“On it, Xan.”
His cool stare follows me across the room and into Ripley’s art studio. It’s a bright, airy space, despite being cluttered with used palettes, half-finished canvases and more splattered oil paint than clean surfaces.
Ripley’s up to her elbows in soapy water, rinsing off a stack of different-sized brushes. She offers me a look when I walk in with a sheepish smile. Her curls are pinned back from her face today by two charcoal pencils tucked into the updo.
“Hey, Rip.”
“You’re alive. That’s fortunate.”
“I called you back,” I try to justify. “Left a voicemail.”
“Days later, sure. I had to hear from Ember that you weren’t blown to pieces or shot by a rogue sniper. You’re an asshole.”
Nearing her, I risk laying a palm on her shoulder. “I’m really sorry.”
She shakes me off. “We were all terrified when we heard the news.”
“It’s been an intense few weeks. The team’s running on empty, Ember’s brother is still sedated, and we lost someone in the crossfire during the raid. It’s no excuse, but I didn’t ignore you on purpose.”
“I guess I know that.” Ripley heaves an exasperated breath.
“Thanks for coming to the hospital.”
“Ember’s cute, by the way. A bit standoffish, but who isn’t?”
“She’s kinda the reason I’m here. I know I don’t have much of a right to ask you for anything right now, but…”
Pulling the plug free, Ripley drains the sink then stacks up her clean brushes. I watch her dry off before she turns to face me fully with a cocked brow, her septum piercing askew from where her nose wrinkles.
“Did you come here for a girl talk, Warner?”
“Maybe?” I wince.
“Kill me softly.”
“I just need some advice.”
“Alright, fine. But I need a drink for this.”
Ripley shouts at the guys to make themselves scarce then breaks open her emergency ‘inspiration’ juice. Namely, a half-empty bottle of dark rum. We set ourselves up in two armchairs, tucked into the corner of her cosy studio.
She curls her legs beneath her, tugging her long sleeve down to cover the tattoo botched by old scar tissue. Years later, she hasn’t bothered to fix the mess made during her time in Harrowdean.
“Let me guess. She doesn’t love you back?”
I choke on a mouthful of rum. “You could beat around the bush a little.”
“Not my style. Spill the beans.”
“I don’t think… uh, loving me is the problem.” My stare fixes on the glass. “It’s her feelings for my teammates and our criminal stowaway that’s causing the issue.”
She snorts into her drink. “So that’s why you came to me.”
“Rip,” I groan.
“Come on. You’ve watched us navigate a shared relationship for a decade, and your bloody directors are married to the same woman. What’s the issue?”
“Ember is vulnerable. I’m trying to protect her.”
