The Lion and the Artist

by Veronica Sommers

  I raise my eyes to his, forgetting everything I had planned to say. He licks his lips, parting them, and tipping his head down, nearer to mine—but a sharp scream snaps our attention to the bathroom door. There's a flurry of running footsteps—multiple people pelting through the hallway at once. Something heavy slams against the door.

  Oakland's head cocks, and his nostrils flare. "Smoke," he says. "There's a fire."

  "Oh, god. We have to get out of here." I unlock the door, and Oakland shifts so I can open it. I can smell it now, the smoke drifting down the hallway.

  Oakland pushes me forward. "Go!" he says. "Get outside. Hurry!"

  "But you—"

  "I'm going to check on it—make sure everyone from that part of the building got out okay."

  "That's a job for the firemen." I fold my arms. "You don't need to act like some kind of hero."

  He strips off the eye patch and hat, throwing them to the ground. "Just go, Marilyn. Please. I have to know that you're safe." He's begging me with those green eyes, with the anxious tilt of his head.

  "I'll go," I say. "But you check fast and get your ass right outside to the car. Understand?"

  "Yes, ma'am." He charges down the now-empty hallway and disappears around the corner. A haze of smoke is already creeping into this section of the hall.

  The sight of that haze paralyzes me.

  Once, years ago, I saw a fire demonstration. The firemen brought a fake room to the parking lot of my school and set it alight, telling us all the while about fire hazards, survival strategies, and most of all, how important it was to leave a burning building as quickly as possible. They explained how dramatically and suddenly the temperatures could skyrocket. And we saw what happened to the drywall, the paint, the curtains, and the furniture in that little demo room.

  I just let Oakland run toward the fire. He's totally the type to play hero and get himself stupidly killed. He'll be burned alive, roasted in that beautiful skin of his—damn it all! I break and dash down the hall after him, planning to haul him outside myself.

  But when I round the corner, a wall of searing heat smacks me in the face. There's more smoke here; it's already crawling into my lungs, singeing and burning. I choke and stagger back.

  "Oakland!" I shriek.

  He should have been visible. He didn't have that much lead time. But I can't see him anywhere, and my eyes are stinging.

  I'm not getting myself killed for that playboy idiot, even if he did try to hold my hair in the bathroom. I turn and run through the first floor, hating myself with every pounding step. I fly through the main hall and out the front doors.

  A crowd of anxious faces greets me, hundreds of eyes staring. The partygoers have all congregated along the edge of the lawn, swarming the driveway. I want to scream at them to get farther away, that the fire trucks will need space to get through, to reach the house. But instead I hurry mutely down the steps and merge myself with the crowd, hoping that the press of knees and elbows will dull the guilt pounding in my heart, the guilt at leaving Oakland behind.

  The fire trucks arrive within moments, sirens shrilling and horns buzzing. Flames are licking from three of the second-story windows. I sink my fingernails into the meat of my palms and grind my teeth against the agony of suspense.

  The hoses are hooked up, the firefighters are heading in—and then Oakland appears, half-dragging two figures. The guy on his right shoulder is coughing raggedly, and the girl grasped in his left arm appears to be unconscious. Firemen collect them from Oakland and guide them toward a waiting ambulance. I move forward without thinking, drawn to Oakland like a magnet to metal.

  A burly figure blocks my view of him.

  "There you are!" Jeremy still wears the Zorro hat and mask. "I was hoping you got out okay. Where'd you go, anyway?" There's an edge to his gaze—not concern, but suspicion.

  I prop my hands on my hips. "I was in the bathroom, being sick." And you didn't come to look for me, even when you heard about the fire.

  "Alone?" Jeremy prods, his eyes flinty.

  "It's none of your business," I snap. "I'm not your girlfriend."

  Anger, pain, and desire churn in his eyes. "I thought we were getting along. You know, rebuilding."

  "Jeremy, I said 'friends,' and I meant it." I shoulder past him, intent on finding Oakland, but Carynne and Laura bar my way next, with Cliff behind them.

  "Thank God!" Laura gasps. She's white as ash, her eyes wider than ever. There's something brittle about her, in the way her fingers flutter over my arms and face, checking me for injury. She's been badly shaken.

  "I'm okay, Laura," I reassure her, catching her hands. "We're all good. We're safe."

  "How about Oakland bein' the big hero?" Carynne gives a little shiver. "So hot."

  "Hey!" Cliff squeezes her shoulders. "I got you outta there, didn't I? Where's the love?"

  "Right here, baby." She turns and presses her mouth to his.

  "Get a room," Jeremy mutters.

  "Great idea!" says Cliff. "Let's get gone. I'll grab Oak."

  -6-

  If I Can't Have You

  Oakland keeps his distance from me the next morning, and I hate that I notice it. He and Jeremy latch onto a collection of teen girls with itty-bitty bikinis and a volleyball, and they spend most of the late morning laughing with them. I could join, but I've been itching to draw, so I sit on the sand with my iPad and stylus, sketching the lines of their bodies. It's tough, drawing humans in motion like this, but it's good practice.

  Once, the ball flies in my direction, and Oakland chases it, skidding across the beach and sending a spattering of sand over my iPad.

  "Geez, Oak!" I cry, snatching it up and blowing the sand off. "Watch it!"

  He bends over me, hands on his knees, and I try not to stare at the beautiful abs in my line of sight. A tiny gold pendant in the shape of a puma dangles from a thin chain around his neck.

  "What are you drawing?" he asks.

  "C'mon, bring back the ball!" calls one of the volleyball girls.

  Oakland ignores her. "Let me see, Marilyn. Please."

  I glance up, startled by the plea. Reluctantly I hand him the tablet.

  It's a sketch of him from behind, leaping for the ball. I'm kinda proud of the linework—I think I captured his strength and vitality—that animal grace of his.

  He stares at it, and I watch him anxiously. His eyes meet mine, and he gives me a huge grin that makes my heart flutter in response—actually flutter, like a stupid little junior higher with a crush.

  "Oak! Come on!" The shout is Jeremy's and it carries a heavy dose of irritation.

  Oakland doesn't break eye contact with me. "Dinner tonight?"

  I gather enough breath to say, "Yes."

  He bends so close my breath catches, but all he does is set the tablet across my lap, his lips brushing my hair. Then he scoops up the ball and jogs back to the others.

  I duck my head and let my hair tumble across the side of my face to hide my smile. And I don't stop smiling for maybe the next hour.

  The rest of the day drags—a late lunch, a little shopping, more beach time. Around six o'clock, Oakland disappears. I don't think he even used the excuse I gave him—he just left.

  Half an hour later, after primping a little and putting on a cute sundress, I ask Laura if I can borrow her car. "I need a little alone time. Gonna find a quiet coffee shop and draw."

  "Are you sure?" She frowns. "We're going to try that club tonight. I thought you'd wanna come. You like dancing."

  "I do, but we just partied last night and I'm tired. Forgive me?"

  "Sure." She hands me the keys. "Take good care of my baby."

  "I will."

  I hurry outside and unlock Laura's car.

  "Going somewhere?"

  I jump guiltily and spin around. "Hi Jer! Just going to, um, getting a mani-pedi and do some drawing in a quiet place."

  "I'll come with you." He steps forward.

  My laugh shakes a little. "To get
a mani-pedi? Yeah, right." But he's circling the car, heading for the passenger door. "Seriously, Jer, I need some alone time. To decompress, and process everything. To, um—to think about us." I squirm inside, hating myself for manipulating him this way, for giving him false hope.

  But it works. His eyes light up. "You'll think it over? For real?"

  I nod, swallowing. "Yes. I just need a little space, and time. Okay?"

  "Okay." He moves back. "Come find me when you get back and we'll talk."

  Ugh. "Sure."

  As I drive away, I curse myself aloud for doing that to him. I already know how our post-dinner conversation will go, so it's not fair to lead him on. But I didn't know how else to make him let me go—and that, in itself, is a warning sign. He's not the kind of guy who listens to what I want, or gives me my way, unless it works to his benefit somehow. It's not new behavior—he acted that way the whole time we were dating; but back then, I interpreted his possessiveness as a sign of passion. It was flattering.

  Now that I've had time to think, to recover, I can see his actions for what they were—the products of selfishness, obsession, and jealousy. The evidence of his desire to be woven deep into my life's fabric, until I can't move without seeing him, thinking of him, making my choices always with him in mind.

  I'm at the seafood restaurant Oakland named almost before I realize it. It's a casual place, all weather-beaten boards, with strings of golden lights across an outdoor dining patio. I park in the sandy gravel lot and lean my head back against the seat, closing my eyes, purging Jeremy from my thoughts. Tonight is about Oakland. It's about him proving to me that he isn't just a charmer with too many notches in his belt. Or maybe he is, and I'm kidding myself. This could just be a ploy to get in my pants. If so, I need to decide if I care. Because when I think of him, I picture him in swim trunks, water gleaming on his body, his dark curls glistening under the sun—and I think about notching my fingers into his waistband and tugging those swim trunks down, and wrapping my legs around his waist, and—

  My eyes snap open, and I shift in my seat. Damn. I need to stop thinking that way, or I'll never get through this dinner—at least not comfortably.

  Knuckles rap on the car window, and I jump dramatically. When I open the door, Oakland is chuckling. "Sorry I scared you."

  He's wearing a crisp white shirt, open at the neck, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His jeans fit his long legs snugly.

  I cut my eyes away from him and rise out of the car. He knows he's handsome—it will only stroke his ego if I stare.

  "You look amazing," he says softly.

  "You don't have to compliment me." I say it more harshly than I meant to. "This isn't a date."

  "Right. Just dinner."

  We're both silent as we walk into the restaurant. We follow the server to an outdoor table and order drinks—wine for him, sweet tea for me.

  "You don't want any wine?" Oakland asks, brows lifting.

  "No." It would make me warm and comfortable, loosen my tongue, probably—but it would also keep me from observing him closely enough and making the judgment calls that I need to make. No wine for me. "I'm kind of a lightweight and I want to keep my head clear."

  He nods politely, but the ensuing silence feels thick, heavy, and uncomfortable.

  I open the menu and stare at it, my cheeks warming. Why did I agree to this?

  More silence.

  And then Oakland slaps his menu down. "Okay, enough of this. Let's look at the evidence. You dressed up. I dressed up. Awkward silence—check. Nerves going crazy—check. At least for me." He lays a hand across his stomach, as if he has the same fluttering moths inside it that I have in mine. "Sneaking away and lying so we can hang out—that seems significant too. So let's call this what it is and cut the bullshit." His green eyes hold mine, a spell that I can't break, that I don't want to break. "This is our first date, Marilyn."

  The way he says it makes it sound like the first of many. Like the beginning of something that could continue for a very long time.

  I hold his gaze. "You know what? I think you may be right."

  Slowly he smiles, and it's like sunrise. I smile back, and the tension is gone, shifting into easy warmth.

  "So those drawings," he says. "I knew you were good, but damn! I didn't expect the level of skill I saw today. Tell me more about your work."

  We don't stop talking for the next two hours. He's going to be an accountant—numbers are a language he understands—and yet, from the way he engages with me about my graphic design work, it's obvious he has some artistic knowledge as well,. He's smarter than I gave him credit for, with an analytical mind and a subtle eloquence that's at once oddly old-fashioned and really refreshing.

  "You talk differently than most of the guys I know," I tell him. "Not so much slang. Bigger words."

  He laughs. "My family is a little old-fashioned, I guess. My brother and sister and I grew up in this big house on the mountain, and we went to a private school. My dad always criticized popular culture and emphasized the classics, so we had to sneak in our modern TV and movies without him knowing."

  "Your brother and sister—they're younger than you?"

  "Yeah. My sister's a sophomore this fall, and my brother Ryden is still in high school. He's a mess, that kid. Both of them, actually. Wild as hell, and super annoying." He shakes his head, but his eyes shine and his smile widens.

  "You miss them."

  "Lame, huh? I barely saw them this summer. We were all so busy with work and friends and travel."

  "It's not lame." My fingers inch across the table, covering his left hand. Just for a second, and then I draw back and focus very intently on cutting my roasted broccoli into tiny chunks.

  "What about you? Do you have siblings?" he asks.

  "My parents split up about ten years ago. My brother Clark lives with my dad, and I'm with my mom. It's good, though. Clark visits, we call each other—we're pretty close."

  "Clark and Marilyn, huh?"

  "Yeah, my mom has a thing for old Hollywood actors."

  From there we transition to chatting about our favorite actors, and our fandoms in movies and in books. Oakland likes science fiction—an interest he shares with Jeremy—and when he mentions a convention they attended together, my smile disappears. I can't help it.

  Oakland notices, of course. "Sorry. I shouldn't have mentioned him."

  "No, no," I say. "He's your friend, and you should be able to talk about him. Don't worry about me—it's fine."

  "Why'd you two break up, anyway?" He says it nonchalantly, but his green eyes flash up to meet mine, full of intense interest.

  "Do you really want to know?" Do I really want to tell him? I haven't told anyone the real reason. Maybe I was ashamed. Maybe I loved Jeremy enough to want to protect him from stares and censure. Maybe I was wrong not to say anything.

  Oakland nods, so I take a deep breath. "When Jeremy gets drunk—which he did too often last semester—he gets mean. He'd yell at me, say horrible things—but I always brushed it off and tried to pretend it didn't count, because he was drunk. And then he hit me twice one night. I let it go, but it happened again. He pushed me into a dresser. Almost broke my back."

  Shock and disbelief battle in Oakland's eyes. "But Jeremy—I've known him for a few years now. He's a good guy."

  Resentment coils cold in my heart. He doesn't believe me. And that's probably the reason I didn't tell—because no one would ever believe that blue-eyed, red-headed, fun-loving Jeremy could hurt a girl. Could smash her into a dresser so hard that her vision splintered and her body exploded with pain.

  "Have you seen him drunk?" I say.

  "Buzzed, yeah. Drunk—a couple times. He was belligerent, sure. Knocked everything off a table in a bar once. But hitting a woman? I can't imagine him doing that."

  "Imagine it or don't, whatever you want," I snap. "It happened."

  Oakland's shock softens into sympathy, and he reaches across the table for my hand. "I'm sorry. It
's not that I don't believe you—I do. It's hard to grasp that someone I know, a friend, would physically hurt someone that I—" He breaks off, looking away from me, down at the hand that has slipped over mine. He turns my hand over, palm up on the table, and runs one thick, tanned finger along the underside of each of my fingers.

  I stop breathing.

  "Your hands are so small," he says softly. Then, slowly, his brows draw together, forming a thunderous frown on his handsome face. "You want me to go beat him up for you? Because I will."

  I give him a half-smile. "No. I think he's working on the drinking thing, and it means something that he'd put in the effort. Maybe just keep an eye on him, though, especially if he starts dating someone else. I don't want any other girl to go through what I did."

  Oakland starts to speak—and then his face freezes, his eyes fixed on something behind me. Four slender fingers and a thumb grip my shoulder tightly enough to be uncomfortable, and I turn, instantly alarmed. Behind me stands a forty-something woman in a low-cut, blood-red dress with spiky black flowers scattered along the neckline. Her sleek black hair pours over one shoulder, held away from her face with a sparkling black pin. Ruby earrings cluster along her earlobes, and her left ear bears a jagged black spike through the top. How does she sleep with that thing? She must have to take it out every night.

  "Oakland, sugar," she says. "I'm so sorry I'm late. I hope you two didn't have too much fun yet, without me."

  My head snaps around, fixing Oakland with a harsh stare. Did he set me up, hoping for some kind of threesome situation?

  "I didn't invite her," he says quickly, his eyes begging me to believe him. "And I don't want her here."

  "Is that so?" The woman tightens her grip on my shoulder, and I wince.

  "Cut it out." I twist, trying to shake her off—but a sudden spike of pain lances through my shoulder bones. She must have pressed a nerve—there's no other explanation for the intensity of the agony. I gasp, my eyes watering, and the woman lays her other hand over my lips.