Foster Justice Read Online Free

pale blue eyes only deepened. “How long since you had a date, Chad?”
    Chad’s fists froze half-formed.
    Trey started to get in his car, but he took a few steps to the side of the porch and broke off a twig of jasmine, bringing it to his nose. “This is the only thing I’ll miss about this place. I’ll always love the scent of jasmine.”
    What might have been an answering sadness flickered in Chad’s hard gray eyes before he said, “It’s not too late, Trey. We can find a way to pay off the second lien we had to take when Mama and Daddy died, if we work together on it.”
    â€œIt was too late for me the day I was born on this godforsaken place. If you have any sense, you’ll sell your half and get out, too, before you’re as hard as Daddy. Find a woman, Chad. You need one. Bad.”
    Chad rounded the car to slam the door shut as Trey opened it to get in. “When I take a notion for a stripper, I know who to call. Fine. Get out. But first you have to tell me who you sold to. I’ll hock Granddaddy’s Peacemaker and everything else I own to buy your half back.”
    Trey slapped his hand away and opened the car door. “Chad, do you know what happens when you paint everything black and white?”
    â€œMama would be ashamed of you.” When Trey just looked at him, Chad finally gave up and stepped away from the car. “Go on. Be creative. You sure as hell aren’t useful.”
    Trey opened the door and got inside, but he looked up at his brother with a mixture of love, regret, and concern. “Sooner or later, you end up with gray. And gray’s a mighty lonely color.”
    Trey drove out, following the moving van, his words seeming to echo with prophetic wisdom on the West Texas wind, lingering after his passage. The dirt stirred by the wheels danced in a gay eddy around Chad’s stunned face. A monarch butterfly fluttered lazily past, landing on his arm. He stared down at it, his hand lifting to squash it, but then he blew on it gently and went inside.
    His boot steps echoed on the hardwood floors with lonely finality.
    Â 
    As Trey drove toward California, on Brighton Way in Beverly Hills, a stone’s throw from Rodeo Drive, a new art gallery’s lights flooded the night. The discreet bronze plaque beside the door glittered with gold lettering: Kinnard’s American Masters. Well-heeled guests crowded the spacious gallery, eyeing an interesting blend of contemporary and traditional art, from sculptures to paintings to photos. One entire wall was taken up with acrylic paintings of butterflies unfurled so voluptuously they looked almost pornographic.
    Jasmine saw now why Thomas had insisted on the matching tattoos: as usual, he was using business acumen, not some mysterious ulterior motive. The largest, most prominent painting depicted a yellow-and-blue butterfly, spread open in a very suggestive manner, with another butterfly poised above the unfurled wings.
    A couple, both dressed in Armani, stood rapt before the painting. The woman enthused, “This artist has done with butterflies what Georgia O’Keefe did with flowers. I must have this, Rupert. The colors are perfect for our salon.” But her husband wasn’t looking at the painting. He was watching the two voluptuous redheads circulating with discreet price lists.
    Jasmine and Mary, dressed identically in black silk gowns that showed too much cleavage as well as their tattoos, seemed living, breathing examples of art themselves.
    As a bit of space finally opened up around them, Jasmine whispered, “It’s obvious now why Thomas insisted on the tattoos. No dastardly motive except monetary. Thomas is a good guy, Mary. He’s been very kind to me. I wouldn’t be making my tuition without him.”
    Mary looked across the gallery at Thomas Kinnard. No rack Armani for him. He wore a handmade silk suit that fit him perfectly. Even when he leaned over to