Текст книги "The body painter"

Автор книги: Pepper winters

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Текущая страница: 22 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

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Chapter Twenty-Nine

______________________________

Olin

-The Present-

FOUR HOURS OF tense silence.

Four hours of wondering what the hell went wrong.

After he’d left me, I’d bent in half in the changing room and sucked in air. I’d begged my heart to stop jumping around like a fool and willed my body to stop crying for sex.

I had no idea what made Gil switch so completely.

I didn’t know why I’d become so belligerent. To be honest, I didn’t know myself anymore and I couldn’t say I liked who I’d turned into.

I’d always been so careful of who I was and who I wanted to be. I never wanted to be the girl people pitied because of my accident. I definitely didn’t want to be the girl who got trampled on time and time again and didn’t have the backbone to stand up for herself.

If Gil was just an arrogant bastard, I would’ve walked away by now.

It was the fact that he wasn’t an arrogant bastard that kept me imprisoned. I couldn’t walk away because he was drowning and I was the rope keeping his head above water.

After gathering my pieces into the best order I could, I left the changing room with a white robe wrapped tight around me. I didn’t speak when I found Gil outside with the manager of Kohls, going over the vision for his company.

The squat manager had already arranged tape to be strung around the company’s logo and Gil’s workstation to keep pedestrians away, along with four life-sized mannequins with bald heads, pert boobs, and willowy limbs.

Next to them, I felt dumpy and un-elegant.

While Gil and the manager arranged the mannequins to match the huge logo letters, I hugged my robe tighter and did my best not to catch the eyes of half-interested shoppers. Each plastic figure was guided into different postures. Some with their arms up, some with legs kicked. They stayed within the lines of the large letters, adding depth to the brand.

English sunshine kept shadows at bay, and Gil finally shook the hand of the manager and waved at me to come closer.

“Where do you want me?” I asked quietly.

“Sit for a while. I’ve got to paint the mannequins first.”

I shrugged and went to rest in the car.

From my vantage point, I’d spent two hours watching Gil turn skin-toned plastic mannequins into multihued extensions of the Kohls logo. One for each letter with their arms angled to match and their stiff, perfect bodies blending effortlessly into the building.

When it came time for Gil to paint me, he positioned me on the O.

Of course.

Manhandling my arms and legs so I curved with the base of the letter of my first name, electric shocks sparked from his skin to mine. It seemed we’d forever be cursed to suffer such connection.

Our eyes avoided each other, both trapped in apologies.

Once Gil had me positioned, I stayed sandwiched between fake models, doing my best to be as elongated and as flawless as them.

“Why the mannequins?” I tensed as the first tickle of Gil’s brush licked over my shoulder—the shoulder clear of scars and ink.

“Because I don’t have enough real-life canvases.”

“Oh.” I squeezed my eyes shut as he traded his brush for his air gun, hissing paint and coldness over my flesh, quickly staining me lime, mint, and forest green, ensuring I vanished into the Kohls logo—a complete osmosis of design.

I opened my mouth to ask what exactly the brief had been, but Gil gave me an exhausted shake of his head. “Please don’t talk. Don’t move. Don’t do anything until I’m done. I won’t be able to work if you do.”

I closed my mouth.

He nodded in thanks before forgetting I was alive and focusing on his craft.

I did my best to keep my twitches and gasps to a minimum as the air gun switched to a sponge and the sponge became a fine-tipped brush, adding depth and reality, mimicking the flaws of the logo and the scars of time.

A crowd steadily gathered, pointing at the already camouflaged mannequins and then at me as I slowly disappeared. Gil worked fast; his technique faultless as he layered me with paint. The sun changed angles, and he added deeper shadows. The breeze picked up, and he cupped his hand around his air gun nozzle to keep the spray correct.

I fell into the lull of his talent once again. Awed at how he shut out the world while he painted. There was no me or them or us. Just him and his creation.

But even in his creative zone, his face held mountains of snow-capped stress.

He wasn’t happy.

He wasn’t pleased or proud of his work.

Each time he ducked to paint around my throat or swallowed hard when he drew a brush under my breast, I wanted to kiss him. I wanted him to apologise as equally as I wanted to apologise. I needed to assure him that no matter what happened between us, I would never ask him to put me above his work.

For two long hours, he wouldn’t let me catch his stare, keeping his concentration on the area of my body he was painting. When his brush trailed between my breasts and over my pasty-covered nipple, the sensation wasn’t nearly as erotic as being bare.

My back ached from twisting. My arms went dead from being above my head. And my legs trembled from staying in position.

Gil worked fast but not fast enough, and by the time the last detail reached my toes and the crowd clapped with how well I’d morphed into the branding of the department store, I was ready for food, space, and a shower.

Before the paint was dry, Gil turned his attention to the other part of his brief. Halfway through his painting, the manager had arrived with a box of merchandise and requested Gil find homes in his design to show the range of what they stocked.

Now, Gil selected an ebony scarf that he draped over my fingertips, a glossy blue handbag that he placed by the feet of the K mannequin, a toy train on the upturned palm of the H figurine, a silver toaster balanced on the upturned foot of the S model, and a golf club speared through the hands of the L dummy.

All of us held something, but Gil didn’t use a fraction of the stuff provided, preferring to keep the simplicity of four fake and one alive female illusion hidden in the letters as his masterpiece.

The scowl on his face and temper in his shoulders yelled he hated everything about this commission.

To be honest, I didn’t like it either.

It felt contrived and commercial. Lacking in originality and imagination.

My stomach growled as Gil stood and rubbed his chin with green-speckled hands. His lips twitched, reminded of my appetite last night. “I’ll feed you soon.”

The gentleness in his voice was polar opposite to the frost that had been there before.

The stiffness and suffering that had grown while he’d painted me dissolved in an instant. “I’m so sorry, Gil.”

He flinched. “No apology needed.” Gathering up his brushes, he added, “I’m the one who’s sorry. I’m not...I’m not usually so quick tempered. I didn’t mean to get so cross.” He smiled sadly while he touched up an area of shading on my cheek. His lips were so close to mine all while his face tightened in concentration.

Our eyes locked.

Our hearts pounded.

He stepped back with a sigh.

Throwing the used brush into his supply container, he murmured, “You just found me at the wrong time, that’s all.”

With that cryptic comment, he hoisted the box beneath his arm and turned to place it on the trestle table.

My eyes followed him, widening in fear at the two police officers who appeared as if from thin air.

“Are you Gilbert Clark?” one with salt and pepper hair asked.

Gil tensed, flinching at the police badge shoved in his face. “Depends who’s asking.”

“I’m Officer Hoyt, and this is Officer Marlow.”

Marlow nodded brusquely with shiny brown hair. “Hello.”

Gil didn’t return the greeting. His muscles tensed as if ready to pummel them both into the concrete.

Officer Hoyt placed his badge back into his blazer pocket. “We would like to have a word with you.”

Gil threw me a look over his shoulder. He tried to make it seem exasperated and impatient, but I’d spent too much time with him. I’d learned how to read him again. I saw the truth.

In his gaze was pure terror and the undeniable desire to run.

I gave him a brave smile, very aware I couldn’t move. I wanted to tell him not to be afraid.

I’m sure it’s just routine.

He nodded slightly as if he’d heard my silent encouragement. Shifting the box to his other arm, he muttered to me, “Don’t move. I still need to take pictures.”

His lips thinned as he marched toward his car.

Terrible foreboding filled me.

Why did the police want to talk to him? As a consultant or because they had evidence—

They can’t have evidence because Gil didn’t do anything.

My heart fluttered as the police hunted Gil’s every step.

All I wanted to do was chase them to the curb and fight for his innocence.

Because he was innocent.

He’s not a killer.

Sweat prickled beneath my painted skin.

I’d been afraid. Afraid of falling for him. Afraid of being hurt. Afraid of what might happen. Now I was afraid they would take him and I’d never see him again.

The cops waited as Gil opened the back door and placed the box inside. “We’d like to ask you a few questions, Mr. Clark.”

“What about?” Gil’s voice lost any sign of emotion. Cold and as clinical as ever. His form of armour against those he didn’t trust.

“Your paints match the paints used on the victims recently found.”

What?

Gil stayed unruffled. “That’s entirely possible. Not many stores stock paint safe enough for long exposure to the skin. There isn’t a large market to choose from. Even online choices are minimal.”

“That might be. But with you being a body painter and the murders heavily based on such a hobby, not to mention being committed within our city, we want you to come to the station for questioning.”

The other cop added, “Protocol, you see. Won’t take long.”

“If it’s merely protocol, ask me here. I have work to do.” Gil’s temper sliced through his coldness.

“We have an audience,” Officer Hoyt muttered. “Best to discuss such things in private, don’t you think?”

God, I wished I wasn’t stuck against this stupid letter.

I was seconds away from breaking posture and running to Gil’s side.

But Gil seemed to sense my rapidly fraying self-control as he raised his voice. “Don’t you dare move, Olin. I’m grabbing my camera.”

“Mr. Clark. We’ve asked you to come—”

“I’ve just spent four hours of my life painting this commission. I’m not walking away before taking photos that pay my bills.” A murmur from the crowd rose as Gil shoved past the cops and opened the boot. Reaching in, he pulled out his expensive camera.

The police followed him again but stayed quiet.

I had no choice but to stay locked in a colourful prison while Gil defied law enforcement and fiddled with the functions on his tools.

With an arrogant look, he stormed away from the police and angled the lens at me. He started snapping. One after another from where he stood, then more from across the street, then more to the sides, up close, front on, and every other angle applicable.

All I had to do was hold the pose that was crippling after so long.

I supposed he’d Photoshop out the crowd and other noise. He’d somehow make it seem as if I’d magically become one with the store logo—floating in the letters, defying all laws of gravity.

With every camera click, the police stalked him. Their patience slowly waning the longer he postponed their chat. He’d probably taken over a hundred pictures, and to them, it most likely seemed as if he delayed their conversation deliberately.

To me, I knew Gil would take a copious number of photos so he would have more than enough to turn in a great commission. He took no chances that the purchaser wouldn’t be happy and refuse to pay—especially on a job he hadn’t enjoyed doing.

Finally, one of the officers put their hand on his camera and forced him to lower it. I couldn’t hear what they said, but I didn’t need to.

The cop pointed at the official vehicle parked across the street. Hand gestures said they wanted him to go with them.

That they were done waiting.

Gil nodded sharply and turned off his camera. Walking with them, his steps were short and unwilling.

But he went.

He went because he had no choice.

With his hand on the roof of the cop car, he turned to look at me.

No.

Don’t go.

I no longer wanted him to cooperate. What if they pinned it all on him? What if he didn’t come back?

What if he’s the most talented liar in history and he did do it?

What happens if I’m in love with a killer and stupid enough not to see?

With a groan, I forced atrophied muscles to move and stumbled from the illusion that I was one with the logo. “Gil, don’t—”

He curled a hand around his mouth to amplify his voice. “Pack up my stuff. Do you have your license?”

I nodded, wanting to hug myself.

“Good. Drive back to the studio with my gear. The key to the warehouse is in the car.” His eyes remained unreadable, shoving me deeper into the cold. “I’ll see you later.”

The crowd murmured loudly. Rumours and questions. Side looks and suspicious glances.

I knew what they were thinking.

Was Gil the body painting murderer?

Was that why the police were taking him?

Arresting him?

I didn’t have time to reply before an officer opened the car door, motioned for him to slip inside, then slammed it closed.

Gil didn’t look back as they drove him away.

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Chapter Thirty

______________________________

Olin

-The Present-

SOMEONE HAS BEEN in my apartment.

I froze, my key in hand, a foot across the threshold.

I didn’t know how I knew, but I knew.

Something was off. Something wasn’t right. Yet...nothing was missing.

Inching forward, I breathed shallowly as if monsters might hear and attack from behind cheap furniture. The kitchen still held the takeout containers from when Gil stayed over. The couch still decorated with his tossed-aside blanket. The dining room table still askew from our ruthless sex.

If someone had been here, surely something would’ve been moved?

I’m making stuff up.

No one had been here while Gil painted me on the street. No one had entered my privacy and sneaked around uninvited.

Only...

My eyes fell on a small ballerina figurine that was one of the few gifts my parents had ever given me. When they’d finally understood how serious I was about dance, they’d paid for my lessons but not bothered to take me.

I hadn’t cared.

I would’ve hitchhiked across town to dance, and the fact that they’d recognised that? It meant so much to me. And for them to give me a ballerina? Well, it was my most treasured belonging from them.

It normally sat beneath my TV by the remote.

Now, it stood in a perfect pirouette on my windowsill.

I froze.

Goosebumps shot down my arms.

Had Gil moved it?

Had I forgotten I did?

What the hell is going—

“Miss Moss. Is that you?” A strict voice wrenched the breath from my lungs and sent me whirling to face the door. A fist landed over my thudding heart as I tried to make sense of what I saw.

Two uniformed police stood framed in the open entrance.

Police I’d seen at Gil’s warehouse when I’d called and reported the guy with his kidnapping van.

“Wh-what are you doing here?” I asked, cursing how wavy my voice was.

The woman cop stepped into my apartment. I silently swore for leaving the door open. Her gaze skimmed over my still very green and camouflaged skin, mostly hidden beneath the thick, white robe. I’d obeyed Gil’s wishes and packed up his gear. I’d stored it in his car, told the Kohls manager Gil would be in touch with the photos and invoice, and climbed into his hatchback still fully painted.

I’d intended to drive to Gil’s place like he’d asked. I intended to shower, dress, and head downtown to where Gil had been taken.

But I’d never packed an overnight bag and left my previous outfit in the changing room. If I’d headed to Gil’s place, I would’ve ended up without clothes once I’d washed off his latest creation.

I’d only meant to pop home for five minutes.

I hadn’t expected to find the aura of evil still lurking in my safe zone. And I definitely hadn’t been prepared to find yet more police on my doorstep after watching Gil being carted away only an hour before.

It’s a busy day for them.

Appearing unannounced and ruining both our lives.

“We wanted to follow up with you about your report on the man who tried to kidnap you.”

“Oh.” I forced myself not to look at the clock with impatience. “Okay. What can I help you with?”

“The license plate number you gave us is incorrect.” The woman narrowed her eyes.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I must’ve remembered it wrong.”

“And you’re sure it was a white van with blue stripes?” The male officer came forward, encroaching on my space. “Because nothing checks out. No other reports. No suspicious sightings. It wasn’t another colour, and you remembered that wrong, too?”

Standing taller, I did my best to seem unfrazzled. My lack of lying ability almost crippled me. If I didn’t get them away soon, I’d slip. I’d stumble on a lie, and Gil would be sentenced to life because of something idiotic I said.

“No, I remember the van. But you’re right. I’m obviously not reliable in my recollections.” I crossed my arms. “Besides, you ought to know better than me. That’s your job, after all.”

The cops threw each other a glance.

The female officer sighed at my unhelpfulness. “Regardless, we believe the man who tried to abduct you might be involved with the recent murders.” She eyed up my body paint again. “They were painted...like you. We were hoping your memory might be better refreshed today. Give us new information that could aid us.”

“Better refreshed?”

“No audience, as it were.” Her gaze gleamed with an obvious hint. “Free to say what you want.”

“You think I kept things to myself because I was with Gilbert last time?”

“Speaking of Mr. Clark. Where is your boss?” the guy jumped in.

I narrowed my eyes, answering his question and ignoring the rest. “At Status Enterprises. Behind a desk.”

“Your other boss.” His voice tightened with frustration. “Gilbert Clark.”

What was the right answer here? Tell them I didn’t know or that he’d been shoved into a police car? Then again, I couldn’t exactly say I hadn’t seen him, seeing as I wore his brushstrokes. “We just finished a commission for Kohls department store. He was invited to help the police about the body paint used on the murdered girls.”

There, that sounded good and not guilty at all.

“Do you believe he could be involved?” The woman walked around me, her eyes never still as she took in my messy apartment.

“No.”

“How can you be so sure?” She circled me again, her buttons flashing on her uniform. “He’s a body painter—same as the murderer. He has no alibi for the days the girls went missing.”

I scowled. “How do you know he has no alibi?”

“We can’t disclose that information, miss,” the male cop muttered. “What we are interested in is your opinion. Can you shed any light on Mr. Clark’s recent whereabouts? Did he go missing for a time? Do anything out of the ordinary?”

My throat closed up.

He went missing.

He came back filthy, bloody, and speckled in paint.

He drank himself into a stupor for something he did.

My kneecaps danced with nerves as I stared him right in the eyes. “He’s my boss. What he does with his free time is none of my concern.”

The female cop smirked. “You entertain much, Olin?” She pointed at the two forks in the sink and the two glasses on the coffee table.

“None of your business.”

She smiled and didn’t reply.

I’d just walked into her trap, and I didn’t fully understand how.

“If that’s all...I really need to shower and—”

“How well do you know Gilbert Clark?” the female interrupted rudely.

I mulled over my answer. What would be better? Admit I was in love with him or lie and say our relationship was strictly professional.

My heart picked up its pace, drowning in fibs.

“Well?” She placed her hands on her hips. Somehow, I knew she waited to catch me in a lie. They’d found out where I lived without me telling them my address. They had records and ways of finding out stuff. That was their job—to uncover the truth.

Letting my arms drop, I allowed honesty to answer for me. “Gil and I go back to high-school—like I told you last time. We dated when we were younger.” Even I heard the historical pain in my voice as I added, “We broke up and went our separate ways. I found him again purely by chance, thanks to a job advertisement.” I held up my arm, revealing the green exoticness of my flesh. “A job to be a living canvas.”

“Interesting.” She nodded, her eyes gleaming. “And you can work together amicably after a teenage breakup?”

“It’s in the past. It means nothing.”

“How would you describe Gilbert Clark at school?” The man opened his notepad, a pen hovering over the pages. “Quiet? Hard-working? What was his family life like?”

Anger rose, followed swiftly by the undeniable need to protect Gil.

His family life would always work against him. Always make people judge—make them believe he was capable of atrocities because that was what he was born into.

“I think you should figure that out for yourself.” I nudged my chin at the door. “Now, if you don’t mind. I really must—”

“People change, Miss Moss.” The woman once again cut me off. “What you think you know about your high-school fling might be hiding the truth staring right in your face.”

I grimaced. “What exactly are you implying?”

“I’m not implying anything. I’m just saying be careful.” For once, her eyes softened with kindness rather than condemning me with accusation. “Monsters walk amongst us. They wear the same skin. They just hide who they are. Almost like the paint that’s hiding you.”

She paused as if her speech was all I needed to confess everything.

I sniffed and waited out the silence.

“Okay, then.” The two officers moved toward the exit.

The male nodded and stepped into the hallway while the female paused and passed me her card again. “If you happen to recall the correct license plate or want to change your statement, call me.”

I took her card and shoved it deep into my robe’s pocket. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” With a smile I couldn’t decipher, she added, “I wouldn’t trust him, Miss Moss. A man who earns money by turning others into a chameleon might also be a chameleon himself. Three girls have lost their lives. Don’t lose yours, too.”

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