The Girl in the Painting

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The Girl in the Painting Page 13

by Monroe, Max


  “It appears you’ve brought a friend.”

  “Yes.”

  The obvious interest Bram then takes in me makes me feel slightly self-conscious.

  His eyes narrow as they run the circuit of my features one more time. “You look familiar, friend. Have we met before?”

  Shit. I really don’t want to think about the painting tonight. I came to see New Rules play, not discuss the ins and outs of the already confusing, completely mysterious situation.

  Thankfully, Ansel bypasses the whole “you look like the girl in the painting” conversation, answers for me, and then introduces us. “No. You haven’t met before. Indy, this is my asshole brother.”

  “The pleasure is all mine,” Bram says with a sly grin and reaches out to shake my hand. “Indy, this is Lee and Ni—”

  “I know who you are,” I cut him off before he can finish, and my eyes go wide when I realize how rude that probably sounded. “All of you…I mean, I’m a…I’m a fan. Of New Rules. Your band,” I ramble and trip over my own words. “It’s, uh, yeah, it’s nice to meet you guys.”

  The rest of the band offers hellos and smiles before going back to doing whatever it is famous musicians do in backstage rooms.

  Talk to pretty girls.

  Throw back a few beers.

  Smoke something that smells a lot like weed.

  Yeah, those sorts of things. Being in a room with a famous rock group is a little like being in a room with the sun. Everyone is better off if you don’t look directly at it.

  “A New Rules fan, huh?” Bram grins and winks at his brother. “I like your new friend already, bro.”

  Ansel laughs, joking, “She didn’t really know anything about you. I fed her that information in the car.” The energy between the two of them is fun and welcoming, and I settle into the ease of it all so much that I’m caught off guard when Ansel looks down at me with amusement filling up his striking brown eyes.

  A choking cough escapes my lips, and immediately, I feel like the biggest, most awkward idiot in this room. In the country. On the entire planet.

  “You okay?” Ansel asks, and his brow furrows in concern.

  Oh yeah. Just a bout of unexpected déjà vu.

  “I’m fine. I’m fine,” I mutter, clearing my throat and making an excuse instead of going into something literally no one will understand. “Apparently, I haven’t mastered the art of breathing yet.”

  And I’m officially an idiot.

  Both Ansel and Bram chuckle at my words.

  “How about you not encourage my brother’s ego?” Ansel suggests, and I stick my tongue out at him. Casually, his arm comes up and around my shoulders, and he tucks me into his side. I don’t pull away. “We’ll let you guys do your thing. See you after the show, yeah?”

  “Sounds good,” Bram agrees and moves his gaze to mine. “It was nice meeting you, Indy. Enjoy the show, all right?”

  Enjoy the show? Pffft. He does know he’s in New Rules, right? They could be singing my grocery list in my kitchen, and I’d be having the time of my life.

  “Break a leg?” I say, but it’s more of a question than anything else. “Does that apply?”

  Bram chuckles and shrugs. “A little? I guess?”

  “What about break all the fucking rules?”

  Ansel’s brother raises a brow, and it’s my turn to shrug.

  “That’s what Led Zeppelin always used to say before they walked onstage.”

  “No shit?” Bram asks and I nod.

  Bram looks at his brother. “Keep her around, yeah?”

  “Shut up.” Ansel laughs, and his fingers tighten ever-so-slightly around my shoulder. “We’ll see you after the show.”

  We offer our goodbyes to the rest of the band and head back down the hallway toward the inside of the venue.

  “Led Zeppelin really said that?” Ansel asks just as we walk past security.

  I lift my shoulders under his arm. “Hell if I know. It just sounded good.”

  His chuckle is so big and hearty, it echoes off the walls. “What am I going to do with you?”

  His question is meant to be teasing, but I can’t stop myself from wondering, what is he going to do with me?

  My unbidden thought puts me at the edge of the slippery slope of reality, so I back away slowly. Rock crumbles and tumbles down the cliff into the deep-seated complications of the question, but I find firmer ground just a few inches away by focusing on the here and now.

  On the literal answer to his abstract question.

  “Take me to the bar,” I say with a smile. “I could use a drink before the show.”

  By the time New Rules takes the stage, I am one shot of whiskey—Ansel’s choice—and three beers deep. For most people, that probably doesn’t sound like a lot of alcohol, but it’s about four times as much as I’ve had to drink at any given time in the last two years.

  But goddamn, I feel good.

  The music feels good.

  And Ansel, well, he feels good too.

  We’re facing the stage, and his arms are wrapped around my waist and his chin rests on my shoulder as we watch Bram and his band finish a song from their latest album.

  The venue is packed to the brim, but since Ansel is related to the band, we’re standing in our own little VIP area located on the right side of the stage.

  Bram sings the final lyrics of “Temple,” and the crowd pretty much loses their shit—including me.

  He grins toward the audience and reaches down to take a swig of water from the bottle sitting on the ground near Lee’s drums.

  “Thank you,” Bram says into the mic. “Did you know that, ten years ago today, this is the exact spot where we got our big break?”

  Everyone hoots and hollers and claps their hands, and a woman in the back screams, “I love you!”

  “Love you too, honey,” he responds as he adjusts a few chords on his guitar. “All right, so we’re going to play another tune, but we’re doing things a little different tonight. I’m feeling nostalgic, so we’re going to play a cover of one of my favorite Dire Straits songs. A song we played before we knew how to play much of anything else. Here goes something awesome…”

  The band starts into a rhythm, and the soft and sweet sounds of “Romeo and Juliet” fill my ears.

  I sway my hips, and Ansel moves to the music with me. His warm breath is right beside my ear as he sings along to the lyrics.

  I don’t know if it’s me or Ansel or the alcohol making the decisions around here, but I turn on my heels and wrap my arms around his neck. Our faces are inches from each other, and our eyes feel chained together.

  He moves his hands to my lower back, and a shiver runs the distance from them to the back of my neck.

  He mouths the words to the song. How about it?

  My gaze moves from his eyes to his lips to his eyes again, and the urge to stand up on my tippy-toes and press my mouth to his is potent and overwhelming.

  Just one little taste. That’s all I want.

  Closer and closer, I shut off my mind and lean. Toward Ansel. Toward the kiss. Toward satisfaction.

  “Can I get you anything else to drink?” a bar waitress yells over the music, stepping up and into our area and breaking me out of my stupor.

  I shoot away from him like I’ve been tased, and the truth is, I have.

  Her interruption is the only thing that stopped me from making a criminal mistake.

  “Another beer please!” I pretty much shout toward her.

  Surely, another beer will serve as a good distraction, right?

  I may be a little tipsy, but in my slightly inebriated opinion, that’s a brilliant fucking idea. Drink beer and dance and don’t do anything stupid.

  I can handle that.

  Right?

  Ansel

  The cab driver starts the meter and heads toward the Brooklyn Bridge.

  Being inside of a cab makes my stomach churn and my skin crawl with unease, but Indy was swaying on her feet and it’s nea
rly two in the morning. Visions of her stumbling around the subway platform—maybe off of it—made me suck up my discomfort. Plus, I didn’t want to call Hank and make him get out of bed at this hour.

  Now that I’m sitting inside of this godforsaken cab, I’m kind of regretting that.

  A little over five years ago, I innocently hailed a cab to head to a showing for one of my friends at a gallery in SoHo—and ended up in an ambulance with broken bones and eyes filled with glass.

  My mind barely remembers any of the middle of the story, but somehow my body does. Every time I’m inside a cab now, I would need a jackhammer if I wanted a chance to break apart the tension in my muscles.

  Indy rests her head on my shoulder, and I give the cab driver the address of her apartment.

  “And, please, take your time,” I urge and reach across Indy to buckle her seat belt before moving to mine. “Getting us there safely is better than not getting us there at all.”

  The cabbie nods and smiles at me in the rearview mirror. “You got it.”

  Thankfully, traffic is nonexistent at this hour of the night, and the driver doesn’t appear to have a lead foot as he pulls out onto the road.

  I stare out the window, and without even realizing it, I start to smile.

  This fucking night. It was perfect. She was perfect.

  New Rules brought the fucking house down, and I actually enjoyed seeing my brother in his element. He was happy and at ease, and for as much shit as I gave him while he was doing it, he deserves one hell of a life after the way he helped me through my loss of sight.

  After the show, Indy and I met the band backstage for a few more drinks and some laughs. In hindsight, now that I’ve gotten Indy into the cab and we’re heading toward her apartment, I’m realizing a few more drinks really weren’t needed.

  I glance down to see her eyelids drooping and her long lashes fluttering down across her cheeks.

  “You okay?”

  “Mmhmmm…jus sleepy,” Indy whispers toward me and wraps her hands around my bicep, snuggling her head into my skin.

  She’s drunk, nearly sloppy she’s slurring and swaying so much, but I don’t hold it against her like I would someone else. To be honest, she’s an adorable drunk. All cutesy smiles and rosy cheeks, apparently this woman does no wrong in my eyes.

  I gaze down at the angel crowding my personal space and smile.

  God, what it is it about this woman?

  It’s like she has me under some spell, and I crave more. More time. More words. More stolen glances. More smiles. More Indy.

  I wrap my arm around her shoulders and pull her closer to my side.

  “Are you going to be able to wake up when we get to your apartment?” I ask softly into her ear.

  No response.

  “Indy,” I say a little louder this time. “Can you wake up for me?”

  Still, no response. Only the soft, lulling breaths of a woman who’s succumbed to the alcohol and exhaustion and passed out.

  “Looks like you’ve got a goner back there,” the cab driver says over his shoulder, and I catch his smile in the rearview mirror.

  “Yeah, well, I don’t think this was the plan, but pretty sure those are famous last words, huh?”

  “Exactly.” The cab driver chuckles. “Tomorrow, your girlfriend will be saying she’s never drinking again. They always do.”

  My girlfriend. I don’t correct him.

  I look down at her again, and my amusement turns to unease. The more I think about leaving Indy in her apartment by herself in this condition, the more uncomfortable I become.

  After two more attempts to wake her up, I make an executive decision.

  “Mind if we switch up the destination?” I ask the cabbie. “Can you head toward the Village instead of Brooklyn?”

  “It’s going to end up costing you more,” he says, but I wave him off. I don’t give a fuck about the money as long as Indy is taken care of.

  “Understandable.”

  Thirty minutes later, we’re pulling up in front of my place, and Indy is pretty much down for the count.

  I pay the cabbie, tip him generously, and with gentle arms, pick up Indy and carry her toward my front door.

  She doesn’t budge as I fumble for my keys or when I get us inside or when I carry her up the stairs and into my bedroom. Hell, she doesn’t even budge when I remove her shoes.

  Thankfully, though, her eyes peek open as I adjust her head on a pillow and pull the sheets and comforter over her body.

  “Ansel?” she whispers.

  “I’m here.” I brush her long locks away from her face. “Just get some rest, okay?”

  “Is the show over?”

  I grin. “Yeah, it’s over.”

  “It was a good show,” she whispers.

  “It was.”

  Her blue, slightly out of focus eyes gaze up at me. “Why do I have so much fun with you?” she asks and blows out a slightly frustrated breath. “Most fun I ever had.” Her eyelids start to droop again as she adds, “I’m a stupid moth.”

  I smile at her words, half of which I don’t understand. But I figure that’s on par for drunk rambling. It’s best if I encourage her to sleep.

  “Good night, Indy,” I whisper, and because I can’t fucking help myself, I gently brush my lips across the soft skin of her forehead. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  I know I’m crossing a line, but this girl, this beautiful fucking girl, affects me in ways no one ever has.

  I start to stand up and leave the bedroom, but she wraps her arms around my neck and doesn’t let me go. “You know what?” she asks, and I tilt my head to the side.

  “What?”

  Without warning, she presses her full, pink, perfect lips against mine.

  Shock electrifies every inch of my skin, and my eyes widen, but she doesn’t stop or pull away.

  Soft and slow at first, her mouth just barely explores mine, and I let her. I’m a bastard for not being the sober, responsible adult, but it feels so fucking good.

  Her inhibitions left unchecked thanks to her lack of a clear head and reason, her lips turn needy and hurried, and she slips her tongue past my lips to take a taste.

  A groan starts in my chest and rattles seductively up to the top of my throat.

  Indy moans against my mouth and slides her hands into my hair, her arms digging into my shoulders and neck.

  It takes everything inside me not to coax this kiss into something more.

  Because, fuck, I want to.

  But she’s drunk…

  Fuck, you need to stop this. Right now.

  I let her keep the lead for another moment or two until I finally find the strength to take control and slow down her momentum. Once, twice, three times, I gently press my lips to hers and end the kiss before anything more can happen while she’s this intoxicated.

  Silence stretches between us as I hold her in my arms and let her search my eyes.

  Eventually, she releases her arms from my neck and snuggles into the covers, dropping straight into the deep sleep of a woman who’s had too much to drink.

  At least, I think she does. Just before I reach the doorway, her voice stops me in my tracks.

  “Ansel?”

  “Yeah, Indy?”

  “I’ve been wanting to do that all night.”

  “Do what?”

  “Kiss you.”

  I know she’s drunk and I know she doesn’t know what she’s saying and I know she probably won’t remember any of this, but like a bullet, those two words hit me straight in the chest, and I don’t bother to guard my words.

  “I’ve been wanting to do it a hell of a lot longer than that.”

  Indy

  Sleep pulls and pushes, clawing me closer to the sweet sounds of my dreams and then releasing me to drift back into reality. The cycle is long and my eyes are heavy, but after several attempts, I finally overturn the magnets on my eyelids.

  Music soothes and rolls, much like it did in the dept
hs of my dream, but the cold of the room around me feels much different from my fantasy’s warm womb.

  Who’s playing music in my apartment?

  I blink a few times to moisten my eyes and focus on the squares of the coffered ceiling.

  Wait. When did I get a coffered ceiling?

  Abruptly, I sit up, and as soon as I do, the truth is obvious.

  I’m not in my apartment. Not in my bedroom. Not even in my own bed.

  Holy shit.

  Although this is the first time I’ve seen his bedroom, it doesn’t take me long to attribute ownership to Ansel. Two leather club chairs face a fireplace in the corner, a glass-and-gold side table filling the space between them. Exposed brick runs the length of the back wall, and the sleek king bed I’m in is low to the floor and beautiful in its simplicity. A white comforter covers my body, and a cream throw rests on top of that for good measure.

  Oh my god, did I sleep with him?

  My hand creeps up to my mouth, an involuntary reaction to the shock of my poor decisions, and I try like hell to recall all the details of the last twelve or so hours.

  Ansel picking me up at my apartment.

  Meeting New Rules. The concert. Dancing. Drinking.

  I grimace and move my hand to my forehead as the pounding in my temples puts another tally mark next to the drinking.

  Fuck, why did I drink so much last night?

  I scrap and jockey, trying valiantly to cut through enough of the fog from my hangover to remember what happened next—what happened that made me end up here in his bed—but the effort is fruitless.

  The last thing I remember is being backstage after the concert.

  Surely, I didn’t sleep with him, right?

  I slide the covers off my body, and I’m relieved to find I’m still fully dressed in last night’s clothes.

  Okay, that’s a good sign. In order to have sex with someone, clothes have to be removed. There’s no way I had more than one wrestle with my clothes last night, so the fact that they’re on must mean I never took them off in the first place.

  “Good morning.”

  Hysteria makes me pull the covers back up over my fully clothed body as Ansel leans into the doorway of his bedroom. He rubs a towel through his wet hair, and the soft smile of a man who isn’t hungover and doesn’t have a splitting headache crests his lips. I kind of hate how good he looks fresh out of the shower and wearing a simple T-shirt and pair of sweat pants…and the fact that he probably remembers what happened last night with a touch more clarity.

 

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