Breaking the Rules

by Katie McGarry

  Noah offers his hand, and the two guys shake for a really, really long time as they stare each other down. I shift footing, and they finally let go. Noah crosses his arms over his chest and seems to be made of stone while Hunter regards Noah with as much interest as I would garbage.

  This meeting is going well.

  “There are lots of easels here. Does that mean there will be other people?” asks Noah.

  “Are you asking if I’m going to be alone with Echo?” Hunter retorts. I swallow a sigh. The meaning behind Noah’s question is whether or not Hunter prefers to torture his victims before or after he ties them up.

  When Noah doesn’t respond, Hunter barely moves his hands in an I-don’t-know-fashion. “I don’t hover over my artists. There are plenty of them, and they come and go as they please.”

  Crap, Noah’s going to love this. I spin on my heel and grab Noah’s hand. “I don’t want you to be late. I’m sure other people will show soon.”

  I also eye meld, brain express, beg for psychic abilities to remind Noah that this was his idea, regardless of the fact that I was going to do it anyway, and that he agreed to play nice.

  “Where do you work?” Hunter asks, but it’s obvious from the T-shirt that Noah’s spending time at the Malt and Burger.

  “I start college in the fall,” Noah answers, and this surge of pride skips through me. I’ve never heard Noah answer like that before.

  “Noah’s going to be an architect,” I add.

  “Flipping burgers is the backup plan?” Hunter asks, and my stomach drops.

  My mouth pops open because I should say something to defend Noah, but he beats me to it. “I like humble. Keeps me in my place.”

  Hunter snorts a half laugh. Maybe working with him is a bad idea.

  Noah ignores Hunter and looks down at me. “You okay here?”

  “Yeah.” I think.

  Noah frames my face and gently kisses my lips. “I’ll be back soon, baby.”

  A part of me melts when I spot that wicked glint in his eyes that tells me that I’m officially naked in his mind. I bite my lip as he releases me.

  “I love you,” I say.

  Noah flashes me a pirate smile and disappears down the stairs.

  “Bad-boy phase?” Hunter asks after Noah’s footsteps fade.

  I wrinkle my forehead and return to the canvas. “He’s not a phase, and he’s not that bad. You freaked him out by showing at our hotel room.”

  “Did I scare you?”

  Something in his voice causes me to whip my head in his direction. Hunter appears casual with his hip cocked against a table that contains multiple bowls of fruit. He’s dressed up in a pressed pair of jeans and a black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. But his question feels weighted.

  “No, you didn’t scare me.” Yeah, he did a little, but I have one last chance to prove my talent outside my mother’s influence, and I’m not going to blow it again by telling the truth.

  “Good.” Hunter straightens. “Do you need a picture of the Aires constellation?”

  Not when it’s engraved as scar tissue on my soul. “I know it by heart.”

  Amid the sensation of bliss comes a wave of disorientation. Dizzy, I shut my eyes and sink to the stool next to the canvas. Aires. I miss you. So much that part of me always feels like I’m dying a painful death.

  “What are you going to start with?” Hunter asks and my eyes reopen.

  “The horizon.” Because that’s safe. Light still exists in the horizon. I combine the red and yellow to create the hue I desire then focus on last night’s sunset and the memory of Noah’s strong arms holding me.

  Noah

  Lucky for me, the Malt and Burger is packed again, giving me little time to focus on Echo with that cocky bastard. The noise from the crowded restaurant reaches a new decibel of loud, and the heat from the grill causes sweat to form along the roots of my hair.

  I toss on two more patties and squeeze the hell out of two already frying. Wish it was Hunter I was throttling. The reason I didn’t tear out of that art attic with Echo over my shoulder was that damn light shining from her face when she saw the blank canvas and paint.

  I don’t claim to understand her obsession with art, but I understand Echo. If I don’t grant her the space she needs to play with her passion, she could run from me.

  Mia sashays up and bends over to rest her arms on the counter, exposing what she thinks I want to see. “There’s going to be a field party tomorrow night at the fry cook’s place. Drinking, drugging, a little casual sex.”

  I flip a patty and slam my spatula on it. The grease pouring out sizzles. “I told you—”

  Her laughter cuts me off. “That you’re going to get your heart ripped out very soon because you can’t read the signs of a bad-boy phase going downhill. Yeah, I know. You told me. That doesn’t mean that I can’t find other mice to play with in the meantime. So here’s another bullet point to add to your growing number of checklist items. Did your boring person once enjoy being at a good party and now wants to stay home and watch Wheel of Fortune?”

  The answer is, I don’t know. I watched Echo throw a few beers back before graduation. Fuck, one of the first times I screwed with her was at a party where she was drunk off her ass. But after we left Kentucky, parties haven’t come up. “Not your business.”

  I slide the patty off the grill, lay it on the bun and shove the plate in her direction. “Someone pays you to deliver this, don’t they?”

  She only winks. “Party, tomorrow night, nine o’clock. Ask your girl and find the answer.”

  My muscles lock up when I think of Echo at those gallery shows this summer. She glided through the parties as if she belonged, as if she was finally in her element, and I stood out like that damn beaver with the headphones.

  This morning, Echo said she was terrified that we were going to change, but what if the problem is that she has and I haven’t? If I ask my girl to a party, would she say yes or no? Does she still belong in my world?

  I rub the tension out of my shoulder. Fuck it. It’s a party. Not a verdict from the jury. Mia’s good at messing with my mind, and I’ve got to stop letting her.

  I glance at the clock then at the neighboring grill. The other cook is already filling orders. It’s fifteen minutes past the end of my shift, and I’m done. I yank the bandanna off, and my hair falls into my eyes.

  “I’m out,” I shout at the manager.

  “Noah!” he responds from the register. A line of people shift impatiently as they wait for him to ring them out. “Just a few more minutes.”

  A few more minutes with Mia may cost me my sanity. “I’ve got to pick my girl up.” I clock out then bolt for the alley door.

  The evening air cools the sweat crawling along my neck, and I lean against the brick wall to gain my bearings. A car honks from the main street at the end of the alley. Real life isn’t what’s happening in that fast-food joint. The real world is out here. It was last night under the stars and holding Echo in my arms.

  We made love. Echo never would have made love to me if she wasn’t going to stick it through. Me and Echo. We’re good.

  “We’re good,” I say to myself, and push off the wall. It’s time to find my girl and prove it.

  Echo

  Crouching on my knees, I brush the red paint along the curvature, and heat licks along my skin. Images flash in my mind, so hauntingly real, so utterly divine. It’s like Noah’s fingers are gliding against my body. His hands are rough from the wear and tear of his normal day, but they are also gentle. So gentle that with a simple touch he can easily coax my body to respond to him, and then those encounters of being with Noah leak into my dreams.

  My mind is racing—so fast that my hand can hardly keep up. A stroke here, a smudge there, a blendi
ng of lines here to show how Noah and I were separate then merged into one. My eyes dart over the painting, searching for the next color, the next shadow, the next way to bring the canvas to life.

  A curl swings into my eyesight, and my cheek becomes wet as I impatiently wipe it away. My fingers are slick, and a drop rolls from my hand onto my arm. It doesn’t bother me, but the slickness of the brush does. I readjust my grip yet the brush falls from my hands and rolls on the floor until it stops at bare feet.

  Bare feet.

  I’m not alone.

  Fear rages through my veins, and I jump back. My heart gallops as if I was on a dead run, and my hand flies to my chest as if I could catch it. I assess the room filled with people, attempting to find the threat.

  Filled? Maybe not filled, but full. My mouth dries out. Yeah, there was nobody here before. Hunter was here, but left, then it was empty and I was alone and now it’s full...almost filled...and every eye is gawking at me.

  “Nine hours.” My head whips to the right, toward the sound of Hunter’s voice. “You haven’t moved from that canvas for nine hours. Not to think. Not to use the bathroom. Not to eat. Your hand moved like you were a machine. I’ve never seen a thing like it.”

  I smooth out my clothes as if that would save me from this weird attention and try to maintain eye contact with Hunter. No threat. There is no threat. Deep breaths, Echo. Stop acting like a sideshow freak.

  But still, there’s a room full of people—watching me. Not only are they sitting on the floor, they’re also lounging on stools or standing against the wall, but they’re all staring at me as if I’m twirling flaming batons.

  “I get this way sometimes,” I explain, then clear my throat as a girl leans over to whisper in another girl’s ear. They share a glinted look then smile. Blood rushes to my pressure points. They’re probably disgusted by my scars. “I...uh...get lost in the painting.”

  “Does it happen every time you paint?” asks Hunter.

  “I usually get pulled out pretty quick.” By the school bell or Dad or Noah.

  “But you didn’t answer my question.” Hunter weaves through the mass of bodies. His loafers click against the wooden subflooring. Most of the people in the room are young. My age or twenties. Over to the left there are several women with gray in their hair. For kicks there appears to be one or two token older men. “Is this what happens to you when you paint? Do you always become...hypnotized?”

  Yes. And only my art teacher and Noah know. It’s something that’s private because...because I’m scared what it means at times. If I lose myself in a painting, what does that imply for my sanity?

  Layers of paint cover my hands, and I fist my fingers, understanding that my face might be caked in color, as well. Great. I literally have an audience.

  When Hunter reaches me, I ask my own question instead of answering his. “Who...” And I motion to...everyone else. Flustered as I am, “who” will work fine as a question.

  “Echo...” A grin spreads across Hunter’s face. Dang. He’s definitely handsome. That is if I were into guys ten years older than me. “...this is everyone. Everyone, this is Echo.”

  The greetings blow in like a storm gale. Most are hi’s and hellos along with a few what’s ups. All of them from friendly faces.

  “Hi,” I shyly say back then whisper to Hunter, “Not what I meant.”

  “I know. Some of them work for me, some study under me full-time and some are taking classes at various universities around the world and are spending the summer with me for credit hours. Summers can mean a full house.”

  “And winters,” adds someone from the back.

  “I was trying not to scare her,” Hunter responds. “Everyone go find something to do and stop staring at the new girl.”

  Why couldn’t Noah see any of this? I pick up the paint brush and begin to clean it. “So I’m not the only person you chase after to paint?”

  He laughs. “Actually, you are. Everyone else had to go through a rigorous application process. Paperwork, essays, major portfolio critiques. There are a limited number of spots in my program.”

  I angle my back to him as I set the brush down. “Is there an open spot?”

  “Not until next year.”

  Dang it. Long internal sigh. Because I’m in theory a big girl, I confront him again. “So why allow me to do this?”

  “Trial by fire,” he answers. “I wanted to see what you would create if I pushed you, and if you could handle the stress of doing it under pressure.”

  “Why?”

  His eyes turn deadly serious. “Because I expect a lot from my artists. My program is in top demand, and I want to see if you have talent I can work with. With that said, consider yourself special.”

  Hunter inclines his head to my canvas and even I suck in a breath when I notice the horizon before me. I’ve returned to my Impressionist roots. Peace drifts into my soul. When I began painting again after the incident with my mother, I developed an abstract style, and I thought I lost my original love.

  It’s nowhere near done. There are so many colors and shadows and problems to be fixed, but a part of me warms at the sight. It’s the sunset and field that belonged to me and Noah. It’s the eve of the night that we made love.

  “You’ve got talent,” Hunter says.

  A smile bursts onto my face. He said it. Hunter Gray said that I have talent. Wow. Just wow.

  “But there’s a problem. A big one I’m not sure I can forgive.”

  My entire being plummets to the point that I’m convinced I’ve been incinerated, and my ashes have been thrown to the ground. “I just started. I know it needs work.”

  He owns the same hard expression my dad wears when he’s disappointed in me. I shrink from Hunter, reminding me of how I always shrank from my father.

  “I asked for the Aires constellation. Not a sunset. Are you capable of doing what you’re told or are you only capable of painting one picture? Lots of artists can do that—paint or draw one solid image over and over again. I want more.”

  “I have tons of paintings and drawings I can show you.”

  He silences me with his hand, and I consider ripping it off. “I want the Aires constellation. That was our agreement. Are you doing it or not?”

  My foot taps the floor. This summer I’ve craved to hear that I possess talent, to know that I have a shot at a career with my art and I’ve reached the goal. Hunter said that I have talent. While part of me considers telling him where to shove his silencing hand gestures, another part of me desires his approval. What forces my foot to move faster is that I don’t understand why.

  “What do I get out of it?” I ask. It’s a bold question for me, and my palms grow cold and clammy.

  Hunter snorts, but when I say nothing, he actually smirks. “You’re serious.”

  Nervous adrenaline courses through me, and I have to swallow to keep air flowing through my windpipe. Noah has told me how Isaiah hustles people for favors or car parts and that the most important rule in making any deal is to have expectations on the table up front.

  I’ve never hustled before, but I never thought I’d be the girl who made love to Noah Hutchins. There’s a first time for everything. “If I showed here with my paintings and drawings, I would have hoped that you’d offer to show something of mine in your gallery.”

  A pause for his reaction. “Why can’t that be the same agreement here? You paint me Aires and if I like it, I’ll hang it in my gallery.”

  “I’ll paint you Aires, but it won’t be finished before I go home. I’ll have to finish it in Kentucky then send it to you. Look at my paintings now, and if you like what you see, hang one of them in the meantime.”

  “When do you leave?”

  “In a few days.”

  Hunter assesses the canvas before him. “If you paint
this fast, you’ll be close enough to done before you go.”

  I’m shaking my head before he finishes. “I can’t paint Aires that fast.”

  “You can.”

  “But I won’t.”

  He doesn’t blink and neither do I.

  “I’ve got plenty of people hoping for a shot and none of them are demanding a thing from me. Why should I do this for you?”

  This will either work or I’m nailing my coffin shut. “You’re the one that said I was special, not me.”

  Hunter laughs so loudly that people look up from their canvases. “Bring in your five best paintings and drawings tomorrow, but I want the Aires constellation on the next canvas. Got it?”

  I clap like a small child at the circus. “Yes. You won’t regret it. I’ll get as much done as I can before I leave.”

  Someone calls Hunter’s name, and he walks away, ending our conversation. My phone vibrates in my back pocket and the cup of joy inside me overflows with Noah’s text: On my way.

  Me: I’ll be waiting.

  Noah

  Echo keeps the canvas angled toward her, and she swivels it from side to side as I fish the key card out of my wallet. She’s had a silly smile on her face the entire ride back from the gallery and while I’m not fond of Hunter, I miss seeing that type of light in her eyes.

  “Are you going to let me see it?” I ask.

  “Once we’re inside.”

  The door clicks, releasing the lock, and when I push it open, the voice of an announcer mentioning a two-one count carries out of the room and into the hall. Echo wrinkles her nose, possibly having forgotten about our guests. “Or not.”

  “You want me to put it back in the car?”

  “It needs to dry. I should have left it at the gallery, but I was too excited for you to see it.”

  And neither Echo nor I were eager for me to visit the gallery so she brought it to me. I hold the door open for her and Echo heads in.

  “S’up, Echo,” Isaiah calls. His heavy combat boots hang off the side of the bed. When I come into view, he tips his chin at me. “Noah.”