Free Art is the Lie (A Vanderbie Novel) by Courtney Cook Hopp

or the future. I can’t cast spells over people and make them seek me out against their will. And yes, you are the only privileged soul to know I’m slowly sliding myself into a straight jacket. Any other questions?”
    He was momentarily stunned by my outburst before he closed the distance between us with five purposeful strides. My back went rigid, bracing for another round of accusations. Before I could react to his movement, he was in front of me, his hand stretched out, softly caressing my cheekbone with his thumb.
    The gesture was so unexpected, my head automatically leaned into his palm. Into the caress. Into his touch. The intimacy wash ed over my uncertainty. Ever so smoothly, he pulled me up to my feet and into his arms, my senses overwhelmed by his musky scent and the warmth shooting up and down my spine.
    Softly, over my racing heart, I heard him say, “Cee, I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what’s happening.” There was frustration in his voice. My arms dangled, unsure of how to react. “Every instinct inside of me says I should leave and walk out that door.”
    And yet, here he was.
    I didn’t answer. I stood perfectly still. I knew we were teetering on a precarious edge that could give way at any moment.
    And give way it did. With the single ring of Quentin’s cell phone. He released me, swearing under his breath, and had his cell phone to his ear before a second ring sounded off.
    “Yes?” he barked, turning his back to me as he walked to the other side of the room.
    I dropped down on the bench, trying to decide if what just happened really happened.
    “No, not yet,” he said to whomever he was talking to. He glanced over at me and I quickly diverted my eyes.
    “I said I would take care of it, ” he hissed irritable, abruptly ending the conversation. He ran his hand through his hair again and turned to look at me. “I have to go.”
    “Someone else needing to be checked on?” I didn’t move from my place by the window.
    His hand hesitated on the doorknob. “Um, I’ll call you.”
    But I didn’t believe it any more than he did.

 

     
     
    I walked back to the house in a dreary stupor.
    “CeeCee?”
    Dad. I’d forgotten about Dad. I trudged into the living room and found him sitting ramrod straight on the couch, his cane hovering vertically between his legs.
    “Yeah?” I moved behind the chair next to the couch, exhaustion and water dripping from every limb of my body.
    His eyes found my voice, eerily looking but not seeing me. “CeeCee, I do not think it is appropriate for Ms. Harris to be passing out our personal information to a complete stranger.”
    “She didn’t.” I scrambled to come up with a logical explanation so he wouldn’t try to contact her. “When I signed up for the, um, partnering program, I said she could give my information to whomever she thought I would partner best with.”
    “You should have told me about the program. Your school should have sent information home about the program and what was to be expected.”
    If they did, I doubt he would have read it. “It’s no big deal. They were just trying to connect artists up.”
    He stood, agitated. “It is still inappropriate to have an unknown male show up at our house and you spend time alone with him in that room of yours above the garage.”
    “Dad, seriously,” embarrassed by his train of thought. “He’s just a photography student at the U.”
    “He told me that much. But he was too quiet. Nobody is that quiet. You know nothing about him . . .”
    Irritation flared up at his sudden need to be a parent. “Dad,” I gritted out, “it’s no big deal.”
    “It is a big deal. I may not be able to see, but I can hear. And there were times I couldn’t even hear him breathe.”
    “Well, that’s something,” I added hotly and turned to leave the room. “Because at times I’ve wondered if you were still breathing.”
    “CeeCee, you are seventeen and still living under my roof and my