Train's Clash
Page 48

“Have you sold this one yet?” Train asked gruffly.
“Which one?” Peyton looked as he lifted the book to show her. “I’m sorry. That one isn’t for sale. That is in my private collection.”
“If you ever think of selling, I would love to buy it,” he said sincerely, staring down at the talent that showed an almost tangible bond between the mother and child.
Train flipped another page, his heart stopping. It was another statue, except this one was in bronze. It had the same features of the little girl from the previous page, but this one was an older girl. Her features were partially obscured by windblown hair curling tumultuously around her. Behind her stood a man with his hand on her shoulder. The man’s features were hidden, his head turned to the side, showing only a profile that was also obscured by the girl’s hair that had blown upward, seeming to strike him in the face. It was as beautiful as the other one, maybe even more so. The pain in the girl’s face struck a chord in him, which the artist had intended.
“Is this one for sale?” Even as he started to lift the album, Peyton was already shaking her head. “You’re very gifted. If you take commission, I would be willing to have both of those pieces redone.”
“I don’t do duplicates. Even if I tried, I don’t think they would come out the same,” she said apologetically. “When I finish the current painting I’ve already sold, I have another piece I’m looking forward to starting. When I finish that, I’ll give you first choice before I sell it.”
“I would appreciate it. Your talent is remarkable.”
“Thank you. I started a class when Killyama went to kindergarten. Since then, I’ve been fortunate to make a living off what I had only expected to be a hobby.”
“I can see why. It’s a shame that collectors haven’t seen your work. I wish I knew someone …”
Peyton shook her head. “I’m happy just piddling around in my studio, making the pieces I want at my own speed.”
Train flipped through the rest of the pages, deciding to go to the beginning of the portfolio where he saw snapshots of Killyama.
She tried to take it away from him.
“Uh-uh. Let me look.” He snatched it out of her reach.
“Dude, if I wanted you to see them, I would have shown you.”
“Behave, Killyama,” Peyton reproved her daughter.
Train intently stared down at the pictures of Killyama from birth through her high school years.
“I see why you don’t want to sell your sculptures; you used Killyama as your model.”
Peyton nodded, leaning back to avoid Killyama’s glare. “I hid them at first. She hated having her pictures taken. She was always running away from the camera, and she hated sitting still long enough for me to sculpt her. I hate to have to tell you this, Train, but my daughter can be a little difficult.”
He didn’t lift his eyes from the pictures. “I’d have to agree.” Train lifted the album higher when Killyama tried to snatch it away again. “You played the flute?” Train turned his head to the side to see her mortified reaction.
“Keep laughing, and I’ll shove it up your—”
“Killyama …” Peyton tapped her daughter’s hand where it lay on her thigh as Killyama braced herself to try to take the book away from him. “Train’s our guest, and I raised you to be a lady … Or, I tried to.”
Killyama’s ass obediently hit the floor, but she scooted farther away from her mother’s reprimanding hand.
“I don’t know why you get so embarrassed about those pictures. She was a very good flute player. When she was in sixth grade, her middle school band was asked to play for the president’s inauguration. It made the local papers in Jamestown, and one of the news stations in Lexington even covered it. Everyone in town was so proud of them. I was, too. Let me see if I can find the tape of when I recorded it.”
“I threw it away.” Killyama scooted even farther away from her mother until she was sitting next to Jonas’s legs.
“Why did you do that?”
“Because the tape broke.”
“But—”
“I would have liked to see it. It’s a shame you don’t have it anymore. I would have loved to hear you blow your flute.” Train’s amusement set a match to Killyama’s temper.
“Wait here, fuckwad. I have it in my old bedroom. I still remember how to play the funeral march.”
“You’re killing me!” Peyton yelled. “One more vulgar word out of that mouth of yours, and I’m going to wash it out with soap.”
“So that’s why you nicknamed her Killyama …” Train had managed to stop Killyama from taking the book from him; however, Hammer, seeing how furious she was becoming, took it and gave it to her.
“Killyama was such a sweet baby. She was so precious when she was little. Then she grew up.”
“Mom!”
“What? Why are you getting so upset? I didn’t tell him …” Peyton broke off when Killyama got off the floor.
Train caught her hand as she tried to pass him. “Where are you going?”
“To get the soap.”
 
 
22
 
 
“You sure I can’t give you a ride home?”
Killyama wrapped her arm around the post on her mother’s porch, trying to keep herself rooted to the spot. She was tempted to go with him, despite her promise to Sex Piston not to fuck him.
“Mama likes it when I spend the night with her. She’ll be upset if I don’t stay.”
“We could go for a drive, and I could bring you back?”
She shook her head at his suggestion. “We both know I won’t come back until morning.”
Hammer and Jonas had just reluctantly left, leaving them alone. She should have gone back inside before they had left, but she wanted to spend a little time alone with him, thinking she could control the situation with her mother on the other side of the trailer’s thin, metal walls. She told herself she would be able to keep her panties on in the short time she would walk him to his truck. Staring into his eyes, though, she was beginning to doubt her decision.
He took her free hand, tugging her down the steps. Then he lifted her into his arms when she reached the last step.
“This isn’t a good idea.”
“Why?” His sultry expression as he stared down at her was one he would give any bitch in his clubhouse. It wasn’t going to be easy not to at least take a dip in what he was offering.
Train was a sexy man, and he knew it. He knew he was attractive to the opposite sex. Hell, to half the male population, too.
All she wanted from him was to make her feel as if they were on a level playing field. She wasn’t going to stop until he wanted her as much as she wanted him.
“Because I’m not going to fuck you.” Her staunch declaration didn’t faze him.
Her panties might be getting damp, but Train hadn’t worked up to category five blue balls yet. Damn, he might have been at a D1, which was a little twitch, but she was going for level five blow-your-fucking-balls-off-to-get-relief. Maybe spending the day with her mother wasn’t the best idea for the level of devastation she was hoping to accomplish.