Secret Obsession: Chapter 49

No one knows agony like I do.

I feel it every day. Constantly. It’s become an undercurrent to other emotions, tainting even precious, happy memories. Few and far between as they are. It’s a black stain on my soul, and some days, I fear the stain is only getting darker. Going deeper.

Eventually, there will be no coming back from this.

Every time we stand and wait for the national anthem, I think of her.

My songbird wasn’t a singer, but she did make lovely noises in other circumstances.

Melody Cameron was a painter. Her easels were always covered in canvases, with mixed paint on wrapped palettes waiting nearby for her to restart her work.

English professor by day, artist by night.

Tonight feels more visceral. Maybe it was Willow singing. I tried not to stare at her, standing on the line on the ice. But seeing her, with Miles just beyond the door, was like a punch to the gut.

Him, Greyson, Steele—they got their girls. They hold on to them so fucking tight.

I should’ve done that. I should’ve caged my songbird when I had the chance, because she flew away without a fucking word. There was no trace of her anywhere.

And then that asshole made a comment under his breath, how it’s no fucking wonder I’m single because of my goddamn playing. It wasn’t even that big of a deal.

But I was already rubbed raw, and I snapped.

His fists against my face, his knuckles snapping into my cheek and jaw, wasn’t enough. The victory wasn’t enough either.

His blood coats my skin as I’m ejected from the game for misconduct. Coach follows me out, screaming at me all the way into the locker room, but I’ve got no reply. I get out of my skates and pads and leave the locker room in silence, heading down one of the hallways toward the exit.

I won’t leave—then I’d truly be fucked—but I need something.

Fresh air or whatever. But I find myself heading up to the next level, then up again. The doors to the suites are all mostly closed, the spectators enjoying their private rooms without being bothered by attendants or stray sports fans.

Art lines the walls. A sign catches my attention, something about all the proceeds from purchasing the paintings going to charity. I glance at the plaques under each painting, noting the name and title, the medium. Oil, watercolor, mixed media. On and on.

Then I see it.

A bird shouldn’t be conspicuous. It’s bright teal, almost fictional in its coloring, but the feathers look soft and real and alive. I draw closer, taking it in. The bird’s feet are covered in a black substance. Oil or tar, maybe, that also got on the tips of its wings. Probably rendering it unable to fly.

I shouldn’t be drawn to it.

But I try to take in all of it, right down to the shimmer in the bird’s eye, before my attention falls to the name.

M. Cameron

My heart stops, and I spin in a slow circle. Almost like I’m going to catch her watching me, laughing.

“Joke’s on you, Rhodes,” she’d say.

My skin is fucking burning.

I note the little number taped next to it and stride down the hall to the table, where an attendant sits.

“I need number seven,” I tell her.

She blinks up at me. “Um, it’s an auction. We’re taking bids until the end of the second period.”

“Great. Number seven, what’s it up to?”

She clicks on her computer. “Eight hundred dollars.”

“What can you tell me about the artist?”

The woman slides a brochure toward me. “There’s a blurb about each artist featured tonight. Did you want to place a bid?”

I nod once, my jaw set. It’s going to charity, right? Fuck it. “Ten thousand dollars.”

Her eyes round. “Oh. Wow, okay.”

I slide a hundred-dollar bill toward her. “And you’ll notify me if I’m outbid.”

“I can’t take that,” she mumbles.

Her name tag reads Elaine.

“Elaine.” I lean down on the table, putting my face level with hers. “This painting is speaking to me. And it’s for charity. You would want to get as much as you could for it, wouldn’t you?”

“O-of course,” she stammers.

Her fingers curl around the bill, and satisfaction rumbles through me. She gives me a form to fill out, which I do. My handwriting feels messier than usual, my block print at a slant and the letters crammed together. Once I’m done, I straighten and check my phone.

A few messages from Knox, asking if I’m okay. And what the fuck happened.

The horn blows, ending the first period. There wasn’t much time left when I was kicked off the ice, so there must’ve been more penalties. More clock stopping, dragging out the time. I tuck the brochure in my back pocket and hurry to the locker room to get yelled at more.

An excruciating amount of time later, when the team returns to the benches for the second period, I sit alone in the locker room and pull out the brochure.

Where there are photos of other artists, posing next to their art displayed on walls, M. Cameron has nothing. Just a short blurb listing her other accomplishments. A few awards, a gallery in New York City that has more of her paintings.

Fuck.

I look up the gallery.

I feel insane, and maybe a little out of control.

“Thank you for calling Wild Oak Art, this is Shelby,” a warm voice says. “Can I help you?”

“Yes.” I clear my throat. “I’m wondering if you still have artwork by M. Cameron?”

“Melody?”

My heart slams to a halt. “That’s her,” I manage. “Is she local?”

“I’m afraid not. Her brother-in-law owns the gallery, though.”

Brother-in-law?

She’s married?

No, maybe she has a sister who’s married. A sister she’s never mentioned. Not that she mentioned much of her life…

I close my eyes and remind myself to breathe. “How many paintings?”

The woman is quiet for a moment. I’ve already forgotten her fucking name, not that it matters. My face hurts, but it’s nothing compared to the storm picking up intensity in my chest. It’s lightning and thunder and ice-cold rain, whipping into a hurricane that’s going to take me out.

“We have two portraits in mixed media. Oil and acrylic, sixty by forty inches. One oil painting, forty by sixty. Two charcoal drawings, twenty by twenty. So five total at the moment.”

“I’ll take them,” I blurt out.

Shocked silence. “Mr…”

“Rhodes,” I supply. “I’m a fan of Ms. Cameron’s work. I don’t care the cost, but I will need them shipped to my home in Colorado.”

“Of course.” Pause. Then, “Denver, by chance?”

“Yes.” I give her my information.

“Between us, Mr. Rhodes… her brother-in-law mentioned a show she’s doing in Denver in a few months. I’m not sure if anything has been announced… But since you live in the area, I figured I would mention it.”

I stand. I just can’t sit anymore, not with the idea of Melody Cameron being in the same fucking city as me. Again.

Finally.

“Thank you,” I reply. “Anything else?”

“No. I’ll charge once we have shipping.”

“You’ve been most helpful.”

I hang up and shove my phone back in my pocket, then head up to the third floor. I find Melody’s painting and stop in front of it, my arms crossed over my chest. Staring at the brush strokes, knowing she put them there, knowing that she touched and handled and created this piece, is almost too much.

“Mr. Rhodes?”

I turn toward the attendant.

She points to her computer. “You’ve been outbid.”

Fuck.

“By who?” I demand.

Her expression turns pinched. “Placed online by… Mr. Cameron.”