jasper | part one (completed)

Chapter Thirteen

"I want you to get rid of it."

The air was too heavy with tension to breath as I stood, suddenly sober and wide eyed.

The painting. The one of Jasper, she wanted it gone.

It sat on the table, it's sad soulless eyes looking deep into my own. 

"I-"

"I don't even want to know how you got your little hands on this Lauren but I'm not happy," she frowned, "I'm just glad Jasper hasn't seen it, this is not the time to be taking steps backward."

"Mum, I-"

"No excuses, Lauren," She scolded.

Fuck, I wasn't a rebellious teenager. What was her problem?

There was a sudden thud and a eerie squeak of a door.

Before Mum could get another word in Jasper stepped inside the kitchen.

"Let her keep it Maureen," His deep voice filled the room, "She was inspired by the piece and the story it told her, she has done nothing wrong."

He walked over to her and rested his hands on her tense shoulders, giving them a soft squeeze.

"I can handle it," He whispered in her ear, "You should have more faith."

She leaned up and placed a soft kiss on his cheek annnnddd I was out, that was enough for me.

"Awesome, so now that this whole shabamb is over can I go to bed? I'm fucking wrecked!"

My mother shot me a glare and Jasper held a dark, brooding look on his face. I squirmed under the pressure.

"Nice try sweetheart, you have to clean the dishes and being wasted is no excuse-" her brows furrowed as her gaze hardened.

"Honey, what's on your pants?"

---

Jasper sat at the dining table on his laptop while I hurried washed the dishes in an embarrassed heat.

"Stop it," I muttered.

He looked up from the laptop and raised a brow, "Stop what?"

"You're judging," I mumbled, "I can feel it radiating off you, its weird."

"Weird?" The bastard looked at me innocently, his face nonchalant, "yet I'm the one without semen on my jeans."

Angrily I threw the moist sponge in my hands down on the sink and huffed in embarrassment.

"It was not semen!" I lied my voice echoing across the kitchen, my cheeks turning crimson.

He ignored my flailing protests, his concentration once again at the screen of his laptop.

I wanted to smash that laptop.

I could tell he was amused, the bastard using the laptop screen as his protection from my sharp, spiteful glares.

"Your resume was terribly written," he spurted out of no where after a long stretch of silence, "but, surprisingly I was still able to get you a interview."

"Really?!" I gasped excitedly, "where?"

There was a patch of silence, I knew he did it one purpose. I swear the guy got kicks out of pissing me off.

Finally, dragging his eyes away from the computer he replied, "at the gallery."

"What Gallery? Like an art gallery, right?"