, pushing me toward the crowd of paparazzi. Oh, God. He must be the reason why they’re lurking around the outside of the bar. The crowd slightly parts just enough for me to catch sight of Nicholas taking a swing at the paparazzo in front of him. I cringe as the man stumbles back against the crowd. Incoming hotel guests stop to observe as profanity spews from his mouth. His face turns bright red as he confronts Nick. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but his mocking tone only makes my brother more hostile.

  “Nicholas!” I yell, hoping to stop him from doing something incredibly stupid. A familiar figure pops into view as Nicholas steps forward to swing once again. I recognize Tristan within an earshot of hearing his voice. Before I have a chance to intervene, Tristan wraps his arms around Nicholas, immobilizing him as he pulls him away from the paparazzi. The cameras in front of us don’t pause for even a moment as they flutter to capture the whole scene.

  Shock overwhelms me at the sight of Tristan standing only a few feet away from me. He’s so close I could almost touch him. It’s almo
st too surreal to believe. What the hell is he doing here? I step back tempted to get lost in the crowd before he sees me, but it’s too late. His eyes connect with mine the moment I start to step away.

  “C’mon, Nick, let’s get you home,” Tristan says, wrapping his arm around my brother’s shoulder.

  As much as I want to hate Tristan, watching him protect Nicholas kindles a familiar feeling inside of me. My body betrays me. He doesn’t call out to me, but I know he recognizes me from the disbelief that registers on his face. A streak of anger and desire filters through me as his gaze holds me. Tristan looks good. Too good. His designer suit melts against his body revealing muscular thighs and broad shoulders and an incredibly sexy Adam’s apple. I watch it bob as Tristan swallows his words. A part of me is disappointed to see Tristan’s hair cut short. I can’t help but miss the length it used to be.

  “I’ve missed you, asshole,” my brother murmurs, pulling his attention back.

  I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t saved every news article I could find on the success of Tristan’s paintings. It seemed like overnight he became a well-known sensation.

  “Who are you?” A paparazzo asks stepping forward and snapping a picture of Tristan.

  Before anyone has a chance to answer, a voice calls out from the crowd.

  “That’s Tristan Knight.”

  An excited murmur of voices surrounds us as the flashes continue. I’m not surprised New York loves Tristan. Who wouldn’t love a story about a boy who grows up in the streets and then becomes a locally prized artist? Everyone loves a Cinderella story. So why can’t I shake this bitter feeling? It seems the world has seen more of Tristan than I have, and they all seem to think he’s this perfect being. But I know better. He’s the same person who broke my heart into tiny little pieces and scattered them on his way out the door. Fuck him. Why the hell is he here?

  Tristan steps forward blocking the view of the flashing paparazzo. The rawness of his voice sends a strange flutter through my chest.