Текст книги "The body painter"

Автор книги: Pepper winters

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

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Chapter Twenty-Three

______________________________

Olin

-The Present-

A HAUNTED NOISE echoed through the warehouse and into Gil’s bedroom.

I jolted upright, ripped from whatever dream I’d been having.

I blinked with disorientation, brain hazy and eyes fuzzy. The nest of blankets around me were warm and cosy, but whatever woke me came again, launching me from the covers.

What the hell is that?

Scrambling upright, I dashed to the door and cracked it open. Darkness yawned deep and endless, hiding familiar and unfamiliar things. The borrowed clothes hung on my slim frame. Gil’s size wasn’t exactly in keeping with my own, and I hoisted up the waistband of the black sweatpants he’d loaned me, retying the strings tighter around my hips.

I’d struggled when I’d slipped his belongings on. They’d smelled of him. Smelled of comforting washing powder and the citrusy paint smell that permeated his skin. It was a scent that hurt my heart.

After he’d left me, I’d dressed and made the bed, then sat and stared at the door, trying to decide what to do. I hadn’t meant to fall asleep. I’d been trying to come up with an excuse of going home. But after so many sleepless nights and a paint-smeared evening, I couldn’t fight the fatigue anymore.

A cool breeze nibbled at my bare feet.

How long have I been asleep?

A warbled grunt came from the warehouse. My protective instincts sent adrenaline flowing.

Gil!

Rushing from his room, I padded through the night-shrouded lounge. The too-large T-shirt wafted around me as I crept toward the warehouse.

A curse shattered the silence followed by a thud.

I ran.

Bolting through the office, I skidded to a silent stop as my eyes locked on Gil fast asleep on a tatty couch by the wall. Moonlight and the faint stirrings of dawn highlighted his strained face.

No one was hurting him. No one else was here.

Just Gil and his nightmare.

His legs were tangled in a plaid blanket while he lay on his back. One hand rested on the paint-speckled floor while the other was balled into a fist on his belly. His brow tugged over shut eyes while his chest rose and fell as if he’d run from a monster in his dreams.

Another groan vibrated through his body, tortured and broken, almost wet with tears.

I froze.

Chills scattered down my back with the utmost knowledge I was not supposed to see this.

“O. God...I’m so sorry.” His face switched from distraught to fury. “Don’t! No—”

My knees threatened to buckle.

Did he dream of me?

Was I the O he pleaded with or did he know another?

“Olive—” He thrashed as if fighting mercenaries of cruel illusions. “I’ll save you...I-I promise.”

Olive.

He’d never called me Olive in our youth. Oatmeal, Oreo, Oregano, yes. But never Olive.

His limbs seized with nightmare-induced energy, twisting the blankets tighter around his thighs. His hand thumped on the floor, indicating the thud I’d heard was just Gil struggling in his sleep.

I’d had my fair share of night terrors.

For months, I’d dreamed of tumbling through the restaurant window while glass sliced me to shreds. I’d woken up crying with imaginary blood on my fingers.

But those weren’t the worst ones.

The worst were the happy dreams where I flew into my dance partner’s arms—lithe and limber and forever graceful.

Gil’s lips pinched together as he grunted, sounding less coherent and sucked back into unconscious horrors.

I stood there a little longer—a watcher in the dark as he calmed and quietened. I didn’t move to wake him. I doubted he’d take kindly to my interruption, nor appreciate that I’d seen him at his most vulnerable.

I wanted to reassure him. I wanted to curl into his side and kiss away his troubles.

But I’d already pushed hard enough.

He needed to rest.

So do I.

Hugging myself from the cool emptiness in the warehouse, I backed away and headed through his office.

Entering his apartment, I padded to the kitchen and opened his equally empty cupboards. The sparse collection of glasses and the plastic cups meant for a child looked hauntingly sad.

Selecting one, I filled it with water and took it to the couch.

As much as I needed to rest, sleep was no longer an option for me. The clock above his cooker said dawn was only an hour or so away. I would wait to ensure Gil slept soundly and safely, and then I would go to work.

I had bills due.

I needed time to think.

And no amount of disgruntled, argumentative body painters could stop me.

* * * * *

Tiptoeing around Gil’s warehouse, gathering my stuff while he still slept an hour later, made my heart race.

I felt as if I was letting him down by leaving. I worried about him and his nightmares.

But I couldn’t stay—not with being such a new employee.

I had no choice but to borrow the clothes he’d given me, scoop up my belongings—no matter how paint-splattered and destroyed they were—and force myself to be an adult with responsibilities rather than a girl with useless wishes.

Staying as quiet as I could, I tucked my underwear, blouse, skirt, and stockings into my handbag, and dangled my high heels from my fingertips as I surveyed the carnage we’d left behind.

Unscrewed bottles lay forgotten on the floor. Paint splashed up the shelves and stage. A visible red handprint from Gil as he’d thrust into me on the floor was a perfect scarlet letter. A noticeable outline of my back and hair as I’d writhed beneath him the hint of exactly what we’d been doing, and a mix of yellow, black, silver, pink, purple, and blue created a story of violent need.

I blushed.

Blushed and wondered if I should clean up the mess, but Gil shifted on the couch, hinting that my time of escape was now or never.

Holding my breath, I turned from the colourful chaos and padded barefoot toward the exit. The door squeaked a little as I opened it. Throwing Gil a worried glance, I waited for him to soar off the couch and demand to know where the hell I was going.

Instead, he slung an arm over his eyes and stayed where he was.

Goodbye, Gil.

Stepping through the pedestrian access, I turned to quietly close the door behind me.

“Olin? Hi! What are you doing here so early?”

I stiffened, spinning around to face Justin Miller.

The man who seemed to have the worst possible timing in the world. He climbed from his car, his keys clinking in his fingers.

Hiding my heels behind my back and wishing I wasn’t in Gil’s baggy borrowed clothing, I smiled. “Good morning, Justin.”

He narrowed his eyes, looking me up and down. “Morning.” Coming closer, he stuffed his keys into his pocket before reaching for a red-stiff strand of my hair. “Gil do a commission today?”

“You could say that.” I rocked out of his reach, cursing the fact that I hadn’t showered properly and washed evidence away. Streaks of silver and crimson still decorated my chest beneath Gil’s T-shirt.

“He’s normally meticulous about clean up.”

“Yeah, well, not this time.” I shrugged. “I’ll get rid of the paint at home—”

The door ripped open behind me, gusting with air as Gil’s imposing presence pressed against my spine. A blizzard whipped around me as I turned slowly to face the man I’d seen in so many naked ways. Physically naked. Nightmare naked.

Yet I still couldn’t figure out a single secret he kept hidden.

“O.” His eyes pinned me to the spot. “Justin.” He looked at his friend. “Nice morning for a chat on my doorstep.”

Justin sniffed, eyeballing the yellow threads in Gil’s messy hair. He raised an eyebrow, dropping his inquisitive stare to the black smudge on Gil’s cheek and the red rimming his fingernails. “Had a busy morning, Gilbert?” His face twisted with mirth. “What have you two been—”

“Nothing.” I stuck out my chin. “We’ve been doing nothing.” Looking at an imaginary watch on my bare wrist, I chirped, “Oh, look at the time. Gotta go. See ya!” Tripping away, I tasted freedom before Gil’s dominating hand latched around my elbow and yanked me back. “Not so fast.”

I glowered. “I have to go to work, Gil.”

His nostrils flared as he shook his head. “Not today.” Pulling me back into his warehouse, he scanned the industrial area as if my mere appearance had encouraged the evil in the world to gather outside and plot their takeover.

Justin didn’t speak as he followed us inside and closed the door.

“So...” Justin rocked on his heels. “What did I interrupt?”

“Like Olin said, you interrupted nothing.” Gil stalked toward the couch where the blanket he’d used lay discarded on the floor as if he’d launched from sleep the moment he’d heard my voice outside.

Picking it up, he tossed it over the armrest before crossing his arms and facing his friend.

Justin’s friendly gaze danced around the space, landing on the paint smears, the wonky shelving, the handprint, the body print, the aura of sex still lurking on the stage. The camera waited where it had been abandoned, its casing dabbled with colours.

It was obvious what’d happened.

So embarrassingly obvious.

I prickled with heat, flicking Gil a furtive look.

He held my stare with dark, angry eyes. Not angry that we’d been caught. Angry that I’d tried to slip away while he slept. His biceps clenched as he rippled with tension, berating me in that silent, serious way of his, ensuring I knew I’d screwed up and would pay.

Tearing his eyes from mine, Gil looked at Justin. “Why are you here, Miller?”

Justin swallowed a chuckle, knowing exactly what we’d done thanks to the evidence of our activities. He cleared his throat, seriousness replacing his amusement. “Swung by to see what you think of the news.”

“News?” Gil crossed his arms. “What news?”

“Another girl has gone missing.”

I froze.

What?

Gil turned equally frosty and unmovable. “I didn’t know.”

“Yeah, painted again. Poor thing was tied and gagged. Couldn’t make a sound even while the cops patrolled the same area she was trapped in.” Justin brushed lint off his blazer. “She was painted to match the treetops where he’d hidden her. The killer is talented like you, Clark. I’m guessing the cops will be knocking soon to ask your opinion on how he managed to do the camouflage artwork while she was still alive.”

Gil sucked in a harsh breath.

“Guess there’s a body painter out there with murdering tenancies.” Justin sighed. “Fucked up world we live in.”

“Wha-what are you talking about?” I whispered, stepping toward Justin.

He shrugged sadly. “Another murder. Third girl this year. All the same motive. Body painted and left to starve, all while she was right in front of the police’s noses—”

“Stop.” Gil threw me a hunted, haunted look. “Don’t upset Olin with the graphic details.” His face became unreadable as he opened his arm in invitation. “Coffee first. Then we’ll talk.”

“Think the bastard could be tracked down by the paint he’s using?” Justin asked, moving forward, falling into step with Gil.

Gil didn’t reply, vanishing into his apartment with Justin by his side.

The door closed.

I was alone.

My feet moved to follow. The topic was too harrowing not to know every detail.

But...I paused.

I’m alone.

I needed to go to work. I had responsibilities.

Gil was distracted, and the exit was unpatrolled and unlocked.

I’m sorry.

Sending Gil a silent goodbye, I hoisted my handbag higher and walked out of Total Trickery’s warehouse unobstructed.

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Chapter Twenty-Four

______________________________

Olin

-The Present-

“GOOD TO SEE you, Olin. Everything okay at home?” Shannon asked as I plonked at my desk, yanked my phone from my bag, and turned on the work computer.

My breath was choppy from running, and my hair still damp from my very rushed shower, but at least I’d made it home, removed any remaining paint, changed into suitable office attire, and hoofed it over to Status Enterprises only twenty minutes late.

However, twenty minutes was an eternity when it came to being a new employee. I wasn’t exactly giving them the best impression.

“I’m so sorry I’m late. I’ll stay twenty minutes behind so I—”

“It’s fine.” Shannon waved her hand, sipping on a thick mug of coffee. “Don’t worry about it. We all have a life that gets in the way now and again. As long as things are good, don’t stress.” Her eyes caught mine pointedly. “So...are they good?”

I plucked a muesli bar from my blazer pocket—my quick fix for breakfast—and nodded. “Yes, all sorted.”

“And that sexy man who dragged you out of here is satisfied the ‘family emergency’ is all defused?”

“Yes.” I opened the wrapper. “He knows not to interrupt me at work again.”

I hope.

“Great!” A broad grin spread over her cherry-glossed lips. She leaned over my cubicle wall with a wink. “He was rather yummy. Got a good catch there, girl.”

I bit into my muesli bar. “I’m very lucky.”

Or very unlucky.

Depending on my mood.

Chuckling, she pushed off from the cubicle. “Happy working. There’s a staff meeting at three. See you there.”

I waved her away and logged into my emails. Nibbling on my breakfast—wishing it was a large plate of pancakes and syrup—I replied to the questions and queries that had come in overnight, all the while Justin’s voice echoed in my mind. “Another girl has gone missing.”

Why did I not know about these murders?

Why did my heart sink with dread at the very mention of a killer with body painting skills?

Clicking on an email, I did my best to focus all while worry gathered in my belly.

* * * * *

By four p.m., my self-restraint snapped.

Justin’s voice was a loop inside my head. “Another murder. Third girl this year.”

My thoughts were awash with gruesome killings of pretty girls camouflaged in paint. I didn’t know if I felt a kindred calling to them because I’d been painted or because I was in love with a body painter.

Either way, my instinctual drive to protect Gil demanded I know more.

Gil.

He had issues and complexities; he was prickly and hiding something monstrous beneath his icy façade.

But he was gentle.

Kind.

And mine.

Mine to guard against new and old horrors.

Chewing on my bottom lip, I opened a new internet search: Murdered painted girls in England.

My lungs stuck together as page results flickered over my screen.

Clicking on a link, I trembled as I read something normally reserved for other places, other counties, other populations.

Tragically, another young woman was found early last night by a dog walker in Nottingham forest. The girl appears to have died from dehydration and starvation while being restrained and gagged in the treetops. The police searched the area a few days prior, thanks to an anonymous tip, but were unsuccessful in locating her due to the significant paintwork over her skin mimicking the branches where she was tied. Because of the camouflage, she was effectively invisible to law enforcement and most likely saw them searching for her before she died.

Today, police have been criticized for their lack of use of sniffer dogs.

This is the third death of similar methods, which leads law enforcement to believe a serial killer is loose in the Garden of England. Two previous girls (Shelly King (22) and Moira Jonston (27)) where found in the shrub garden at Wightwick Manor and Cannon Hill Park. Shelly King was painted to match the undergrowth she was tucked beneath, and Moira Jonston was lashed to a tree with her skin the same texture and shadow of bark.

Both women were already dead upon discovery.

Police urge anyone who might know anything about these murders to call their emergency hotline. They also advise that young women avoid unnecessary travel alone until further notice.

No arrests have been made.

My stomach roiled.

What sort of sick bastard tied up women, silenced them, then made them invisible to the people trying to find them? What sort of killer left his victims to starve to death? Why bother killing at that point? It wasn’t like he got the thrill of taking someone’s life. He had to wait to read about their demise in the local paper, just like the rest of us.

Those poor girls.

Murders happened all the time. The world had turned into a dark, violent place. I’d heard about other crimes far worse...but those dead painted girls wriggled into my bones and scraped out my marrow.

A blizzard howled in my chest.

Gil...

Would he be able to help the police track down who’d done this? Could he even have met them? Did body painters share their tips and tricks? Attend seminars of talent?

There wasn’t any doubt that the killer had to be severely deranged.

Psychotic without a doubt.

He had to have transport.

Perhaps a van like the guy who tried to kidnap me?

I turned into a statue.

No...

I couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t outrun the runaway train my brain became.

That guy is a bastard.

He hurt Gil.

He has something over him.

He wasn’t...normal.

Could it be?

If he was the killer, did that mean Gil was involved? What if he was next? What if he was trapped in something even worse than I thought?

The incessant whispers slithered and snaked. I couldn’t stop the what if, what if, what if.

What if Gil has something to do with this?

My heart stopped beating.

He was bleeding and dirty the night he was drunk.

Goosebumps scattered over my flesh as my mind unfolded the night I’d slept with him. How he’d poured alcohol down his throat as if running from something. As if he drank pure regret.

He’d smelled of earth and paint.

He’d looked beside himself with rage and despair.

Could he—

Stop it.

Just stop it.

He is no way involved in this.

He can’t be!

You know him.

You’ve known him since he was a boy.

But I couldn’t stop it.

It was a knife in my side; a pebble in my shoe.

It was stark fear that Gil was silenced by the devil and stuck in a torturous hell.

With my heart lodged in my throat, I grabbed my phone and opened messenger. Pulling up the conversation I’d had with Justin over Gil’s disappearance around the time the third girl was kidnapped, I froze.

What do you think you’re doing?

You’re seriously going to ask Justin if he believes Gil is involved?

Could I really think such atrocious things and ask his best friend to prove me wrong?

Gil saved me from the guy with the van!

Yes! Therefore, he couldn’t be the murderer.

But why did he make me lie to the police...?

I gasped at the barbed, thorny thought.

Why didn’t Gil beat that bastard into the ground?

What did that guy have over him as blackmail?

The air became thin and sour. I unbuttoned a few pearl clasps on my grey blouse, prickling with sweat.

I swiped at my hair again as my eyes fell on the awaiting message bubble. A fleck of silver paint fell from my strands, landing on the desk.

If I didn’t ask, I’d go crazy.

Olin Moss: Those murdered girls you mentioned this morning...do you think...and this is NUTS, but is there any way Gil could be wrapped up in...whatever is going on? I don’t know what I’m asking...but do you think he’s in trouble?

I squeezed my eyes and tapped send, unable to breathe.

Thirty seconds ticked past before his response blared across my screen.

Justin Miller: Wow. I know it’s been a long time since you’ve seen the guy but seriously?

Olin Moss: I know. I hate myself for even asking. I’m just worried about him. He’s hiding something, Justin. Something huge.

Justin Miller: He is not a killer. No matter what he’s hiding.

I wanted to leave it at that. I believed Justin. I trusted Gil. I knew in my heart he could never be capable of hurting anyone.

But...

But!

Olin Moss: The girls were painted. He went missing around the same time that last girl was kidnapped.

Justin Miller: He said he had family business to deal with. You know the jackass that was his father. His disappearance probably had something to do with that. And there are other body painters, O. Countless others.

He had a point.

The same wonderfully valid point my own mind had thrown at me.

A hundred other artists existed just like there were a hundred other office workers, authors, and politicians. And he was also right about Gil’s father. I hadn’t even factored that in.

Justin Miller: Your turn to answer a question. Do YOU think Gilbert Clark is a serial murderer?

The black and white finality of the words cut into my eyes and bled into my soul. A kaleidoscope of memories, recent and past, swirled together with the same vibrant colours Gil wielded so effortlessly.

A man with smiling sad eyes.

A man desperately trying not to kiss me.

A boy promising to never drink because he was better than his father.

A boy walking me home every day to keep me safe.

That boy was not a killer.

And just because age had weathered him, hurt him, harrowed away at his heart, he was still that person.

I knew that.

I knew it in the way he kissed me so reverently in his shower. Knew it in the way he stared at me with history and hope in his eyes.

He had his secrets. He had his insecurities and problems and a complicated vein of mystery, but...he is not a killer.

Relief blanketed me with grateful warmth as my fingers tapped the screen.

Olin Moss: Gil is many things. But he is not a murderer.

“All right, everyone. Staff meeting in five!” Shannon yelled across the office floor. Employees stuck up their hand to signal they’d heard; others stood with pen and paper for note taking.

I went to turn off my phone, wishing I could delete the entire conversation and any sign of my doubt about Gil, but Justin sent one last reply.

Justin Miller: He’s had it rough, O. I don’t know what, and he refuses to confide in me, but something happened to him. Whatever it was did a real number on him. You only have to look past the cold exterior to see how much the guy suffers. His ability to keep people away is his coping mechanism, you know? You and me...we’ve been through stuff that changed us. But Gil...he’s been through shit that I can’t even imagine. Be nice to him. He needs all the friends he can get.

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