The Lion and the Artist

by Veronica Sommers

  He laughs. "I didn't know exactly what I'd be doing. For all I knew, you might have needed my help burying a body or stealing a fortune."

  "And you'd do those things, if I asked you?"

  He licks my throat, and I gasp. "Anything," he whispers. "I'd do anything for you."

  "But you have principles, Oakland. You're a good man. You'd let me twist you up and turn you wrong?"

  "Yes," he says. "But you wouldn't. That's not who you are. You're a good woman, Marilyn, and a strong one—and that's one reason I love you like I do."

  I reach inside his loosened jeans, and now it's his turn to gasp. "Show me," I whisper. "Show me how you love me."

  And he does, holding my hips, moving me on him, and looking into my eyes the while—until his eyes roll back and his lashes fall, and he throws back his head in an agony of delight. Sounds I've never heard myself make escape my lips, and I hide my face against his throat while the heat of his love pulses through me.

  Afterward we nestle together in the back seat, perfectly warm, relaxed, and content. Until I realize that my wounded shoulder is growing stiff, and my burned toes are complaining, and my left foot is falling asleep.

  "I should go home," I murmur.

  He growls, his arms tightening around me.

  "No, seriously," I say. "This isn't super comfortable."

  Sighing, he releases me. "I can't seem to get enough of you."

  I smile at him. "Same."

  "Too bad we have that pesky thing called school coming up."

  "It's all right," I tell him. "We can have lunch together, see each other in the evenings, and on weekends—" But unease creeps into my heart. If I want to succeed in my chosen career, I need to focus this year. I'll have huge projects to do, and lots of homework. My love for him is so new—how is it going to survive all of that?

  He notices my changed mood. "What is it?"

  "I need to work hard this year," I say. "I can't afford a distraction."

  Alarm races through his eyes—fear and pain. He's afraid I'm going to dump him.

  "But we'll make it work," I say quickly. "As long as you're willing to put up with a lower percentage of my attention for a while."

  "I'll take anything you're willing to give me," he answers. "I just—I need you in my life. Whatever shape that takes is up to you."

  "Good." I kiss him again. "We still have a few days before classes start. We can make the most of that time. Oh, we should have a party! Invite Carynne, and Cliff, and Laura, and some others! Laura could use a distraction. We need to find someone to take her mind off you."

  He nods. "There are some good single guys I can invite. And maybe Vaughn. I'm sure he could use a few new friends."

  "I'll let everyone know tomorrow. But now I really should get home." I wriggle off him and back into my clothes. When I step out of the car, he leaps out too, catching me and pulling me close for another lip-tingling, stomach-dropping kiss. The man is a champion kisser, and I find myself smiling all the way back to my building.

  Quietly I let myself into the apartment and slide between the sheets, careful not to wake Laura. Sleep comes swiftly, but sometime in the night the oblivion of sleep yields to something else—although I'm too foggy to discern whether it's reality or a dream. Through my eyelashes, I glimpse a dark shape standing by my bed, its eyes and edges flickering with yellow fire. It leans closer, and I see with a nerve-jangling shock that it's Laura, her smooth cheeks and uptilted nose mere inches from my face. Flames trickle through her fingers, nearly falling to the sheets before she catches them with her other hand.

  I want to scream, to run. But I don't, because it's only a nightmare, isn't it? My best friend wouldn't really consider killing me over a guy.

  A single drop of golden fire falls onto my sheets, soaring immediately into a slim column of flame. The fire licking at Laura's edges disappears, and she puts out the flame with her thumb. Then she's gone, and my eyelids close, and everything is dark.

  The next morning I can barely remember what happened. But the sensation of peril, of being a finger-space away from death, clings to my soul like sand to wet skin. And when I inspect the sheets on my bed, I discover a small hole with singed black edges.

  I don't challenge Laura about it, and she doesn't mention it. She's unusually sweet and considerate to me, and later that morning she announces that she'll be staying with her sister for the foreseeable future.

  I make a mild protest, like, "Oh, I'm going to miss you! You know you're always welcome to hang out here!"

  "Thanks, you're sweet," she says. "But I think this is best."

  And I don't try to dissuade her again. After all, if the evidence on my bedsheets is anything to go by, she actually considered killing me last night. She actually thought about burning me alive—for a man. True, Oakland is amazing—but I wouldn't go that far for any guy. Maybe it's the stress of dealing with her new powers and their aftermath, but Laura isn't the sweet, perky, lovable girl she used to be. She's becoming someone unpredictable, vindictive—and scary, to be honest.

  I could write her off now and let her slowly withdraw from my life. Or I can give her a little space, and then move closer again. Keep in contact. Be there for her. I've already lost Jeremy—I'd rather not lose another friend this summer.

  A few days later, I'm sharply reminded of Jeremy again, when Oakland drops me off at the grocery store to pick up supplies for the party. Oakland stays in the car, sorting out some financial aid issue over the phone, while I hurry inside to choose the snacks for the evening.

  I'm halfway down an aisle when I realize that the woman ahead of me, pondering cereal boxes, is Jeremy's mother.

  At the same moment she turns, and our eyes meet.

  Her face stiffens instantly, resolving into a mask of offended disgust. Because she has convinced herself that I'm the one at fault—that I led Jeremy on, teased and tempted him, and then slapped him with a rapist label out of pure spite. She probably thinks I sliced up her son with a knife afterward, too.

  If only she knew the whole truth. If only she could let herself believe the truth she does know.

  I'm tempted to back out of the aisle and go a different way. Pretend like nothing happened. She is already turning back to the cereal, her shoulders rigid, preparing to ignore me intensely until I go away.

  But I don't go away. I stand, gripping the handle of my shopping cart, painful words crowding my brain. Words I've wanted to speak to her.

  My heart throbs ferociously in my chest, and when I let go of the cart, my hands are shaking.

  I walk toward her, toward the woman who birthed the man I loved. She raised him. Taught him to share with other children, and not to hit them. Taught him to say "please" when he wanted something. Taught him not to take what wasn't his.

  I know she taught him all of those things. And I don't blame her because the lessons didn't stick. But I do blame her for willful ignorance, for blinding herself to the truth.

  Love doesn't have to be blind. Sometimes, love is the only thing that allows us to truly see.

  "Mrs. McConnell." My voice is thin and shaky.

  She stares harder at the ingredients panel on the cereal box she's holding.

  "I know you think you're loving Jeremy by pretending that he didn't do what he did. I get it. You want to believe that it isn't his fault." I draw a deep breath. "But that's not love. Your son has a drinking problem. He doesn't know when to stop drinking, so he takes it too far, and he becomes someone who hurts women. And the scary part is, I think it's always there—the part of him that wants to hurt others, and that only cares about himself. If you really love him, you'll let yourself see it. And you'll encourage him to get some real help." I swallow, blinking back the tears that rise. "I can't be there for him—that isn't my responsibility. But you can. And I hope you will."

  Before she can answer, I turn on my heel and walk away, through the aisles, not even caring that I left empty-handed. My vision is blurring, and when I make it outside, I s
tumble off the curb and nearly fall. I can't remember where Oakland parked.

  And then he's beside me, his arm slipping through mine. "Hey, hey! Are you okay? You almost fell! What happened? Where are the groceries?"

  "We have to go to a different store." I clutch his arm. "Jeremy's mom is in there."

  "Oh." His tone hardens. "Did she say something to you? You want me to talk to her?"

  "No, no! Just take me to the car."

  He walks me to my door and ushers me inside, and then he gets in and pulls out of the lot. "Are you going to tell me what happened?"

  "I saw her, and I almost walked away." I prop my forehead against the cool glass of the car window for a second, before the vibration makes me draw back. "But I went up to her, and I told her she needed to face the reality of what Jeremy did. And that she needed to find him some help."

  "Accurate," Oakland says tersely. "And kinder than what I'd have said."

  "What he did isn't her fault," I tell him. "She's a good person. She's just—hurting. And grieving. I get it—I do. I just hope she comes out of her denial in time to help him."

  "If he'll admit that he needs help." Oakland takes the corner a little faster than he should. "No one will be able to help him until he admits that there's a problem. Maybe I should track him down and give him a talking to."

  "Have you spoken to him at all since—since it happened?"

  "No." He's gripping the steering wheel so tightly that I can see every hard muscle in his forearms. "I don't trust myself around him after what he did."

  "But maybe you could call him. After all, you two were close. Maybe you could get through to him."

  "I don't know. You think I'm a better person than I am, Marilyn. I'm not. I almost killed him that night."

  "I know. But you didn't."

  We're both quiet for several minutes, until we're pulling into the parking lot of another grocery store. Oakland puts the car in park. "I'll go in with you."

  "You don't have to. I'm fine." But I don't make a move to get out. "Do you think people can actually change?" I ask him. "Like Jeremy. If he gets help, counseling, whatever—if he really wants to be different—do you think it can happen?"

  Oakland runs a finger along the dark leather of the steering wheel. "I think people can learn to control their instincts. They can learn better behaviors and cover up their true nature. But it's always going to be there, under the surface, waiting for the right combination of events to bring it out again."

  "That's a cynical way to look at things."

  He looks at me, sadness darkening his green eyes. "You asked me what I thought."

  I reach for his hand. "So what's your true nature, Oakland Ashton?"

  "Me?" His chest heaves with a deep sigh. "I'm obsessive about certain things, and certain people." He gives me a half-smile. "I don't often get angry, but when I do—" He shakes his head. "And I can seem cold sometimes, when I don't mean to be."

  He's staring ahead, lost somewhere in a maze of self-doubt, and maybe regret for things in the past, things I don't know about yet.

  But I want to know.

  I don't care what the secrets are, because I know him. Since we were thrown together at the beach house, I've seen him in scenarios I could never have imagined. I've come to know Oakland more deeply that I ever knew Jeremy, even after a year of dating. I know who he is, deep down, and he is something indescribable. Someone precious. Someone I can't ever let go.

  So if it means holding his clothes while he transforms, and putting up with the occasional possessive outburst, and having a brood of little panther shifter babies—well, I'm in.

  I lay my left hand on his arm, and the motion only causes the faintest twinge in my shoulder. I'm nearly healed.

  "I think you left out a few things," I tell him. "Like how loyal you are. How you defend people who are weak or hurting. How you think in numbers but you love art, too. You're sweet, and you're kind. Intelligent. Charming."

  "You see me through eyes of love," he says wryly.

  "Yes, I do." I lean over and kiss him. "That's the best way to see. Now come on—let's go get some snacks, or this party is going to suck!"

  ***

  The party doesn't suck—at least, not for everyone else. Our friends are chatting, drinking, laughing too loudly, and dancing so hard that the floor of Oakland's apartment trembles. I make the rounds, connecting with friends I haven't seen since last semester—but the whole time I'm talking to them, I keep catching Oakland's eye across the room. He's talking, too, but every time our eyes meet, he gives me this charming smile that simply oozes sex appeal.

  But there's nowhere to go, even if we wanted to be alone. His apartment is crowded with people.

  Someone puts "Despacito" on the speakers, and the dancing immediately turns a bit more raunchy. Laura is across the loft, slithering against some all-American boy-next-door type who is blushing, open-mouthed, as if he can't believe his luck. He looks young—probably a freshman. A wholesome type of guy, just what she needs. But from the way Vaughn is watching them dance, I wonder if the bear shifter has other ideas about what Laura needs.

  Fingers tuck my hair behind my ear, and a pair of soft lips brush my earlobe. Oakland's deep voice thrills me from spine to toes. "Care to dance?"

  His hands slide over my hips, warm and steady. I press backward against him and writhe, and he draws a quick breath. "Hey now. None of that here," he says.

  "You started it." I spin around, hooking one hand behind his neck; and we dance, hips jerking and bodies swaying, until I'm in such a frenzy of wanting that I'm beginning to feel physically dizzy. Or maybe it's from the lack of oxygen in a loft crammed with people.

  "I'm going into the hall for a minute," I murmur, stumbling away from him. I reach the door and burst out into the cool air of the hallway, leaning back against the white plaster wall and breathing deep.

  Oakland comes out after me, a flare of music following him. The sound cuts off, muffled to a murmur, as he closes the door.

  "You have a nice loft," I tell him. "I thought you were a poor bartending college student."

  He chuckles. "I'm responsible for college tuition, transportation, and daily living expenses, but my father does pay for the loft. An exception to his rule, at my mother's insistence."

  "How convenient for you."

  He faces me, gathering my hands in his. "You know, you could always—share the loft with me. The light's good here, too, and there's plenty of room for your art and things. We'd see more of each other—"

  Blood rushes to my cheeks. "Live here? With you? We've barely been together for a week."

  He backs off, flushing himself. "No, you're right. It's too soon. Forget I said anything."

  There it is again—the panic in his eyes, the fear that he's done something wrong, that he's scared me off.

  "Oakland." I lay my palm against his chest. "You're a damn shifter. Do you really think, after accepting that fact, I'll be scared off by a premature invitation to live with you?"

  He cocks his head, unsure. "Yes? Maybe?"

  "I'm not." I smile at him. "Your offer is so sweet. Make it again sometime, and I just might say yes."

  He breathes easier, smiling back at me. "Okay. Do you have a timetable, or an estimated date when I should try again?"

  My fingers dance up his shirt, along his collarbone, over his shoulder. "A couple weeks from now?"

  His eyes light up. "I can deal with that timeframe."

  "One more thing." I step closer. "Is there anywhere in this building where two people can be alone? Like, very alone?"

  "Well," he says slowly, running his hands up my back. "There's an old service elevator that no one ever uses—"

  "Elevator, you say? I'm in."

  THE END

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