Painting the Roses Red

by Allyson Lindt

  Lisa needed to make herself scarce. Great. There was a damp spot on the front of her sweats. Bill didn’t bring her panties this morning, and she should have been fine without until she made it into town herself.

  Nothing to do about it but put her other clothes on. They were wrinkled and slept in, but they didn’t hint at the fact she’d just fingered herself to orgasm while peeping on her temporary roommate.

  She’d skip the early dinner and head into town now, to rectify the rest of the situation. If anyone commented about her buying several days’ worth of clothes, she’d say she was up here camping and hers got ruined.

  The sound of the shower running was louder in here, with the shared wall between bedrooms. She waited until the noise stopped, gave herself a few more minutes, then knocked on Bill’s still-open door.

  He greeted her wearing nothing but jeans. Fuck he was sexy. In that arrogant, assuming kind of way. But so delicious to look at.

  He looked her over, an eyebrow raised and one corner of his mouth tugged up. “The new clothes didn’t work out for you?”

  “Something like that.” She didn’t care what assumptions he was making, or how accurate they were. “I’m heading into town. I meant to go sooner, but time got away from me. I’d like to make sure we’re stocked up for a few days, so if you have any requests...”

  “I’m sure you’ve got it covered. Hang on.” He ducked out of sight, and returned a moment later to hand her a credit card and his keys. “See you soon.”

  Right. She needed to be acting like she didn’t have access to her dead boss’s entire series of bank accounts. She took the offered items. “Thanks.”

  She was slipping. Losing track of time. Of her cover story. Of those little details that kept her looking like she answered to one of the most feared men in the circles of the rich and infamous.

  Her desire to be done with this life was becoming making her careless.

  The market in town wasn’t big, but she liked that. They had enough selection for her to grab a few days worth of food. How would Whisk feel about eating something as basic as canned soup and frozen dinners for a few days? She’d take anywhere from mildly inconvenienced to outright annoyed.

  The entire trip took a little more than an hour. When she got back, he helped her unpack the bags. There were no comments about the food beyond I can work with this.

  Lisa had her back to him, and was putting food in the fridge, when Bill said, “A woman like you should never have to wear underwear that comes in a six pack.”

  He’d found her temporary wardrobe. “Actually, it’s 8.” She turned to face him. “I got two pair free.”

  “So you did. I’m sure you’ll do them justice like no one should be able to do justice to a pair of drug store panties.” He dropped the package back with her other clothing.

  “Thanks?” Any other response stuck in her throat. Was he flirting with her?

  Over the next few days, they fell into a more regular routine. One void of potential flirting. Lisa would sweep the perimeter a few times a day. They’d work in separate rooms. They’d eat together and stay away from any conversation that had any depth, and she’d sleep on the couch, pistol at her side and shotgun on the floor beneath her.

  Whisk had a small washing machine an dryer on site, so she even did laundry. Every time he handed her money or a stack of dirty clothes, she felt more like some sort of personal assistant than the brutal fixer of her reputation.

  It was almost normal, and it terrified her how easily she fell into it.

  At least he was doing the cooking. And the man was tantalizingly good with a cast iron skillet and a few basic ingredients.

  “Where did you grow up?” He asked at breakfast one morning.

  “The queen’s court, where the lion and the unicorn were fighting for the crown. You?” The words flowed without hesitation, but they lacked conviction or enthusiasm. Not that he’d believe her even if she poured all her passion into meaning what she said, but this brand of bullshit drained her.

  Didn’t she leave this behind when she killed Jabberwock?

  Bill gave her a flat smile. “Sounds charming. Did you behead the old queen and assume her throne?”

  “I’m the only queen. There’s no other royalty in Jabberwock’s court.” That was true. Sawyer never trusted anyone else enough to elevate them to a level near his.

  Bill chewed a small bite of bacon for several seconds, expression impassive. “So many girls dream of being princesses. But you shot higher.”

  “Haven’t you seen the movies? The queen is always the villain. It seemed appropriate.” Except she had been one of those girls. When she was younger, waiting for Prince Charming to take her away. As she and Sawyer got into things, telling herself she could use the money to build her own kingdom.

  Which she had now, and didn’t want. “Where did you grow up?” She asked. Not that she expected an answer. His past was as buried as hers.

  “A little small Midwestern town, with a childhood as cliché as it gets for a man in my position. Middle class family. Abusive stepfather. Religion drilled into my head, and when it didn’t stick, delivered with a belt and a harsh fucking.”

  That ice sliding down her spine feeling culminated in a cold ball in her stomach. That wasn’t his past; it was Lisa’s.

  “Harsh sounds right. I’m sorry.” She poured an appropriate amount of sympathy into her reply. The kind she’d expected from strangers when she was younger. Nothing nearly as sincere or concerned as what Alex had given her when he found out.

  It took a force of will she didn’t know she had, to finish breakfast with a pleasant smile and an easy tongue.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Lisa couldn’t let go of Whisk’s accounting of his past. Fictional, she was certain of it, But how...?

  The question bounced in her mind as she roamed the area around the cabin. Her search took her about fifty meters out in a spiral, and she repeated the loop on her way back toward the building, hitting different parts of the forest. She was looking for any signs someone else had been here—broken branches, footprints, or debris.

  Nothing stood out. Something to be grateful for.

  Lisa’s phone buzzed against her thigh, and she grabbed it from her pocket. Her spiders were set up to notify her if they found potential shooter matches to anyone on her contact lists.

  No. She stared at the name on her screen. Why was she surprised? She barely knew the guy.

  But Ephraim wasn’t a hired killer... Except, according to her spiders, he absolutely was.

  Lisa dialed Trinity, and left a message when she didn’t pick up.

  Lisa needed to hand this information over to her people, and let them continue to dig into Ephraim. But the couple of brief conversations she’d had with him insisted she be the one to reach out.

  You’re being stupid.

  She was also spinning her wheels up here. Waiting for Whisk to decide it was time to make his next move. Sitting on her thumbs, hoping to pry a little information out of him.

  She did a quick search for Ephraim’s hotel phone number, dialed the front desk, and asked for him.

  “I didn’t think I’d hear from you again.” His tone was friendly when he answered.

  Then again, Whisk’s tone was friendly unless he was outright insulting or threatening her. “I didn’t think so either.”

  “In that case, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Ephraim asked.

  She should veil her question. Wrap it in innuendo. Come up with some sort of clever way of asking. “Were you hired to kill me?”

  Silence stretched over the line.

  If she’d done this in person, she could watch his face. Look for ticks or tells. Though, she hadn’t caught many of those lately.

  “No,” Ephraim finally said.

  Not convincing.

  He sighed loudly. “But I did see the call. I’ve got the connections. I’ve taken similar jobs in the past. But I used the call as a way to find you, when I couldn’
t find Blake. I never considered the job or took anyone’s money.”

  “I see.” Lisa hadn’t expected him to admit it. She also hadn’t expected to believe him, but that didn’t mean he was telling the truth. “Thank you for taking my call.” I don’t expect we’ll be in contact again. She’d thought the same thing once already, but then, he’d only been loosely related to her being shot at. Now he was one of only a couple likely suspects.

  She disconnected without further fanfare. Why had she called him? There were a series of follow-up searches that would either eliminate him or keep him on the list. Those were running now.

  The fractured conversation with Ephraim mingled with the disconcerting one she’d had with Whisk this morning, both vying for her attention and demanding her decisions. She headed back to the cabin, unable to silence any of the doubts or concerns.

  When she stepped inside, Whisk was waiting for her in the living room. Odd. She rarely saw him during the day outside of meals. Her tension cranked another notch and her neck throbbed in protest.

  “Hey.” He wore a casual smile. “What kind of plans do you have for the day?”

  After this morning? Quadrupling her efforts to find out who he was, and how he’d uncovered details about her past. “I’m open to anything you need from me. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Don’t be like that. You know I don’t want you doing anything you don’t want to.”

  So they were back to that. “Anything I’m doing here can wait. Jabberwock pulled all the critical work from me and delegated.”

  “Fantastic. I need to head back into the city for a few hours, and I’d like your company.”

  “The city? As in, Manhattan? Do you think that’s safe?” Her sense of foreboding slid under her skin. What was he up to?

  “As in. You’ll be with me. I’ll be fine. I even had your stuff dropped off with Dexter, and I thought we’d swing by there and see what kind of progress he’s making. Do you need to change or grab anything before we go?”

  What was the rush? But there wasn’t one. He was trying to keep her off-balance. Still. If she saw the manipulation, she could stop the effects. “I’m good to go now.”

  Conversation on the drive down was benign, similar to what it had been the rest of the week.

  This mild weather is perfect for the cabin.

  That’s a lovely tree.

  Should we get more coffee or do we have enough to last us?

  The entire exchange put Lisa even more on edge. There had to be a tipping point, right? For him, not her. Some moment where he decided whatever he was doing wasn’t worth the effort?

  Where’s that point for me?

  Whisk only had a few stops planned in the city. Standing by his side, watching every person for a threat, almost felt like coming home. So much like what she’d done for Jabberwock. For every other one of his contacts she’d taken down since.

  Being in that frame of mind helped keep her cool when they arrived at Dexter’s building. Why did this—he—matter to her still? It didn’t matter. She’d get over it.

  She stood back a foot while Whisk knocked, her attention on the hallway behind them.

  “S’open.” Dexter’s call was scratchy and weak.

  She hid a wince at the underlying pain in his voice, and followed Whisk into the apartment.

  Dexter was sitting at the counter. The circles under his eyes were prominent now, and he looked thinner than a week ago. “Glad to see rumors of your demise were greatly exaggerated.” Was he talking to her or Whisk? “’S’over there. Finished.”

  Bill gave a short bow and extended an arm, gesturing toward the canvas “Ladies first.”

  Lisa would have rolled her eyes at the false chivalry, but she was too busy pushing down the rush of fear over seeing Dexter’s work.

  She stepped in front of the painting, Whisk by her side. Her own face stared back at her, drawing a pained gasp. The tortured flowing curves she’d snapped a photo of had become her. Naked. Tangled in thorns with wooden locks. Anguish splashed across the painting’s face.

  “You’re an even better muse than I expected.” Bill’s mouth pressed against her ear, his words so soft only she would hear them.

  Uneasiness ran through her. She looked up to find Dexter watching them. Why me? The question lodged in her throat. It was as if all of her sins were reflected back at her through him.

  “Eerie, isn’t it?” Dexter said.

  She shouldn’t ask. She had to know. “What is?”

  “Looking at your reflection when there’s no mirror.”

  Did Dexter mean the painting or him?

  “Are we done here?” She was relieved she kept her voice hard.

  “At least tell the man what you think of his work. That represents dozens of hours of sleepless nights.” Bill’s tone was teasingly chiding.

  Fucker. She held Dexter’s gaze. “You’re immensely talented. It’s beautiful.” Haunting. Terrifying. The most accurate depiction she’d ever seen of her soul.

  “She’s not so great with her words.” Whisk settled a hand on her back as he spoke to Dexter. “It’s perfect. Sleep it off for a few days, and I’ll be in touch.”

  “Thanks.” Dexter sounded anything but grateful.

  Lisa couldn’t look at him again. That reflection was too potent.

  They headed toward the door. Bill stopped a few feet back, and picked up her laptop case and one of her duffel bags. It had taken her far too long to realize her own things were in the room.

  “I’ve got those.” She tried to take the luggage from Whisk as they headed to the elevator.

  “I’d rather you have my back. They’re not heavy.” Was he enjoying this more than as a satisfied patron?

  Probably. If Lisa wanted to walk away, this was the perfect chance. Take out her gun and shoot him in the back. She wouldn’t have dismantled his empire, but she’d throw it into disarray for a while, and another of Sawyer’s contacts would be gone.

  She needed more information, though. What was he up to? Why? Keeping him close was the best way to find out. And if he was getting under her skin, she must be getting under his.

  That was the big problem, though. He was getting under her skin.

  As they headed upstate, she tried to strike a mental balance between being alert, and letting a subset of her demons run rampant in her mind.

  “If you’re worried about the painting, don’t be.” Bill’s voice was softer than it had been all day.

  She spared him a glance. What did he think she was concerned about? “Oh?”

  “It’s not going to hang in a gallery. The world won’t see that representation of you. I’ll replace it with a not-for-sale piece no one has seen yet.”

  Lisa didn’t know how to respond to that. “So all of his work these past weeks...”

  “Produced some unexpected and amazing results. But that piece is mine.”

  The way he said mine clawed over her like a million knives. It sounded too much like Sawyer. Especially during Alex’s last days, when the jealousy became tangible and then turned deadly.

  “Why?” Lisa’s question came out more softly than she wanted.

  “I’ve always respected you,” He said. “Admired you, both for your beauty and skill.” He sounded sincere, but he always did when he needed to. “I was gruff at first, but I needed to poke through at those walls you have up.”

  She swallowed the sharp laugh that wanted to slip out. “We’re you helping me strengthen them?”

  He clucked. “How many men hit on you in your line of work? How many are terrified of you?”

  Almost all of them fell into one category or the other. She was either Queen the Enforcer or Dormouse the Fuck Toy.

  “I wanted you to stop mincing words with me.” If Bill had any idea the impact his words were having, it didn’t show. “And it worked.”

  Lisa couldn’t do this with him. Not now. She didn’t have the emotional strength to pick through if this was a game or not. “Are you worried
about Dexter?” She didn’t care that the change in subject was obvious. “He didn’t look good.”

  “He’s embracing he muse. This is how he works—binging everything. He gets high. He creates. He crashes for a while.”

  “That doesn’t sound healthy.”

  “It’s expensive. Why do you think he agreed to work for me?” The stoniness Of Whisk’s tone bothered Lisa.

  Why was she surprised by any of it? Because he’d been polite to her for a few days? “I see,” she said.

  Bill sighed. “Obsession is a powerful motivator. As long as you’re the one driving.”

  A fist clenched around her heart at the words. Alex used to say the same thing. About his love for her. About Sawyer.

  She missed him so much. She’d moved on, it was true, but the simplicity of their life... their shared passions... She wanted those things back.

  No one else was going to give it to her. Not Whisk. Not Dexter or Ephraim.

  But could Lisa even offer it to herself? Or would peace always be out of her reach?

  Chapter Seventeen

  Over the next several days, Lisa wore her heaviest emotional mask. Whisk wouldn’t see any weakness in her. On the other hand, her mind spun out of control, trying to sort out who was honest, who was full of shit, and who had her worst interests at heart.

  She needed someone to talk this through with. Trinity was unreachable by phone, she only responded by text. Lisa wanted to have this conversation in person, and leaving Whisk’s side for several hours, taking his car to meet Trinity somewhere, wasn’t an option.

  Her thoughts spun around questions with no answers for the millionth time as she patrolled the perimeter that morning. If she didn’t get something out of her head—find a resolution somewhere—she was going to lose her mind.

  Impulse snaked through her, and she grabbed her phone. If she dialed this number, she’d never be able to use it again. She shouldn’t have it, and she’d promised herself on if it was an absolute emergency.

  Blake may not be happy that she’d kept close enough tabs on him to know how to call him.

  She dialed, her pulse hammering harder with each ring in her ear.