Beyond Me by Jennifer Probst Read Free Book Online

Another thing I liked. “I’m twenty-one. But I didn’t see you carding at your door, so you could’ve been arrested.”
    I winced. She was right. I had gotten used to my parents greasing many officials’ hands enough so I could do what I wanted without getting into trouble. The party was a yearly tradition, and I never got bothered. A sliver of shame cut through me. “Yeah, guilty as charged.”
    She swiveled her head and stared at me. Like she was trying to figure something out that didn’t fit. “Did you graduate?”
    I really hated these personal questions but figured I owed her. If I answered enough to keep her curiosity satisfied, I’d be able to move on to the good stuff. Like sex. Lots of sex. “Not really.” I waited for her horror or for her to judge me as lacking. But she only waited me out, swinging her arms, like she was really interested in the story. “My parents threw me into Yale for law. I hated it. Made a fuss, got kicked out, and I went to Princeton. They thought maybe doctor. I thought not. Eventually, they gave up trying, and let me be. I decided to travel and find out what I wanted to do.”
    “I always wanted to travel,” she said. “I think I’d pick Italy first.”
    “Why?”
    “The food.”
    I laughed. “Yeah, the pasta and vino are killer. But the art is the best.”
    She sighed with longing. “Did you see the Pieta ? Or David ? I heard it’s so massive it steals the air in the room.”
    I stared at her, my heart pounding. She spoke like she understood the beauty of art in a way most people never got. Shit, most of my friends just looked for the naked statues to compare their junk. I never got to have a decent intelligent conversation about something I loved. “That’s a perfect description,” I said. “Michelangelo takes cold marble and installs flesh and blood and emotion. The first time I saw David at the Academia, framed by the arched doorways, I cried. No one reaches for that type of mastery anymore. We’re all too...lazy. Happy with being content or saying something’s nice. There should be more.”
    She touched my arm and smiled. “How wonderful. You’re an artist.”
    I jerked around. “No. I paint and study, but I’m not an artist.”
    She ignored me. “Yes, you are. It’s like being anything—an actor or a writer. If you do it, you are. Getting published or scoring a movie deal is one of the goals, but it doesn’t invalidate what you do.”
    An odd hunger clawed up from my gut. God, had anyone in my life ever simply accepted me for an artist? People clucked over my hobby, rolled their eyes, and generally made fun of the entire thing. Watch the little rich boy play at his paints and pretend he’s important. It hurt so bad, I began hiding it undercover, disguising it as a hobby, but craving so much more. Ivy League schools blurred before me, when all I’d ever wanted was to go to art school. But that would be accepting what I really wanted.
    That would mean I could fail. And then I’d have nothing left.
    I fought a shudder and redirected the conversation. I’d given her enough. “How about you? Did you always know you wanted to go into social work?”
    She shook her head. “No. But I’m good at it. Look, here’s the beach.”
    Her comment was odd, and I knew there was more, but I let it go for now. No need for deep secrets to be revealed for either of us. I was familiar with the small beach at the southernmost tip of Key West. Wedged between a pier and hotel complex, it was a great spot to hit between bars and cool off. Some women were already topless, running off the families from the afternoon shift to be replaced by the nighttime crowd. The water was usually warm, and you could wade all the way out forever without ever going over your head.
    Quinn grinned and stepped onto the sand, moving toward the shoreline. Her dress tugged in the breeze, exposing more of the delicious skin I couldn’t wait to taste, and she dug her toes in and lifted her