by Virna DePaul
I help her prop the ladder against the wall and she clambers up, running her hands over the old brick facade. We’re far enough away from the mouth of the estuary to no longer hear the ocean, but there’s a soft and gentle slap, slap, slap as the creek slips around the pylons of an old dock attached to the Customs Office.
I almost ask her if her painting inspires her music, but I bite my tongue just in time. I don’t want to jeopardize things by asking too many questions.
She begins by outlining her mural. I can’t tell what it is at first, and although I want to ask her, she’s too much in the zone to hear me. Then she starts to paint, murmuring soft directions that I follow wordlessly.
I do my best to keep up. I clean her brushes, help her get the paint she needs, and basically am her helper as the sun sets and the moon rises overhead. Kara doesn’t stop painting for hours, except for a few water breaks, and I have a feeling she won’t stop until she’s finished.
It’s like she’s in a different universe. I watch as she begins to paint a bird, its wings wide, and it’s so lifelike, it looks like it’s about to fly over our heads. Her mural is splashes of color, of realism and imagination, of dreams and nightmares.
I didn’t expect to be so enthralled, watching her work, but she’s just as brilliant a painter as she is a musician.
By midnight, Kara steps down the ladder. She looks tired yet exhilarated at the same time. Standing and staring up in the dark, we take in the mural.
I want to say something. I want to tell her she’s not like anyone I’ve ever met. I want to know more about her.
I want to know everything.
Two weeks of vacation now seem like a blip in time instead of the near life sentence it had felt like days ago when I was ordered to go away. Get lost. Take some time and reevaluate my life decisions. Figure out how to balance work and pleasure.
Figure out what pleasure was, actually.
And I’d found it, found it all in Kara Hester.
Suddenly there’s a shout, breaking the silence.
“Hey! What are you doing? This is private property!” A security guard flashes a bright light in our faces, then trips. His flashlight frames his face now, and he’s red and glowering and his forehead’s damp with perspiration. As he gathers his equilibrium, I start shoving the art supplies into bags.
“Who are you?” he yells, reorienting the beam of light back onto us. “State your names!”
I glance at Kara, whose eyes have grown wide.
“Oopsies,” she says quietly.
Oopsie? What the hell does that mean? “Shouldn’t we just tell him about Donnie?”
“Donnie gave me permission to paint the building but…”
“But?”
“But I don’t think the security guard is going to care.” In a flash, she grabs one of the bags I’m holding. “I may have been wrong. Maybe we’d better run!”
It’s not in my nature to run, but she’s already taken off, so I go after her, the security guard hot on our heels. I’m just glad the guy’s not a cop. And slow.
At Kara’s VW, we toss the supplies in. I hop into the driver’s seat, get the car going, and zoom off with Kara in the back, the van door still open.
In under two minutes, we’re out of Mudflat Landing and on some random road—not the one we came in on—but I don’t yet let up on the gas until we’re well out of town.
Kara points out a beach off the road that’s getting more narrow and rough. I ease the VW off the pavement and down to a wide expanse of salt grass near the beach. Trees and shrubs protect us on one side and on the other is the wide expanse of the ocean, soft moonlight glinting off gentle waves. I kill the engine and turn off the lights and it’s dark out here—a couple of faint lights in the distance come from what I figure are houses, but those are far away. We’re alone.
And then Kara bursts out laughing.
Her laughter is bright and bordering on hysterical, but it’s like hearing bells or chimes. I can’t help but be infected, too, and then we’re both laughing until there are tears in our eyes and we’re gasping for breath.
“Oh my God,” she gasps, “I know it’s not funny that a security guard was chasing us, but I feel so amped up. So alive!” She coughs, laughs again, and then she stumbles out of the van.
I follow her. She collapses on the white sand beach and gazes up at the narrow sliver of moon.
“So, uh, I guess you didn’t have permission to paint that mural?” I ask her. Because, really, what the hell had that been all about? I plop down beside her and twine my fingers with hers.
A smile makes her lips tip up. “If I tell you that I really did think I had permission, at least mostly, would you believe me?”
“Actually, I wouldn’t.”
“Okay, that’s fair.” She laughs and wipes her eyes. “The guy I talked to wasn’t exactly, well, open about details. His name was Donnie, I swear! And he said the town voted on me. I’d assumed he meant the town council, and not just random townsfolk. I should’ve made sure, but it was such a great opportunity that I just went for it.” She turns toward me and touches my bicep. “I really didn’t think we’d almost get arrested, though. Seriously. Do you forgive me?”
She sounds sincere, and really, we made it out of there without getting our asses thrown in jail and she looks so adorably innocent that I sigh.
“I forgive you.”
Her eyes are alight with mischief, and it only makes me want her again.
But therein lies the problem.
I’d slept with her before knowing she was Kara Hester. So maybe I should come clean and tell her I know who she is now.
And tell her what I want for her—that I want her to have her music back, her career back. That I want the world to hear her gift over and over again, as I stand by her side. But that ultimately, I want her more as a woman than I want her as a musician.
That’s terrifying. And exciting.
Her lashes flutter, and I think she’s going to kiss me, but instead, she blinks and sits straight up. “Hold on. Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
Before I can voice my objection and confess all, she dashes off, leaving me to think.
The argument I’d made in my head earlier—that if she isn’t telling me who she is, then I don’t have to tell her who I am—is still valid. And if she wants to sleep with me again, then that’s her choice. So long as I don’t go behind her back and out her to the world without her permission, then staying silent makes sense. Letting her get to know me without her making assumptions about me because I’m an agent seems like the right thing to do. Right?
I’m still mentally debating when Kara returns with a bag of her paint supplies and a large, white sheet. She sets the sheet down on the grass and props up the small jars of paint and brushes.
“Are you going to paint the sheet?” I ask, curious.
“Not exactly.”
Then, to both my surprise and delight, she starts to strip out of her clothes. It’s a warm, balmy night, thank God. In a moment, she’s standing in front of me, naked, with only the light of the moon on her skin.
“You didn’t get to paint the mural,” she explains. “So…” She hands me a paintbrush.
I can’t make out her expression, but I would wager it’s a mixture of hesitation and desire. “You want me to paint you?”
“Yes.”
I’m not a painter. I can count on one hand the times I’ve painted anything. But there’s something in Kara’s eyes that makes me want to do something different, something I wouldn’t normally do.
Oh, and she’s naked. Like I’m going to say no to that temptation.
With the moon shining above us, I begin to paint Kara’s skin. I don’t know what I’m going to draw, but I don’t need to. I let my heart direct my hand.
We don’t speak as I swirl paint all over her torso. She turns so I can stroke color down her back, then turns again. Bright blues. Deep purples. Majestic reds. Colors and shapes take form on the canvas
of her skin, and although there’s nothing more technically complicated than a heart or a star, somehow, it’s still beautiful.
Or maybe it’s because the canvas herself is beautiful.
Her eyes shine as I begin to paint a flower on her right breast. When I place the center of the flower on her nipple, she inhales. There’s something so unbearably erotic about this moment, and I’m not even touching her directly. My cock hardens as I watch her face while I stroke the paintbrush over her naked skin. Her lips are parted and she’s breathing hard as I fill in the petals of the flower that covers her entire breast.
I can’t stop myself from kissing her. She responds immediately, and the brush I was holding drops to the ground, forgotten. But to my surprise, she giggles, bends over, and picks the brush up from the sheet. “You haven’t finished yet,” she murmurs, handing me the brush. She stretches out one of her legs. “You have a lot more to get done, mister.”
I give her a wry look. “My cock would say otherwise.”
She grins. “Does your cock know what Gustav Klimt said?”
“Klimt? As in, the artist?” I can’t help but laugh, shaking my head. “Pretty sure my cock knows nothing about art. Or artists.”
She flips her hair over her shoulder. “Klimt said all art is erotic. Earlier you said you do damage with a paintbrush. Not true. You’re creating something beautiful here, and erotic. It’s all turning me on. Keep going.”
Arousal sweeps over me. She’s right—this is erotic. And with Kara as my canvas, I am creating something beautiful. I grab the brush from her hand.
Once my mural is complete, I drink her in. She gives me a wink, spreading her arms wide and turning her face up to the night sky. The moonlight shines down on her, reflecting off the wet paint. I’m struggling to breathe, struggling to keep my composure. I feel like one of her fans right now. Simply awestruck.
When she turns her back to me with her face upturned to the night sky, arms loose at her sides, something about her pose makes me do a double-take.
“Hey, Kara,” I say softly. “Can you stay like that for a second?”
“Like what you see?” she purrs, remaining still.
“Hell, yeah,” I respond. “So much that...can I take your picture?”
She stiffens slightly, then I see her muscles slowly relax. “Just from the back, like this?”
“Yes.”
“Then go for it. So long as you can’t tell it’s me. You’re the artist. You deserve to capture your work. It might inspire you someday.”
Someday when she’s not with me to inspire me, she means.
The thought makes my chest tighten, but I shove the distraught feeling away and reach into my pocket and get my phone out. I take a few shots.
She’s right. I want to capture this memory for personal reasons. Kara’s too damn beautiful like this not to photograph. Plus, I’m no graphics designer, but I recognize a winning album cover when I see one.
I’ll show her how gorgeous she is in this photo when the time is right—when I tell her who I am and how I can help her be Kara Hester again. Kara Hester, only better.
I put my phone in my pocket, then slowly come up behind her and put my hands on her still freshly painted shoulders. Even if she doesn’t return to music, I’ll have that photo forever. Even better, I’ll have the memories of this night.
She turns, and gazes at me. She’s biting her bottom lip, her eyes huge, breasts so prettily painted as flowers heaving as her pulse races. She’s so profoundly her, profoundly pure, that my heart beats in equal rhythm. Her past no longer matters, and neither does mine. The future, that place I’d always lived, fades away. Nothing matters except Kara.
I’ve found her.
Not Kara Hester, the singer, but just Kara, the woman who barreled into my life and took me on this adventure.
“I found you,” I want to whisper in her ear, but instead, I keep the thought locked in my head as I slowly lower Kara to the ground.
And on the white sheet, under the silver light of the moon, we use the paint on Kara’s body to make a masterpiece not even Klimt himself could have created.
8
KARA
We make love under the moonlight, the waves crashing close enough that I sometimes feel the spray as the ocean batters against an outcropping of boulders. Our bodies meld together, and the paint mixes until we’re both covered in a rainbow. Together we’re free—so free.
When Declan slows I know it’s because he’s going to come and he wants to wait until I do, but I’m in the moment and all I want is to watch him as I push him past his breaking point. Under him, I wrap my legs around his and grab his hips with my hands, forcing him to keep the rhythm and build it even higher.
This time, when Declan comes I can see his face. I take in the way his eyelids drift shut, the lashes dark on his paint-flecked jaw, how his neck bows, bringing him closer to me, the way his mouth opens as he groans in pleasure as the force of his climax washes over him.
Watching him like that sends me over the edge, and I come hard. Declan holds me as my body quakes and my mind goes up into the stars. After, we fall asleep in each other’s arms, naked under the moonlight with streaks of the rainbow slowly drying on our skin.
We wake when dawn streaks the sky. I sit up and take notice of where we’re at. In the thin light of the rising sun I can see the beach we’re on is small and guarded on both ends by rock outcroppings. Trees and shrubs line the land side, and the wide Atlantic in front is beginning to glimmer and twinkle as the sun comes up over the horizon. Good thing we’re way off the beaten path, because Declan and I are buck-naked and covered in paint, looking like we’d just come off the Nevada playa at Burning Man.
Declan’s still asleep and I watch him breathe, taking in every contour of his body, holding myself back from reaching out and stroking his hair. I want this moment to last as long as it can before life changes everything.
I don’t know what got into me last night, bringing out the paints, having literal sex on the beach. Hell, I don’t know what’s gotten into me since I met Declan. But he makes me want to be wild, free, reckless. And he doesn’t tell me I should be careful or that I’m making a mistake like Carter would’ve done. He hasn’t tried to keep me in a gilded cage.
My stomach turns sour at the thought of Carter. Five years of drifting, of trying to run from the life that had tried to kill my soul, and I still wasn’t free of the memories. Maybe I needed five more years of running, of hiding, before Carter wouldn’t invade my mind.
As if Declan somehow knows my thoughts had drifted away from him and into the dark and gloom of the past, he awakens. And my heart melts, because the first thing he does after opening his eyes and seeing me is to smile—a big, genuine smile.
“Morning, you glorious one,” he murmurs, reaching out a finger to touch my painted nipple. He looks down at the white sheet and adds, “Huh. Looks like we made a rainbow. Or…” He frowns. “Or something.”
I chuckle. “Modern art. We’re not quite Jackson Pollock, but we’re close.” I stand and stretch, my back tight from painting all night, then making love and sleeping on the sand.
“I did good work, didn’t I?” Declan asks proudly, coming to his feet and slipping his gaze up and down my body.
“You’re brilliant. But this paint is itching, and I could use a shower,” I admit. “Even though I’d really hate to wash off this painting of yours.” At least he has the picture he took of me. Maybe I’ll ask him to send it to me before he leaves.
At the thought of him leaving, I’m surprised by the intensity of the pain I feel. Not good, Kara. This is supposed to be about living in the moment. A passionate fling. It can’t be anything else. Hell, you barely know him, and he certainly doesn’t know you. Not the real you.
He rubs his jaw before he yawns. “Should we try to find a motel around here? I mean, I’d rather not go back to Mudflat Landing and risk arrest…”
“I have a better idea.”
As h
e watches, I get my freshwater shower kit out of the van and set it up. Then, because the five gallons of water in the shower won’t do much against all the paint on our bodies, we head to the ocean. Holding hands, we walk thigh-deep into the gentle surf. It’s way colder than I expect and I yelp.
Declan looks at me, and instead of acting compassionate and pulling me in for a full-body hug to keep me warm, he backs up and fake moans. “My masterpiece is falling to pieces.”
My teeth are about ready to chatter but I laugh at him. “I’m freezing here and you’re whining about your art?”
Declan leans forward and swipes a finger through the yellow paint on my breast. “Almost good enough to eat.”
I giggle. “Declan, please don’t eat the paint.”
He catches me by the waist right as a swell sweeps up, the water sliding up and over our shoulders. When the wave passes, paint is now covering both of us in streaks of reds, blues, greens, and purples.
“You’re the masterpiece,” Declan murmurs. “No wave can make you fall to pieces.” He pulls me closer and kisses me, his lips warm, his mouth tempting. I lean into him, seeking his heat, seeking the pleasure his mouth gives me, and his hands slip down around my ass, making me whimper.
“Jesus.” He breaks the kiss and leans back, wiggling his hips suggestively. “You keep making that noise, and I’m going to have to run back to the van for more condoms.”
“I have all the time in the world,” I say. “Do you?”
He hesitates before replying, “Me? I have nowhere to be.”
His eyes roam up and down my body, now washed clean from all the paint. I love the way he’s looking at me now. His eyes are so... Something forms in the back of my mind, something that moves to the rhythm of the waves. Bits and pieces of lyrics float like sea foam. My mind starts to put the pieces together, and—