Page 33 of Traitor
Chapter Twelve
Ford
“I feel like an idiot,”I say, as I stand still for her to wrap an apron around my waist. “I’m not a 1950s housewife.”
Peyton snorts. “You’ll thank me when you don’t have paint splotches all over your pretty clothes.”
I glance down at the Henley and jeans I’m wearing. “You’re delusional if you think these clothes are pretty.”
Her eyes linger long enough on my body that the alcohol in my bloodstream ignites. I give half a thought to telling her if she’s worried about getting paint on my clothes—she can take them off—but I think better of it and gulp down the rest of my drink instead. More alcohol sounds like a better plan.
“Just shut up and wear the damn apron, Collier.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She refills my glass of whiskey and her own with more wine, then goes about putting out paints and setting up two canvases, distributing brushes, and God knows what else. I pull up two stools just to watch her. Mercy hadn’t been totally wrong when she said I watched Peyton. Before it’d been with wariness, like an animal observing a new, fascinating creature. Now I don’t have to look away. Honestly, I don’t give a fuck. It could be the whiskey, could be the way she looks at me over her shoulder, her blonde hair all wild and her eyes bright with laughter.
Now that the heavy conversation has passed and we’re both thoroughly plied with booze, there’s a lightness about her I haven’t had the pleasure of seeing before. She giggles as she stumbles back from the kitchen, having retrieved two mugs of water.
“Nice,” I say and sip my whiskey.
“Shut up or this will turn into a nude lesson.”
I lift a brow and gesture with my glass. “This just got more interesting. Feel free to strip anytime, sunshine.”
Drunk, Peyton smiles and I find myself smiling back. She skip-stumbles over to my side and takes my glass from my hand, shushing me when I argue. “You can have it back in a few minutes. You promised you’d come paint with me. I’ve heard Marines are quick learners, I’m sure you can keep up.” She tugs me by the hand and leads me to the easel. My body follows her without protest, like we’re magnets and I can’t help but go where she leads.
Scowling at the canvas, I take the proffered paintbrush. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doin’ here.”
“The first rule of art is there are no rules,” she says, sipping her wine, her head tilted as she studies me. The open neck of her flannel button-up gives flashes of creamy skin. “This is just for fun. I haven’t had fun with my work in so long. I miss it. Just play with me for a while, Ford. You don’t always have to be so serious. It’ll be good for you to let loose. I think you need it.”
I slop the paint brush in a random pot of red. “I can think of other ways I’d rather let loose and play with you,” I say. Peyton chokes on her wine and I send her a grin, pointing my paint brush at her. “Careful there, young lady.”
“Focus, Ford.” But she’s laughing so hard she can barely get the words out. “This is supposed to be your masterpiece.”
“Right,” I say, and turn back to the canvas. I slop some of the red on its surface and angle my head. “My masterpiece.”
Peyton dips her own brush in a pot of blue and drags it across the canvas much more artfully. She takes another sip of wine and adds more blue, then a hint of black. When she glances over and jerks her head to my own, I turn back and squint at the dripping mass of red. Sighing, I choose colors at random, not even really thinking about the process. The scent of paint and Peyton’s perfume surrounds me until they intertwine. I won’t ever be able to smell paint without thinking of her. Like the fumes, she’s soaking into my skin. Like the paint on my fingertips, she’s staining a part of me and no amount of scrubbing will ever get her out.
My “art” is little more than a kindergartener’s efforts, but when I take a step back, I recognize the setting of the night we lost Tate. The night that’s so burned into my brain I’d recreated it without thinking. The blue-black shadows of the dunes. The deep maroon splashes of blood. The whites of his eyes. The sprinkle of stars in the infinite night.
I turn my back on it and find Peyton studying her own creation intently. Downing the rest of my whiskey, I dump the brushes in the cleaning solution and move behind her as she works. Her body moves against mine and I don’t even think she notices until she leans against me, her back to my front and sighs a little.
My hands go to her hips, pressing her more firmly against me, as I study what looks like a freeform landscape. It’s the lake. That night. The boat, the dock, the water. What had started as a fun little experiment had turned up two terrible moments, for both of us.
Wanting, needing, to take that terrible moment away for her, I turn her around in my arms and study her face. Her lips tremble as she looks up at me. I reach past her, dip my finger in paint, then keep my eyes on hers as I finger-paint a line over her collarbone.
She inhales sharply, then shivers from the coolness of the slick paint against her skin. Eyes bright, but not from the wine this time, she shifts, and her hands go to my waistband. Without words, she slides her hands up my abdomen, taking the hem of the Henley along with it. It goes up and over my head, then flutters to the ground somewhere behind me. Peyton dips her fingers in paint, then traces a line down the center of my chest to the top of my jeans.
“This is the best paint-by-numbers ever,” she says throatily.
I tug on her button-up and cami, paint smudging the material. “Take these off,” I order.
The corner of her lips tilt up. She begins to unbutton it, slowly, torturously, then peels it off, leaving her in a skintight pair of jeans, feet bare, with only the thin material of her bra. I sweep her hair over her shoulder leaving streaks of paint in my wake and kiss the sweet curve of her neck. Her arms twine around my shoulders and I can feel the sticky tips of her fingers on my skin.
I cup her jaw with both hands and take her mouth, needy, greedily, and she meets my efforts with matching enthusiasm. We crash into the wall next to the canvases and she tries to crawl up my body.
“You feel so good,” she gasps, as I nibble at her throat.