The torment of two, p.8
The Torment of Two, page 8
I climb out of the vehicle to avoid her disarming smile. An older woman with her blond hair in a messy ponytail greets us from the porch.
“You two must be the PMU students,” the woman says, beaming. “You’ll have to excuse my grouchy husband. Gregory prides himself on scaring everyone away. I’m Paula Nordstrom.”
“Gemma Park and Tristan Sheridan,” Gemma says for both of us. “Thank you for letting us come over on such short notice. We’re both eager to get started on our project.”
Paula’s eyes twinkle. “I remember being just as excited as you two when me and Gregory purchased this place. Somewhere along the way, we got overwhelmed. Mr. Pederson assured me his students are really good at what they do. Perhaps, after this project, we’ll have a plan of action we can finally take.”
“We’ll do our best,” Gemma vows, turning her charm up to what feels like an obnoxious level to me. “We may have to come over multiple times as Mr. Pederson may or may not have mentioned. We promise not to intrude. Just tell us where we’re not allowed to go and we’ll respect that.”
“You’re welcome anywhere, darlin’,” Paula says, gesturing for us to follow her. “Gregory may give you a little grief, but you just have to ignore him. That’s what I do.”
Gemma shoots me a quick look and it’s the uneasiness in her gaze that once again has me feeling stupidly protective over her. This Gregory dude can fuck off as far as I’m concerned.
“I’d give you the grand tour, but I have a feeling you’ll do a lot better if you explore on your own.” She points toward an open doorway. “I’ll be in the main sitting room with Gregory at the end of this hallway. This place is too big to heat, so we tend to stay in the front of the building as much as we can. Just holler if you need anything.”
I give her a nod and the two of us wait until she disappears down the hallway and into the main room. I’m itching to start going into each room one by one, but Gemma stops me when she grabs onto my wrist.
“When I was here yesterday, I think I saw an office. It could have belonged to Heming or Ford. Seems like a fun place to start.” She smiles at me and then starts tugging me behind her. “This place is freaking amazing, right?”
I stiffen but don’t pull my arm away from her, allowing her to lead the way. Her hand projects warmth through my jacket that radiates up my entire arm.
“I’m shocked you also find it amazing.”
She snorts out a laugh. “I’m more than a pretty face, Two.”
I don’t chide her for calling me Two. Her face is indeed pretty, but the more than part is yet to be discovered. I’m not exactly eager to go on a Gemma Park exploration mission, digging for hidden treasures beneath her shiny surface. But I do love this class and I definitely love this place already.
“I’ll accept the truce,” I say with a grunt. “While we work on our project, I mean.”
She gives my wrist a squeeze. “Thank you. This is going to go a lot smoother without you hating me with everything in you.”
Though she’s probably right. I still have my guard up. I’m not going to allow her to burrow her way under my skin, making me forget everything about my past that haunts me and the fact she’s basically responsible.
Technically, her mom is, but still.
Jamie’s name wasn’t on that wall. Neither was her twin, Dempsey.
No, it was Gemma.
Just Gemma.
“Here,” she exclaims, voice pitched with excitement. “Wow. Look at this place.”
I follow her into the office. She finally releases her hold on me. We both take in the ancient room in awe. It’s covered from floor to ceiling in dust, wallpaper has peeled off the walls in some areas, and a few bookshelves have shelves that have completely collapsed. This place is a mess—a wonderful, beautiful mess.
“Do you think there are artifacts hidden in here?” Gemma asks, practically giddy as she bounces on her heels. “What if we find love notes? How freaking romantic would that be?”
Listening to her babble reminds me of Dad. Whenever he’s passionate about one of his interior restorations, he can’t contain his excitement. He also bosses Pops around and tells him what sort of hard shit that needs doing. Pops always does it with a gentle smile on his face.
“The artifacts they hid were silly things like jars of random stuff. Edgar once collected hundreds of dead moths, put them in a jar, and then hid them someplace in Hemingford Hall for Alexander to find.”
“That’s so sweet,” Gemma says, grinning. “Right? You know they were in love.”
Again, she reminds me of Dad, finding romance in everything. My gut twists at the thought of her being more like him than me. Fate, in an epic plot twist, gave him me instead.
“Perhaps,” I say, “or maybe they just liked to terrorize one another.”
“My nephew, Spencer, is always pestering his woman,” she reveals, “and he’s wildly in love with her. Maybe they can be friends and lovers. It’s a thing, you know.”
Actually, I don’t.
My experience with lovers is one person, one time, and we didn’t exactly stay friends after.
Dax sleeps with lots of his friends, but I think they all want to be longtime lovers after. He’s never interested in more than a few nights of fun.
“Where do you think they hid their artifacts? Surely they weren’t in difficult places like beneath the floorboards,” she says as she closely inspects a bookshelf. “Their guests who would go on these hunts with them wouldn’t like having to destroy the floor to find their prize. It had to have been obvious.”
I nod, letting her giddiness bleed into me. “Like hidden in a false book?”
Her eyes widen comically and she starts checking the books on the shelves, gently tapping on their spines as she goes along. Since I’m much taller, I mimic her actions but go for the ones that are out of her reach. A few minutes in and I thump one that feels hollow.
“Bingo!”
She squeals and rushes over to me. “Hurry. Pull it down.”
Definitely bossy like Dad.
I pluck the book from the shelf, coughing when a plume of dust flutters down on my face. Before I have a chance to open it, she takes it out of my hand and gently flips it open.
It’s indeed a false book, but there aren’t love notes inside.
A tiny golden key sits in the bottom.
“What do you think this opens?” she asks, voice filled with awe. “This is so much fun!”
I can’t help but grin at her. It is kind of fun. I’ve never known anyone besides my parents and Mr. Pederson who agrees with me.
“If I had to guess,” I say, forgetting for a moment that I hate her, “it opens a secret compartment in that desk.”
Her eyes glimmer as she beams. “We’re going to find where it goes. Our project is totally going to be the best, right? How can it not be?”
“Hell yeah, it is.”
For once, I actually agree with her.
Gemma
We’ve been kicked out.
Who knew exploring an old building could be so much fun? It was so much fun, in fact, that Two and I overstayed our welcome. It was nearly nine when Paula kindly asked us to go home.
“I think we should do a miniature replica,” Two says as he attempts for a third time in a row to get his car to start. “It will help the client visualize the outcome during our proposal. Plus, I’m skilled at this. No one else in our class will come close.”
“Like your Cedarwood model?”
“You remember me talking about that. Interesting.” The engine finally sputters to life and he glances my way, his face dimly lit by the glow of his dash lights. “You think that’s stupid or something?”
His voice is tight and defensive. When Two was in Hemingford Hall with me, he was a totally different person. Someone I enjoyed being around. Now he’s back to his usual prickly self.
“No,” I say with a sigh. “I wanted to see it. You shared your pictures with Mr. Pederson and sort of lit up when you spoke about it. I thought maybe—”
“You really want to see it?”
I smirk at him. “Yes. I want to see your model. There’s no ulterior motive, Two.”
“Fine. I’ll take you to it.”
My brows lift in surprise. “I get to see the real one? Not just a picture?”
“If we’re going to be partners in this project, you need to see what I’m capable of.” He glances my way as he backs out of the lot. “You can’t go into the house, though. If you have to pee, hold it.”
He’s definitely a strange, cantankerous man, but I’m slowly learning not to let it rattle me. Two just says whatever is on his mind, not caring how people interpret it. Me, on the other hand, care too much about what people think.
“I’ll hold my pee,” I promise, making a show of crossing my heart. “I’m excited to see this thing.”
He straightens at my words. As he drives, I can see the tease of a smile tugging at his lips. I know he wants to hate me, but he’s having trouble right now. That makes me stupidly happy like I achieved something truly difficult.
While we ride through town to his house, I shoot Mom a quick text to let her know I’m still working on the project with my partner but we’re moving locations.
My stomach growls when we pass by a fast-food joint. Two looks over at me and then checks his watch. The next restaurant we see, he pulls into the drive-through.
“I can eat later at home,” I tell him. “We don’t have to stop.”
“We both missed dinner. It’s fine. You have money, right?”
“As long as it’s under ten dollars, then yes.”
He whips his head my way. “All you have is ten dollars to your name? I saw your house. You’re loaded.”
“It’s not about that. I just don’t want to waste my money on food.”
“Food is never a waste of money.” He rolls his window down and looks at the lit-up menu board. “If you go over ten bucks, I’ll cover you.”
We tell the person on the speaker what we want and then I hand Two my crinkled-up ten-dollar bill. He shakes his head as though he can’t believe all I have is ten dollars.
“Do your parents not give you an allowance? What about a job? Do rich girls even have to get jobs?”
“I have a job,” I say dryly, swatting at his arm. “I’m not this girl you’ve painted me out to be. Honestly, I don’t understand what you have against me.”
He glances my way as he drives to the next window. “What is it?”
Just like when I talk about my job to my brothers, embarrassment washes over me. It’s not like Two will understand it. He’ll just give me a hard time about this too.
Luckily, I’m saved from answering as he pays for our food. Once he’s passed my drink and our bags over to me, we’re on the road again.
“Stripper?”
I almost choke on my sip of Pepsi. “W-What?”
He cackles with laughter, the sound pleasant enough I instantly forgive him. “You should see the look on your face. Do you have something against strippers?”
“No,” I grumble. “Ugh. Why are you so difficult?”
“It’s fun watching you squirm.”
I roll my eyes and take another refreshing sip of my drink. “If you absolutely must know, I’m a social media content creator. I have over a million followers.”
“Be for real.”
“I am being for real.” I pull out my phone and access my main account to show him. “See. Million-plus.”
He peeks over at my phone at the next stoplight. “They pay you to do what?”
“The followers don’t pay me anything,” I explain, trying not to bristle at his insinuation that it’s for something sinister. “Because of my reach and my original content, I’m approached by many brands to help me advertise for them. If the brand’s products align with my values and aesthetic, I entertain doing a collaboration with them. It has to be a good fit, though, and something I can easily incorporate into my usual content or I won’t do it. Before we met up, I signed two contracts for two grand each.”
Two gapes at me, not moving when the light turns green. Someone honks, zapping him out of his stupor. “Two thousand for what?”
“One is for a hair mask. They sent me some freebies to try. I absolutely loved how it made my hair feel. We’ve negotiated that I’ll do an ad for their product on my page and I’ll be compensated for it.”
“Two grand for a hair mask.” He shakes his head, voice filled with awe. “This is a legit thing? They’re not scamming you? Or are you scamming them?”
I snigger. “I’m not scamming anyone. And yes, it’s a legit thing. Welcome to the future, Two. So glad you could join us.”
He scratches at his cheek with his middle finger, which makes me grin. Though he’s still a complete asshole most of the time, I’m learning to navigate the treacherous depths of Two.
Our conversation is cut short when he pulls into a long driveway that takes us to an updated-looking farmhouse. I wish it were daylight so I could see it properly.
“My workshop is around back. We have to be quiet.”
We get out of his car with our food and drinks, and I follow him into the darkness on the side of the house. The moon illuminates a decent-sized shed. He has me hold his drink while he fiddles with the door.
“Ignore the mess,” Two says as he flicks on the light. “I do.”
As soon as I can see inside the shed, I’m in awe. Shelves line the walls and are covered with various tools, boards and textiles, and stacks of old magazines. There are several worktables, but one in particular seems to be the one that gets the most use as it’s the cleanest and has a model in progress sitting on top. Two leans over the table and flips on a space heater before returning to take his drink back from me.
“This is Cedarwood Mansion,” he says, motioning to the model. “I was in the middle of wallpapering when you texted.”
I set my drink and our food bags down on a clear spot on the table so I can take a closer look at the replica. The high level of detail on such a small thing instantly captivates me.
“Holy shit,” I murmur as I take it all in, “this is so cool.”
“Ideally, I’d have liked to repurpose materials found in Cedarwood for the replica, but the owners wouldn’t let me.”
“Rude,” I tease.
“That’s what I thought.” He picks up a thin piece of wood from the table. “Most of the material I use is leftover stuff from when my dads remodel places. They have a ton of stuff in their shop. Dad uses a lot for inspiration when he’s coming up with design ideas.”
The pride with which he speaks about his parents softens me toward him. I may complain about my family, but I love them dearly. They mean everything to me. It sounds as though he feels the same about his parents too. It makes me like him a little more.
“Do you think Paula will let us use stuff from Hemingford Hall for our replica?” I ask, turning to look at him.
He’s crouched near me, also taking in the sight of the model, so our faces are close—so close I notice flecks of dark green in his chilly gray eyes.
“We’re going to ask,” he says with a crooked grin. “And if that doesn’t work, we’ll beg.”
We both grin before turning to inspect the piece some more. He goes through each part, showing me tiny details like the brass doorknob on the front with the initials CM carved on top.
“The real Cedarwood Mansion has this,” Two explains. “All of my replicas are as exact as they can be.”
“I love this,” I tell him, truly meaning it. “It’s so impressive and well thought out. You should be proud.”
He pulls back and refuses to meet my stare, shrugging. “Hungry?”
“Yup.” I stifle a sigh of frustration. Just when I thought we were making progress, he pulls away again. “Do you make the furniture and stuff too?”
He drags another stool over for me to sit down at. After he’s seated, we dig around in our bags, and once our burgers are out, he takes a huge bite of his, dropping shreds of lettuce all over his jeans. Messy, messy boy.
“I make everything,” he says around a mouthful of food. “Even the stuff that goes in the cupboards.”
I shove a napkin at him so he’ll deal with the ketchup on his lip. “Really? You must have tiny tools, huh?”
He nods, snatching up one of the little tools with his free hand. “The hardest part is finding the right tools for jobs like this. I’ve collected a lot of these over the years.”
“You should see my nail art arsenal.” As soon as I blurt it out, I freeze. Everyone in my family knows I do my own nail art, but it’s not something I tell my followers. They always ask where I go to get them done and I just tell them it’s a secret. My nail art is my hobby that feels sacred and something I don’t want to share with the world.
So why did I just tell Two about it?
“Nail art?” His eyebrow arches high.
“Yes,” I tell him with a smirk as I grab my phone. “This isn’t easy. It’s intricate and takes a lot of time. You of all people should get that.”
He takes my phone from my hand when I thrust it in his face and starts scrolling through the photo album. “You did all of these?”
“Yup.”
“Interesting.” He lifts his gaze for a moment, locking his intense eyes on mine. “What do your followers think of this?”
“They don’t know about it,” I mumble. “It’s my thing.”
“I share my thing with anyone who will listen to me about it,” he challenges. “Why don’t you show your zillion followers what you can do? It’s actually pretty good.”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “Because I’m not great at it. What if they think it’s stupid? What if they start expecting me to share about nail art all the time? Worse, what if they hate it and yell at me to share more makeup and hair stuff?”
“You really do worry about what others think. Just like the Enneagram website says.”
Oh great, we’re back to this.
“I guess I do.” I shrug my shoulders and sigh. “That’s dumb, right?”
