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She thinks I came up to fuck her again.
Jesus. What kind of animal does she think I am?
She doesn’t think anything. She knows exactly what kind of animal you are. The kind who orders her to masturbate while he jerks off on her ass.
“I—” I can feel my gaze start to stray back to the painting but I force myself to focus on her instead. “Conner’s a dick. I know you’d never fuck someone to get them interested in your art.” I blurt it out and watch her eyes narrow on me, suspicion replacing anger. “Besides, you wouldn’t have to. Chase—anyone—would have to be blind not to see how talented you are.”
The tables have turned between us. She’s angry. She’s the aggressor and it’s knocking me off balance. I stand up before I can make a total ass of myself. “Just wanted you to know,” I tell her, making my way through her open door.
Crossing the living room, I keep waiting for her to come after me. Call after me. Stop me from leaving. In the refection of the mirror, I can see her. Earbuds plugged back in. Her arm guiding the brush across the canvas in front of her, their movements still big and fast. Angry and violent.
It’s like I never said a word.
Forty-four
Cari
I put my earbudsin but don’t turn the music back on until I hear the front door slam shut. I stare at the canvas in front of me. My arms move. My hands transfer paint from brush to canvas, the bright slashes of color that cover it taking shape. I don’t even think about it. I just paint. Let everything I’ve been feeling and thinking and wanting for the past three days flow through me. My hand and brush an extension of my heart.
I paint until my arms are tired. Until I feel empty and the roar inside my head is silenced to a whisper. I drop my brush and take a step back to look at the image in front of me. Patrick again but this time not just him. This time it’s him and me. Us together. Me, naked to the waist, the bodice of my dress pooled around my hips. Panties around my knees. Skirt hiked up over my ass. One hand braced above the mirror. The other between my legs. Anyone looking at this painting, that’s all they’d see. Me. Alone. But Patrick is there. In the deep slice of black reflected back to me in the mirror I’m posed in front of. Watching me.
Even though it’s still wet, I lift the canvas from my easel and carry it into the living room. Pulling the full-length mirror from the wall, I set it aside and hang the painting on its hook.
I want you to feel it, every time you look in this goddamned mirror…
Looking at the painting, remembering what he said to me last night, I couldn’t agree with Patrick more.
I smell it first. Grilled meat and greasy French fries and my stomach rumbles. Beside the single bite of breakfast burrito a few hours ago, I haven’t eaten anything today. I turn away from the painting in front of me, toward the smell, expecting to find Tess in the doorway, eating a cheeseburger. Or maybe Chase—the guy likes his food. But it’s not either of them.
Jerking my earbuds out of my ears I feel my gaze narrow to a glare. “I’m not in the mood for your grease monkey/love guru routine.”
Unflappable as usual, Conner gives me a grin. “Come on, Legs,” he says, coming through the doorway. He’s carrying a burger basket from downstairs. “I brought you an olive branch.” Walking in like he owns the place he breezes past me, like I’m not standing here in my underwear, and sets the plastic, paper-lined basket full of food on the dining room table. “The least you can do is let me apologize.”
My stomach rumbles again and I turn to pull a chair away from the table. “This isn’t an olive branch,” I tell him, sliding into my seat. “It’s a cheeseburger.” I lift the top bun and peer at the ketchup smeared cheese underneath. “Lisa’s not down there is she?”
Conner laughs and looks at me like I’m crazy before pulling out and sitting in the chair across from me. “It’s Sunday,” he tells me like it’s the answer to my question. He left the door to the apartment standing open and I can hear music again—The Rolling Stones—and the quiet murmur of voices. I imagine Patrick down there, deep in conversation with Sara. Perfect Sara, with her save the world ideals and rich family. Perfect Patrick and Perfect Sara. They belong together. A match made in perfect people heaven.
It’s enough to make me want to vomit.
Giving him a sloppy shrug, I take a chance on the burger. “What time is it, anyway?” I ask around a mouthful of food, too hungry and pissed to care if I gross Conner out by talking with my mouth full.
“After four…” Conner leans back in his chair, his gaze floating over my shoulder. I know what he’s looking at. The painting hanging behind me. I watch, amazed as a flush creeps up his neck. He’s embarrassed. The guy couldn’t care less that I’m sitting two feet away from him, braless and in my underwear but seeing my bare ass on a canvas is freaking him out. To be honest, it’d probably freak me out too if I wasn’t so pissed.
“Is there something wrong?” I say, shoving more food in my mouth.
“No,” he clears his throat and looks away. “Your guy said to tell you he had to go but that he’d be in touch about which paintings he wants for the benefit show.”
Hearing him talk about my work reminds me of why I’m mad at him. “He’s not my guy,” I tell him, dragging a pair of fries through the pool of ketchup he was thoughtful enough to squirt into the basket. I shove the fries into my mouth, as unlady-like as I can possibly get.
“If you’re trying to gross me out, you’re gonna have to try a lot harder than that,” Conner tells me, eyebrow arched at my questionable manners. “You forget who my best friend is.”
Tess. She has the table manners of a toddler. “Whatever.” I give him another shrug. “Chase is just a friend.”
“I get that,” Conner says, looking me in the eye. “I also get why he’d want to show your work...” His gaze strays over my shoulder again before refocusing on my face. “You’re way more talented than you make yourself out to be.”
I narrow my eyes on his face. “What would you know about?” I say. I’m irritable and angry and looking at him makes it impossible not to think of Patrick, which doesn’t help my mood.
“About art?” he says, giving me a one shoulder shrug. “Enough to know you’d never have to sell your ass to land a show.”