Текст книги "The body painter"

Автор книги: Pepper winters

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Chapter Eight

______________________________

Olin

-The Present-

NO WINE.

I have no wine in my stupid apartment.

And I needed wine.

Desperately.

My lips sang from Gil’s the entire Uber ride home. My body ached and my mind—well, my mind was drunk already. Drunk on finally knowing what it felt like to be kissed by Gilbert Clark.

But my heart?

The useless thing was in tinkling pieces.

That damn phone.

Who the hell interrupted us? Why did they have the power to stop something that had felt so unbelievably real?

Throwing myself onto the tatty couch with its threadbare yellow cushions, I closed my eyes.

Stop thinking about it.

It was over.

Gil had kicked me out of his place.

He’d bit me, licked me, devoured me, and ordered me to never go back.

But he’s hurting...

I grabbed a cushion and curled around it.

Don’t, O. Don’t torture yourself—

My mind threw images of Gil in my face. Of the way his anger slipped, revealing bone deep need. Of the way his temper cracked, showing a man gasping for help.

He doesn’t need help.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

That was the problem with me.

I read into things.

Alone and with no one to talk to, my mechanism at coping was to solve other people’s problems. At least my life wasn’t so empty if I focused on them and granted them happiness, even if I couldn’t achieve the same results for myself.

He isn’t like the kids from high-school.

No, he was worse.

A thousand times worse.

Back then, the worst pain a student could carry was caused by a parents’ divorce or the death of a pet. I knew how to help with that. Knew how to be there for them until they were ready to talk and heal.

But Gil...

He harboured something monstrous.

Something that cannibalised him from the inside out. Something so black and vicious, it had twisted him into two versions of himself.

The Gil I knew was generous, protective, and kind.

The Gil I didn’t was violent, distraught, and full of malice.

He needs—

It doesn’t matter what he needs, I’m not allowed to go back.

I screamed into the cushion, pressing my mouth to the yellow fabric and exhaling my fear and frustration. I couldn’t just accept his command to forget about him. I’d never been able to walk away from something so inexplicably broken.

He was Gil! The boy who chose me above anyone.

I couldn’t just—

You don’t have a choice.

Memories of our kiss interrupted my internal argument. He’d kissed me as if he’d been drowning—as if I was untainted air, free from the filth around him. He’d claimed me as if he’d been dreaming of such a thing since he’d walked away from me.

A kiss like that couldn’t be given and then taken away.

A kiss like that demanded further investigation.

You. Are. Not. Allowed. Back. There. Remember?

Scowling, I plotted a way to disobey Gil and tried not to be carried away with daydreams of us.

You truly are a sucker for—

My stomach snarled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten my cucumber sandwiches and adrenaline from kissing Gil had burned through all my reserves.

My plan had been to buy groceries.

And that is what I shall do.

New task. New purpose. No more worrying about Gil. No more torturing myself if I should stay away or go back.

Hauling myself from the soft couch, I padded barefoot toward my bag where I’d thrown it onto the kitchen table. Rummaging inside, I pulled out the envelope of cash Gil had paid me and opened it for the first time.

My legs promptly deleted all bone and became useless.

I slammed onto a wooden chair, clacking my teeth at the force.

No.

This can’t be right.

Shaking hands pulled out a wad of fifty-pound notes. A pile far too thick to warrant the few hours I’d spent being his canvas.

One, two, three, four, five...fifteen hundred pounds.

Holy shit.

Was that the going rate for a model, or had he—?

He never wants to see you again. It’s bribery to make sure you stay away.

Don’t read into this!

Oh, who was I kidding?

My heart raced, tumbling down the rabbit hole of why he’d given me so much.

I hadn’t been able to earn this sort of cash in an entire month doing other jobs. It meant I had rent and utilities covered. I could eat semi-decent food. I could—

I can’t accept this.

My shoulders rolled, fisting the cash with possessiveness.

It might be the correct rate for all you know!

If it was...why didn’t it feel right? Why did it feel far too much for the tiny role I’d played?

If we’d discussed payment beforehand, and I knew this was what he paid others, then maybe. But now, it just felt dirty. Wrong. I didn’t know why, but it reeked of charity from a boy who couldn’t stand the sight of me.

And that made my hungry tummy knot because he’d cheapened me. He’d added yet another sensation of not being worthy. He’d bought my silence and my obedience to stay the hell away so he never had to set eyes on me again.

Tears prickled.

You’re making this stuff up. Don’t jump to conclusions.

It didn’t stop pain lancing through me, remembering our kiss. Reliving the way his tongue touched mine, his taste in my mouth, his groan in my ears.

How could he kiss me as if I was utterly priceless and then fob me off with heartless cash?

He paid you for being a canvas! He didn’t pay for the kiss, O.

How could I be so sure? How could I be sure he didn’t give me far too much to ease his guilt over destroying everything?

I might be making up tales. I might be totally blowing things out of proportion, but Gil was the only one who made me irrational.

All I wanted was him. Yet he’d pushed me away, his money a firm goodbye.

Well, I had a good mind to give it all away.

To prove a point that I might be destitute and made a total mess of my life, but I wasn’t a charity case and I couldn’t be bought by a man who’d gone out of his way to confuse, ridicule, and condemn me.

I wanted to march back there and throw the money in his face.

I wanted to kiss that face and—

You can go back.

I stroked a fifty-pound note, a plan rapidly unfolding.

This was my reason to return.

This was my excuse to knock on his door, stare him right in the eye, and demand to know what the hell was going on.

But what if he doesn’t ask me to leave next time?

What if he threw me out physically? What if he hurt me like he had when I’d pushed him too far at school?

Ripping my fingertips off the money, I couldn’t be alone with my chaotic thoughts anymore.

Kisses and curses, hopes and fears.

I was hungry.

I was angry.

Today had been a cocktail of past and present, sex and shame.

I needed wine.

* * * * *

Sipping on my second mug of cheap supermarket pinot, I winced as I logged onto the laptop that I’d hammered to death looking for work. Instead of going to familiar websites and trolling for employment, I clicked on the icon of my least favourite location.

Facebook.

Ever since my accident, I hardly went on there.

It was too painful.

I wasn’t mentally ready to look at the photos of my fellow dancers, see their scheduled performances, read posts of friends complaining about early morning practices and late-night curtain calls.

Eventually, I would be happy for them.

But right now...it was a pitchfork to the heart.

Tonight, I managed to ignore my newsfeed and the urge to click on my dance troupe’s page, and instead became a sleuth, stalking the Master of Trickery himself.

I sipped another mouthful as I typed in Gil’s name, bracing myself for the search results.

Nothing came up.

Other Gilbert Clarks appeared—one in Scotland and a few overseas—but none that sounded, looked, or came close to the one I knew.

Strange but not really.

Gil had never been one for company.

Topping up my mug, I tried another angle.

Gil might not use Facebook personally, but I had no doubt he’d use it for business.

Total Trickery.

The second I pressed enter, his page popped up, complete with fifty thousand likes, hundreds of comments on his photos, and an overall gush fest on his talent.

For a while, I lost myself in the haze of colour and creation, studying the girls he’d painted, the animals he’d brought to life on their bodies, the landscapes he’d painstakingly used to camouflage human flesh.

Not one image was subpar.

And not one image showed it was Gil painting.

In each one, he kept his back to the camera, his black hoodie obscuring his face and messy hair, turning him nameless—a god of pigment and nothing more.

There was no mention of his biography, where he learned to paint, or his accolades or aspirations. He was as incognito online as he was in his photos; no hint he was the virtuoso that conjured such beauty.

There was also no photo of me from today.

Why?

I clicked on the little message icon, tensing as the bubble popped up to send him a note.

What the hell are you doing, O?

I honestly couldn’t answer that.

The entire time I’d been in the supermarket, I’d flip-flopped over being so grateful for the fat wad of money in my purse and so annoyed at it. No matter what I did, I couldn’t stop thinking about Gil.

Gil.

Gil.

I needed to talk to him.

I needed to be around him, to be near him, to look into his eyes and tear his secrets out one by one.

My fingers hovered on the keyboard. Opening sentences flew behind my eyes.

Gil, I miss you.

Gil, you paid me way too much.

Gil, what are you hiding?

I slouched.

An emotionless message would never work. He’d just ignore me, block, me, or never even see it. A conversation with him needed to be face to face, so he couldn’t hide what he battled.

With another sip of wine, I left Gil’s page and navigated to another man’s profile.

A man I’d kissed in my youth after another broke my heart.

Justin Miller’s Facebook was littered with after work drinks, pretty girls taking selfies with him, and a confident, friendly man who seemed successful.

I was happy for him.

Glad he hadn’t messed up his dreams like I had.

With liquid courage and a flush of excess energy, I clicked on a new message bubble.

Gil consumed me.

I needed a distraction.

Olin Moss: Hey, Justin. It was nice to see you at Gil’s last night. I...

My fingers paused, searching for something appropriate. I hadn’t planned to write. I had no script to follow.

Another sip of wine, and I added:

Olin Moss: I wanted to thank you for standing up for me and encouraging Gil to use me as a canvas. He finished the design today. It was amazing to be part of his process.

I chewed my cheek in worry.

What am I doing?

Justin probably didn’t want to hear from me. There was a reason school friends drifted apart—especially exes.

I’d been mean to him in the end. Shattered beyond repair when Gil just vanished. I hadn’t been able to keep up the pretend anymore—couldn’t let Justin try to help me when I no longer wanted to be helped.

Dance had been the only thing that’d granted any peace.

I clicked on the icon to add to my text. To tell him how grateful I was for his help in the past. How stupid I’d been to turn that help away.

But a chime sounded, delivering his reply.

Justin Miller: Hey, O! Great to hear from you. He wasn’t too much of a brooding artist, I hope.

I smiled.

Olin Moss: No, he was perfectly professional.

Justin Miller: I’m glad. Do you have to go back tomorrow to finish?

Olin Moss: No. All done.

And banished for life.

Justin Miller: He pay you for your time? He has a bad habit of forgetting.

My heart picked up its pace.

Olin Moss: No, he paid me.

In cash and kisses.

My thoughts returned to the thick envelope.

I shouldn’t do it. I knew I shouldn’t. But I couldn’t stop my fingers typing:

Olin Moss: Random question, but do you know the going rate for a living canvas?

I liked torturing myself.

Liked justifying my crazy conclusions.

Liked chasing rabbits that had no right to make me worry.

Justin took a few minutes to reply.

Justin Miller: Eh, I think it’s about three to five hundred per commission. Why?

I froze.

Oh, no...

I’d been right.

Gil had overpaid me.

Paid me triple.

Over triple.

Why?

Not only had Gil kissed me while trembling with things he couldn’t survive, but he’d tarnished that kiss with money.

He’d ruined it.

Successfully hurt me all over again.

Will he ever stop?

I suddenly didn’t want to talk after all.

I wanted to finish my wine and sleep. To run away from scars and body painters, money and heartbreak.

Olin Moss: No reason. Hope you have a good night!

Without waiting for his response, I closed Facebook in a rush.

I went to shut the laptop, but an email icon showed I had a reply from an office position I’d forgotten I’d applied to.

Some sterile building with its depressing cubicles and mind-numbing tasks. But at least a steady paycheque that meant I get to keep my clothes on and heart intact.

From: Static Enterprises

Subject: Interview for receptionist

Dear Ms Moss,

Thank you for your interest in our company and your resume. We are pleased to invite you to an interview tomorrow at three p.m. at our downtown location.

Please advise if this is convenient.

I didn’t hesitate to reply.

A steady job.

A ticket out of bankruptcy.

Something to focus on so I didn’t lose myself in the labyrinth that was Gilbert Clark.

If my interview went well and they offered me the job, I would visit Gil and give him his money back.

I’d look into his eyes and demand answers.

I would fight one final time for us.

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Chapter Nine

______________________________

Gil

-The Past-

“HEY.” I SHOVED my hands deeper into my tattered jeans pockets and smiled, pretending I hadn’t run here from home or stolen a bottle of deodorant to ensure I smelled semi-decent.

Olin jolted, one hand flying to her throat, the other clutching her messenger bag with white fingers. “Oh...hey.” Her eyes switched from shock-wide to suspicious-narrow. “Where did you appear from?”

I smirked. “Somewhere.”

She glanced over my shoulder at the mostly empty field behind me. Early bird students straggled in, but the majority of the school were still shoving toast and jam down their throats at home.

Tilting her head against the sun’s glare, she said quietly, “You’re early.”

“So are you.”

She shrugged, still not totally at ease with me even though we’d professed a mutual liking of each other last week. That corridor used to hold nasty memories. Now, it held the best one of my life.

A small smile tilted her lips. “I’m always early.”

“I know.” I realised my mistake too late.

“You do?” Her forehead furrowed.

Shit.

“Um...” I raked a hand through too-long hair. “I mean...” Words flew out of my brain. Lies weren’t possible. Truth was too hard. My heart crashed against my ribs in panic. “I’ve...watched you.” I couldn’t look at her. “I don’t mean that in a stalkerish way. I mean...I’ve noticed you.” I swallowed hard. “For a while.”

Her pretty blush was back, pink and innocent. “You noticed me?”

I nodded, catching her stare. “You’re the kindest person at school. I like watching you.”

She blushed deeper. “I’m not kind.”

“No one else carries Millie’s bag to class because it’s too heavy. No one else brings a newspaper from home for Mr. Scoot to read with his coffee in the staff room.”

I waited for her to run away screaming. To file a restraining order. To tell me to stop being a creep watching her from the bushes.

Instead, she studied me in a way that stripped me bare, gave me no place to hide, and made me so grateful I’d been honest. “Is that why you liked watching me? Because I help where I can?”

I’d never had such intense conversations with anyone. Never been trapped wanting something so fucking much all while petrified of losing it. “Everyone needs help sometimes.”

“Do you need help?” Her gaze dropped to my scruffy T-shirt and the patches on my jeans. She didn’t sneer at my poverty. She didn’t back away at my bad luck. She was the only student to look at me without any biased opinion or expect me to be violent just because I preferred my own company.

“In what way?” I did my best to keep my voice neutral and not echo with warning.

Out of anyone, Olin deserved to know who I was. But I wasn’t ready to share. Not yet.

“You’re very guarded, anyone ever tell you that?”

“I don’t talk to other people.”

“Just me.”

“Just you.”

We shared a smile, tension slipping away and leaving us on equal footing again.

“Life isn’t just about survival, you know,” she whispered softly.

I reared back. “I didn’t say it was.”

“I know.” She chewed the inside of her cheek before adding, “I just...I told you things I’ve never told anyone the other day. It made me feel so much better. Crazy really how sharing something I’ve been keeping inside suddenly didn’t make me so sad.” She shielded her eyes from the sun. “I guess all I’m saying is, I owe you.”

“Don’t I owe you?”

“No. You gave me a secret. You said you...um, liked me.”

I looked away. “That doesn’t really count.”

“It does.” Her smile turned softer. “Besides, I don’t expect to know more unless you really want me to.”

“Why did revealing your secret make you feel better?” I deflected the subject off me, striding toward the yawning entrance of our school, stupidly pleased when Olin kept pace.

The building with its red bricks was weathered and its glass smudged, but the institutional box with its no-nonsense architecture had a sense of sturdiness that said, for the hours of education, I was safe within its walls.

Tension from a sleepless night and a cuff around the back of my head at two a.m. this morning slid down my spine as the shadows of the foyer welcomed us back.

Tuesday.

A good day.

Four full days within a classroom where the mess of my world couldn’t find me.

I sighed heavily, annoyed that my thoughts had darkened while Olin walked by my side. It wasn’t fair to her goodness to be thinking of the cesspit I lived in.

Olin took her time answering, her face determined as if her answer was important. Which it was. Everything about her was important.

I wanted to ask every question and steal every answer. I wanted to know what her favourite drink was. What did she do after school? Did she have any hobbies? Did she have a dog or a goldfish? What did she think about late at night in bed?

I trembled with the need to skip past the awkwardness and find comfort in each other. I wasn’t cut out for honesty and ripping scabs off emotional wounds. I was drawn to her because she was safe. Telling her who I was didn’t feel safe.

It could ruin our friendship. And friendship with Olin had the power to be the most valuable thing in my life.

Entering our classroom, Olin finally said, “I think it made me feel better because it doesn’t sound so bad out loud. Sure, I miss my parents. Sure, they’re not home a lot and I’m an only child. And sure, compared to my friends who have mums and dads who cook for them and scold them for not doing their homework, I’m a little lonely. But...I’m also so much luckier than most.”

My heart once again swelled for this incredible, forgiving girl.

“I have a house. A bed. Blankets. There’s electricity for heating and TV. There’s a kitchen to make pancakes. There’s even space in the garden that’s a perfect place to dance.” She sighed happily. “So you see, I might not have everything, but I have so much too. So that’s why I feel better. It made me focus on what I do have and not what I don’t.”

“That’s why you help others...’cause you’re grateful?”

“Isn’t that why anyone helps? Because of empathy and the knowledge that someone out there has it way harder than you? Even on those bad days, we’re still alive and—”

“It’s not that simple.” I walked away, tossing my bag beneath my desk. Kicking it farther into the shadows, I didn’t want her to see the ketchup stains or rips. I’d pulled it from a dumpster behind a local fast food joint a few months ago because I had no money to buy one and my father would never dream of providing for me.

I supposed she was right.

I might not have much, but I had a bag. I had a bed to sleep in—when I wasn’t being abused. I had school.

I have her.

My hackles dropped as I turned to face her.

“Life can be as simple or as complicated as we make it.” Olin slipped her bag off her shoulder, letting it slouch onto the floor by her desk. “But I’ll shut up now. I get the feeling you don’t really want to talk about this.”

I scowled. “What gave you that impression?”

She made no move to sit. The empty classroom echoed a little, the sterile walls and lack of decoration making it seem as if we didn’t belong without a teacher present.

What would Ms Tallup say if she knew we were here alone?

I shuddered a little.

I loathed Ms Tallup. I loathed her as much as I feared her, and I had a healthy dose of fear. I’d lived through far worse people than a strict woman with a stick up her ass, but instinct was a powerful thing in my world.

And instinct told me to be careful of her.

“You’re shutting down on me.” Olin smiled gently.

“How can you tell?”

She laughed. “The clenched fists are a dead giveaway.”

I looked down, deliberately spreading my fingers. “Oh...sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

Awkwardness settled again. Silence thick and filled with nervous heartbeats.

The quietness grew too painful. I blurted, “If your parents are absentee, what do you do after school?” At the same time, she rushed, “You know, you smell like oranges.”

We froze, letting our voices tangle together.

We smiled hesitantly.

We laughed softly.

The tension cracked and ebbed away.

I relaxed, tasting the ease that could be between us. What would that be like? To trust her above all others? To care for her? To protect her? To...love her?

I knew what connection was supposed to be like thanks to books and the occasional glimpse of TV, but I had nothing to compare it to in my own life. No role model to copy. No guidelines to follow.

All I had was the undying, unselfish desire to be whatever Olin needed, and it drove me mad that I didn’t know what that was yet.

“The smell is my deodorant.” I shrugged. “It’s overpowering.”

She leaned closer, inhaling deep.

My heart literally exploded.

Her eyes glowed. “I like it. Whenever I think of oranges, I’ll think of you.”

“You think of oranges often?”

“I will now.” Her gaze dropped to the floor as another blush dusted her cheeks. “I mean...um, of course not. Who thinks of fruit? That’s just weird.” A strained chuckle fell from her lips.

Her reaction to innocent flirting made me tremble. Made me want to keep her.

I’d never kissed anyone.

I wanted her to be my first.

To taste those pretty lips and feel her delicate body against mine.

I swallowed hard as my heart thundered and body swelled.

I thought I could handle just being her friend until I made her mine, but I hadn’t factored in the insane amount of affection I already had for her and the hunger that had been building for years.

I want you, O.

More than you can ever know.

Once again, silence squeezed between us, making everything so damn difficult.

What came next? What should I say that would be articulate, funny, and hide just how desperate I was to have her be mine?

“You know...” I squeezed the back of my neck. “Your name starts with O. Like oranges. Maybe I’ll associate you with fruit too, and we can both think of each other when—” I cut myself off with a groan. “Forget I said that. Super cheesy.”

She giggled; silence once again banished to the empty corners of the room. “You’re not at all like I expected.”

Our eyes locked. “What did you expect?”

“Oh, I dunno.” She waved her hand. “Brooding, sarcastic...mean. You skulk into class and don’t talk to anyone. You have a reputation for being dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” I grinned, enjoying the fact that she’d been aware of me more than I realised. “Do you think I’m dangerous?”

She looked me up and down, raking heat along my skin with her stare. “Maybe. I don’t know you yet.”

“You know me better than anyone in this school.”

“How is that possible? This is our second conversation.”

“I’m selective.”

“I heard you were a loner.”

“That too.”

“Why?” She cocked her head, sending dark blonde hair scattering over her baby blue top.

“Because I don’t trust easy.”

“Can you trust me?”

I pinned her to the spot with honesty. “I already trust you.”

She frowned. “And what did I do to deserve such an honour?”

My heart fell and the simpleness of our conversation veered into tricky territory. Moving toward her slowly, I dared reach out and, with a slightly shaking hand, cupped her cheek.

The second I touched her, whatever remaining pieces of myself that were still mine switched owners.

I was hers.

Totally.

Undoubtedly.

My mouth went dry as my heart crashed around my ribcage.

She froze. Her teeth sank into her bottom lip. Her eyes turned wide. “Um, Gil?”

I swallowed hard, unable to tear my gaze from her mouth.

I couldn’t reply.

I put all my attention into not clutching her close and kissing her. My self-control almost snapped, my fingertips bruising her beautiful skin, but she didn’t pull away.

She didn’t believe the rumours to avoid the surly, argumentative bad boy.

She gave me the benefit of the doubt and that made me so damn grateful that she trusted me.

Trust.

You’re mine, O.

You just don’t know it yet.

My thumb traced her cheekbone. I stepped closer until we were inches apart. My voice was as heavy as my heart as I whispered, “Who said anything about it being an honour?”

She gasped as I pulled her into me, deleting the space between us. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing, but I couldn’t stop.

Her gaze travelled from my eyes to my lips to my jaw. And the raw desire on her pretty innocent face shadowed with dismay.

Swaying backward, she slipped from my touch.

I let my arm fall, jerking in surprise when she touched me in return.

I couldn’t breathe as the softest fingers traced my jawline, dancing over stubble I couldn’t quite shave, sending my pulse hammering in my ears.

I’d never been touched so kindly before. Never had blood gush around my body in such a frenzy.

“Olin...what—” I cleared my throat, cursing breathlessness and crazed heartbeats. “What are you doing?”

Leaning into me, she ran her finger by my ear, a frown replacing tentative desire. “You’re hurt.”

Her voice no longer hypnotised me but brought me back to reality with a painful crash. “What?”

She held up her hand, revealing a streak of blood between her fingers. Her eyes widened with concern. “Oh, no. You’re bleeding.” She moved to come closer, to investigate the wound she should never have found.

I backed up instantly, rubbing at the streak of violence I hadn’t seen.

So he did break the skin last night.

I’d felt the pain of his old class ring whack into my skull.

I’d swallowed stolen aspirin to dull the throb.

“Gil...are you okay?” Olin wiped the redness on her jeans, not caring it smeared on the denim. “Come here, I’ll care for you. We’ll go to first aid and—”

“I’m fine.” My voice no longer held any teasing or tenderness. It was cold and sarcastic—the same tone I used with every student and teacher.

I refused to let her think I was weak.

That I couldn’t protect her just because I couldn’t protect myself.

I needed to leave.

“Don’t worry about it.” Not bothering to grab my backpack, I rushed from the classroom just as Ms Tallup arrived.

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