The Lion and the Artist

by Veronica Sommers

  Through my terror, my brain sends a message. Panther. Cougar. Mountain lion. Synonyms for the beast snarling not six feet away, its jaws a bare inch from Jeremy's ear.

  Jeremy whimpers. The mountain lion, or whatever it is, leaps off him, smearing the blood from the claw wounds across his back—and it flips him over with a single push of one massive paw. There's a patch of wet gray sand where Jeremy peed himself in fright. He's sobbing, slobbering, as the panther hitches a claw into the waistband of his swim trunks and drags them down. Its muzzle approaches his privates, long yellow teeth bared, jaws parting—

  It's going to bite off his—

  "No!" I scream, because even though Jeremy's an idiot, almost a rapist, and a wreck of a human being, that punishment would be too much, too permanent, too horrible. Worse than death. "No, please!"

  My arms and legs are shaking. My whole body is shaking so hard I can barely speak. Why am I talking to a wild animal? It's not as if it can understand me, right?

  But the way it purposely removed Jeremy's shorts—the way it turns to look at me now, menacing, but alert—it's almost as if it understands. As if it's listening.

  So, like an idiot, I speak to it, as if it can comprehend.

  "Not that," I say, trembling. "Maybe he deserves it, but—not that. Please don't."

  The panther growls and holds a menacing clawed paw over Jeremy, still looking at me. It slashes once, twice—lightly across his groin, then again over his chest, raking through skin and flesh. I scream and look away while Jeremy's cries assault my ears.

  After a minute, when my ex's yells have subsided to sobs, I open my eyes again. Jeremy is bleeding heavily, and the panther lies in the sand by my feet, relaxed and solemn as a sphinx.

  "Oh, damn." I stagger to my feet, wavering, and the panther rises instantly, shouldering up next to me as if to offer support. I scramble away and fall. Claw my way upright again and clamber onto the porch, to the swing where I left my purse. I fumble for my phone and dial 911 clumsily, redoing the number again and again while the panther stares at me from the edge of the golden circle cast by the porch light. Its eyes gleam brilliant green, with hints of gold. It stares as I stammer through the call, stares when I hang up and back slowly toward the screen door.

  I need to get some cloths, something to staunch the bleeding from Jeremy's wounds. Not that I want to. The bastard probably deserves to bleed out. But unlike him, I'm a decent human being.

  Easing the screen door open, I back inside and dart for the bathroom.

  When I come back out with an armful of towels, the panther is gone.

  I crouch beside Jeremy, pressing the towels to the worst of the slashes, the ones in his chest. I'm positive I catch a glimpse of glistening white rib through one of the gaping wounds, right before I clamp the towel in place over it.

  Jeremy trembles, moaning, his pupils huge and dark. Sweat shines on his forehead, and he's paler than the sand—too pale. He's going into shock.

  "Shh," I say automatically, before I remember that he doesn't deserve my comfort. His shorts are still down around his thighs, and I pull them back up gingerly, nauseated by the sight of him, by what he almost did to me. The nausea spikes suddenly, and I scramble away, vomiting into a shallow depression in the sand. I cover the mess with more sand and crawl back to Jeremy, tears bursting from my eyes and slicking my cheeks in a silent flood. I can't stop them.

  Someone touches my shoulder, and I scream.

  "Marilyn, it's okay! It's me. It's just me."

  Oakland. Oh, hell. I swallow another surge of bile and turn my head away from the concern and shock in his green eyes. Dimly my brain registers that he's wearing different clothes, that he looks more rumpled than he did at the restaurant.

  "Marilyn, what the hell is this?" he says. "What happened?"

  "An animal attacked him," I gasp, pressing down harder on the blood-soaked towels. "I called 911."

  "I thought he'd be with the others, wherever they are."

  "I thought so too, but apparently he was drinking. Too much. He—" I don't want to tell him, but he's going to hear it anyway when the police come. I'm going to tell them. "He came on to me, and when I said no, he didn't listen. He wouldn't stop. But then—the thing, it jumped on him."

  "Thing?"

  "A mountain lion, but huge. Bigger than they're supposed to be, I think. But I'm not sure—I've never seen one in person. And what was a mountain lion doing here, near the beach?"

  "Weird." But he doesn't look confused. His eyes are stormy, furious. "Are you okay? Here, let me do this." He moves my hands, placing his over the compresses instead. "Just—sit. Breathe. Did he hurt you? Your cheekbone looks bruised."

  "He slapped me."

  Oakland's upper lip twitches and curls. "I should let him bleed out."

  "Oak! He's your friend. And he's not usually like this," I say. "Only when he's drunk."

  "If I'd known, I would never have let you come back here alone."

  "Let me? Since when do you let me do things?"

  "Since I—since you—" He swallows. "Since never."

  "Damn straight." I narrow my eyes at him, embracing my anger as a lifeline that keeps me from sinking into shock and nausea.

  He doesn't look at me. And he's spared from saying anything else, because the wail of sirens splits the quiet of the beach.

  ***

  Several hours and a million questions later, I stagger back into the beach house. Oakland and the doorframe are the only things keeping me upright. His forearm is hard with muscle, and when I grip it out of necessity, he holds it steady for me. He's been that way all night—a steady, sure presence as I told my story again and again. He handled the medical forms for Jeremy, waited while I went through my physical exam, waited until everyone was finished with me and I was told I could go.

  The aftermath of the incident was honestly more draining than the event itself. Somehow, during all that time, all that talking, I became deadened to the pain of it, as if it had happened to someone else. When I enter the beach house, Laura, Cliff, and Carynne rise from the chairs and sofa, turning their anxious eyes on me. I go through the story one last time, my voice and my heart hollow.

  "Jeremy won't be welcome back here," says Carynne, rubbing my arm. "If you want, I can kick his pal out, too." Her eyes scan Oakland balefully.

  "No, don't. He's been—decent." I release Oakland's arm and gratefully lean on Carynne's shoulders. Laura follows us back to the bedroom, murmuring, "I'm so sorry, Mari. Can I get you something? Tea? Food?"

  "I'm okay," I insist. "I just need to sleep."

  "We all do." Carynne yawns. "Gosh, what a night."

  When I'm finally in my bunk, between the cool sheets, I'm so exhausted that I don't cry, or think, or anything. I fall headlong into sleep.

  I wake up dizzy and bleary, crawling out of a deep, dark dream of luminous green eyes. Such a bright, vivid green—

  I sit up too fast, smacking my forehead on the underside of Laura's bunk. I dive out of the bed, reeling and gripping the frame for support. Laura isn't here, and neither is Carynne. The bedroom is empty, and daylight filters through the floating white curtains. Must be afternoon light, since the sun is apparently on this western side of the house. I slept most of the day away, dreaming of—

  Green eyes. Green as grass, green as spring leaves.

  Oakland, and the sand-colored panther.

  Could there be two beings on this part of the beach with eyes precisely the same color?

  A coincidence. Because the alternative is something crazy, something beyond idiocy. I've been assaulted, smacked, traumatized, and terrified in the past twenty-four hours, not to mention bonking my head on the bed slats. I'm insane from it all. That's the only explanation.

  Besides, the police said the animal that attacked Jeremy couldn't have been a panther or a cougar. No mountain lions live around here. They scoured the beach, and the only evidence they found of the animal was a bloody partial pawprint in the urine-damp sand w
here Jeremy had lain. Not distinct enough to identify the creature. They nodded when I insisted I saw the panther, as I described it in detail—but I don't think they believed me. Though I'm not sure how they plan to explain the claw marks across Jeremy's groin, abs, and chest. If it weren't for the bruises on my wrists and cheekbone, they'd probably deduce that I attacked Jeremy—cut him open with a knife, or something.

  Once Jeremy comes through the sedation, he'll tell them about the panther. He'll let them know that he saw it too. Of course, he was drunk out of his mind at the time. If he remembers anything, they might brush it off as a hallucination.

  Slowly I make my way to the bathroom, shower, and dress. I apply a little makeup, but I don't even try to conceal the bruise Jeremy gave me. It's a dull purplish-brown, with a tinge of green. A sickening reminder of last night.

  The odd lightness of my head and the liquid feeling in my knees tells me that I need food, and water. Dropping off my things in the bedroom, I head for the tiny kitchen.

  Oakland is standing at the long counter, watching the living room TV. Flames and smoke billow from a duplex as a powerful stream of water arcs from a fire truck.

  "Another fire?" I ask.

  He starts at the sound of my voice, spinning around immediately and gripping the edge of the counter with both hands. My eyes trace the tension in his fingers, the pallor of his knuckles, then follow those taut brown arms up to his face. I nearly gasp, because there's so much emotion roiling in his eyes; and though he keeps his features carefully controlled, there's a tic in his jaw muscle that betrays him.

  "How are you?" Coming from him, in that tone, it's not a casual greeting. It's a deep, anxious probing of my mental state.

  "I'm hungry."

  "Marilyn," he growls, a reproach at my lack of honesty—and something about the sound causes a slither of sensation through my belly. I can picture him growling my name like that in a very different scenario.

  Oh, hell. Am I really thinking about sex with him, the morning after I was nearly raped? Damn, I'm messed up. Either that, or I snap back fast. After all, I've had Jeremy's hands on me many times, so that part wasn't as traumatic as it could have been. And my trust in him was already broken. He's hurt me before, so the shock of the betrayal wasn't as jolting.

  Or maybe I'm suppressing. Repressing. Hell, I don't know. All I know is that Oakland's muscled arms, those powerful hands clenched on the edge of the counter, that flawlessly handsome face of his, and the desperate look in his eyes are incredibly alluring right now.

  "I'm really okay," I tell him softly. "I'm serious. I'll be fine." My eyes travel past him to the TV, where white letters display the body count from the apartment fire. Three people. It seems high to me.

  "Turn it up," I request, and Oakland obliges. There's an expert on the screen now, explaining that the average time for a house to burn down used to be 15 to 20 minutes. "These days, with the quality of the structure and the furniture, and the type of materials used—people in a fire like this may have as little as three minutes to escape before a room is engulfed."

  "Three minutes? That's horrible." I shudder.

  "Try not to think about it. There's nothing to be done now."

  "Do they think it's arson?"

  "They're investigating, I guess. But it's odd—three fires in this area, all within a couple of days. Really odd. I wonder—" But whatever he wonders, he decides not to share it. Instead, he crosses to the fridge and opens it. "Let's see what we can fix up for you."

  "I can make my own food."

  He throws me a warm half-smile. "Sit. Please."

  I move to the other side of the peninsula and perch on a stool while he makes me a sandwich. He makes it with butter, not mayonnaise, on toasted bread. Turkey, not roast beef. Pepper jack cheese and a slice of fresh tomato. It's the perfect sandwich, exactly as I would have made it myself.

  He sets it in front of me, still wearing that half-smile, with a triumphant light in his eyes.

  "How did you know to make this for me? This exact sandwich?" I ask.

  "I notice things."

  "Oakland, this is beyond noticing. This is—"

  He lifts an eyebrow. "Do you really want to know?"

  "Yes."

  "I remember everything I've seen you say and do. And everything I've been told about you."

  My heart thumps wildly, swollen with surprise and emotion. Blood heats my cheeks. "Why?"

  Those green eyes are warm as sun-soaked meadow grass. I could fall into them and be safe forever. But he says, "If I tell you, you'll run."

  "I won't run," I whisper.

  His lips part to confess, but then he shakes his head. "No. This isn't the right time."

  As if to corroborate his words, Laura appears at the screen door. She doesn't look rested; in fact, the shadows beneath her eyes are so dark that I wonder if she slept at all. "Morning, Marilyn," she says. "You okay?"

  I can tell this is going to be a popular question. "Yeah, thanks. Are you?"

  She looks up, a flicker of alarm in her eyes. "I'm fine. Why?"

  "You look exhausted. But you went to sleep when I did, right?"

  "Oh, I was restless. Bad dreams." She looks away. "I'm going down to the beach in a bit. You guys coming?"

  "Why the hell not?" I sink my teeth into the sandwich and follow up the bite with a long gulp from the glass of water Oakland plunks down on the counter for me.

  Cliff and Carynne join us on the beach, but they spend most of their time squirming, gasping, and giggling under a large towel. The rest of us give them a wide berth. Laura settles in on her own towel with a podcast and a huge hat to shield her face from the sunshine. I walk primly along the wet sand for a while before abandoning my attempts to be cool and plunging into the waves. I meet each one head on, living for the slap of the oncoming water against my body, relishing the sucking, surging power of each wave. I imagine that the ocean is cleansing me, washing Jeremy's handprints, his smell, his lust off my body. I'm clean. Fresh. New, as if it never happened.

  Oakland bodysurfs with me, but he keeps his distance. I eye him, wondering the same crazy thing I wondered earlier—if somehow he and the green-eyed panther are connected. Or if, just maybe, they are the same person.

  Insane. I'm completely insane.

  How would I ask such a thing? Hey Oakland, are you an animal? A were-panther, or something? A shifter, like in some cheesy paranormal romance?

  The bare thought of asking such questions makes me feel stupid and angry. Why is he staying so far away from me today? Especially after the sandwich, and that comment about remembering everything I've said and done—what was that about?

  There's one way to get him over here. I prepare my lungs, drawing several deep breaths. And then I suck in a massive lungful of air, and I go under. I relax my body, letting the rush and ebb of the waves carry me, and I wait. I don't open my eyes, because I don't relish the thought of a scratched cornea from some stray bit of ocean debris. But I imagine the blue-gray ripples around me, shot through with slanting green-gold sunlight. I picture the surface above me, streaked with foam, and the sand below me, full of infinitesimal life forms.

  This afternoon, maybe I'll draw a portrait of myself, suspended in liquid, between earth and sky. Captive to swirling currents, prey to the forces of nature. A girl willingly paralyzed by the song of the sea.

  I'm still relaxed, but my lungs are starting to swell and ache. Where is Oakland? Maybe he wasn't keeping tabs on me, after all. Maybe he hasn't noticed my disappearance.

  A broad hand slips across my bare belly, and another behind my shoulder blades, and I'm lifted out of the water in one smooth motion. The ocean streams from my face and hair, and I sweep my fingers across my eyes, clearing them so I can look into Oakland's face.

  There he is, concern fading in his green eyes, irritation replacing it. "What were you doing?"

  "Relaxing," I say.

  "You were under a long time. I thought something was wrong."

 
"Thank goodness you saved me." I wink at him and smile.

  Realization relaxes his features. "You did that on purpose?"

  I shrug. "I was bored."

  His hand brushes my waist under the water, and I shiver away before I realize that it's him, and not a jellyfish.

  "Sorry." He backs away. "Of course you don't want anyone touching you, after—"

  "Really, it's fine. It's you, and I know you would never hurt me."

  "You know that?" He sounds doubtful.

  "Yes. I do." I didn't fully grasp it until this moment, but the knowledge has the heft of truth. Oakland, unpredictable as he is, would cause himself pain before hurting me. And that, combined with all the other little clues, can only mean one thing.

  "Oakland, are you in love with me?"

  -8-

  She Will Be Loved

  "What?" His eyes widen, his lips parting.

  I stare back at him, trying not to smile too widely and betray the glow emanating from my heart. "Are you in love with me?"

  His throat bobs, and that telltale muscle along his jaw pulses. He glances away, his dark lashes flecked with droplets.

  "What if I said—yes?" At the last word, his eyes return to mine, tentative and challenging at the same time.

  My heart throbs. "Then I'd ask, 'For how long?' "

  "Since the day Jeremy introduced you to me."

  Oh, hell. "Seriously?"

  The flushed skin of his cheeks affirms the truth.

  "That's why you treated me like you did? The snooty act, the 'I despise you' looks? You were trying to hide the fact that you liked your buddy's girlfriend?"

  "I didn't think I took it that far." He frowns. "I didn't mean to be rude to you."

  "You kinda were."

  "I'm sorry."

  "And what about all the girls, huh? I saw you at parties, at rallies, always working your little magic on some chick."

  "My magic?" He grins.

  "You know. The low, sexy voice, the eyelashes, the cheekbones—"

  He laughs aloud then. "Cheekbones?"