Forever Wild

by Allyson Charles

  Eyes burning, Lissa stared at the pavement and blinked. “Okay. But it’s an eighteen-month course, if you change your mind.”

  “Eighteen months! You know we don’t plan more than a week ahead of time.” Her mom heaved a sigh. “Why you want to lock yourself into such a constricting prison as that art school, your father and I just can’t fathom. Do you know who the director is? Marie LeClerc, that purveyor of derivative pseudo-abstract crap.”

  Marie LeClerc had managed to become a commercial success when so many other artists failed, and Lissa knew that in her parents’ eyes, that was her biggest sin. “Well, yes—”

  “You won’t learn anything there.” She sighed. “You do seem to favor unoriginality when it comes to your own work, so maybe the school will suit you fine.” The sound of a pop-top opening came over the line. “We had hoped you’d become more creative with your painting, but artistic ability doesn’t always pass down to the next generation.”

  Lissa breathed shallowly. The pencil snapped in her hand, but she kept digging her nails into the flesh of her palm. Why had she thought this conversation would be any different? She’d hoped that even though Bruggard-Tayo’s style wasn’t approved by her parents, at least the stature of the school would impress them.

  She should have known better.

  “I actually did pretty well selling my work in New Orleans,” she said in a small voice. At least if the conversation she’d overheard with Morris and one of his men had been any indication. He’d made a pretty buck off her art, so it must have been selling well. “I think if you saw what I’m producing now—”

  “Unoriginal art to people too stupid to know better.” A seventies rock song was turned up in the background, and her mom had to raise her voice to be heard. “Look, I don’t know why we’re talking about this. You know how your father and I feel about it. It doesn’t do you any favors for us to encourage you in a field you don’t have true talent in.”

  Her dad’s voice called out, “Nance, who’re you talking to?”

  “Lissa,” her mom yelled.

  “Well, hang up. Come meet our neighbors. We’re having a party.”

  “I gotta go,” her mom told her.

  “But—”

  “Talk to you later,” her mom singsonged and hung up.

  Lissa stared at her phone, struggling to breathe. It felt as though a boulder was sitting on her chest, squeezing her lungs. She tried to look on the bright side. She wouldn’t be going through her prepaid minutes very fast. She didn’t want to call any of her friends in New Orleans in case Morris was in contact with them. Her parents didn’t have time for her. Her minutes would last forever.

  She tucked the phone in her pocket and looked back at her sketch pad. All her drawings and paintings looked imitative. Unoriginal. There was nothing new or innovative in her work. Why wasn’t she experimenting? Thinking outside the box, like her parents did? She chewed on her lower lip. Before she started classes, maybe she should beef up her portfolio. Try different styles and techniques.

  She looked at the pregnant woman, still engrossed in her book, and flipped to a blank page on her pad. Picking a thick charcoal stick from her kit, Lissa drew hard, aggressive lines. It almost felt like an assault on the woman, but it was bold and new, something her parents could appreciate.

  She didn’t look up from her work until a shadow fell across her easel. Her heart stuttered when she saw the blue uniform. A patch with the name Officer Davis was stitched above the shiny star.

  The cop tipped his head, the brim of his police-issue ball cap ducking down. “Miss. How are you doing today?”

  “Fine.” There was no way Morris would have called the cops on her. She didn’t think. After all, he was the crook, dummying up false bills of sale showing that her work only sold for pennies and keeping the real profits for himself. She’d only taken what was owed to her. “I don’t suppose you want your portrait done?” A girl could always hope.

  He gave her a sweet smile, his white teeth flashing in his dark face. “No, miss. I’m here to tell you that you can’t sell a product on the sidewalk without a permit. I don’t suppose you have one of those, do you?”

  Relief swept through. Just a permit violation. “Sorry. I didn’t think about that. Are they hard to get?”

  He pushed his cap to sit back on his head. “Depends on what you mean by hard. I don’t think the city will give you a permit to set up shop on the sidewalk, but once a week we have a farmers market here in the city square. I’m sure you could get one to sell your work at that.”

  Once a week was better than nothing, and right now money wasn’t tight. But she still liked to have something coming in. If people weren’t buying her work, she didn’t feel like a real artist. But she was smart enough not to argue with a cop. “Okay. Thanks,” she said and started packing up her supplies.

  “You new in town?” he asked.

  “Just got here yesterday. But I’ll only be around for a couple of weeks before I head off to school.” Best to get that information out there. There was no need for the cop to take an interest in her if she was only passing through. Even though she didn’t think she’d done anything wrong back in New Orleans, technically, there might have been a teensy-weensy crime committed. Maybe. But it shouldn’t count if a person was stealing her own money from a crook.

  The cop held out a hand and, tentatively, she shook it. “Well, welcome to Pineville. I hope you have a nice stay.”

  “Thanks. It’s beautiful here.” And it was. The small downtown was lined with red-brick buildings covered with green awnings. American flags flapped from the doors of businesses, and baskets full of pink and purple petunias hung from the streetlamps. The Americana was so thick, she could dive into it and swim a lap or two. “But you guys don’t make it easy for a girl to make a living.”

  He chuckled. “I don’t make the rules. Only enforce them.”

  “You looking for work?” a deep voice asked from behind her.

  Lissa whipped around, her heart giving an odd lurch at the sight of Dax. He was holding a paper cup with a plastic lid on top in one hand and a leash attached to William in the other. His hair shone redder in the noon sun, and it flopped over his forehead in a cute, just-rolled-out-of-bed look.

  William strained at the leash, and Dax took a step forward so the dog could greet her.

  She bent over and stroked his back. “Hi, boy.” She looked up at the two men. “Dax, do you know, uh, Officer Davis?”

  The cop smirked. “Yeah, I’m quite familiar with Mr. Cannon. How’re you doing, Dax?”

  The men chatted, and Lissa eavesdropped as she petted William. She didn’t know what to make of the cop’s tone. The two men seemed friendly enough. And it wasn’t like Mr. Follow the Rules would have had run-ins with the police. She must have misunderstood Officer Davis’s inflection.

  “Well, I’d best get back to patrolling.” The cop tipped the brim of his cap to her. “I’ll see you two around.”

  Dax lifted his cup in farewell, then turned to Lissa and looked her up and down. “Well, that’s a definite improvement on the Elvis shirt.”

  She lifted the hem of her check-plaid baby doll shirt. She didn’t know about that. The shirt was cute, but Elvis was the King. “I found a secondhand store near the motel and picked up a few things.”

  A man carrying a grocery bag strolled past, and William leaped after him, strangling himself on his collar. He spun like a whirling dervish at the end of his tether, twisting the leash about his body.

  “Whoa.” Lissa hauled the Bluetick back and untangled him from the leash. “You’ve got a real wild child here.”

  “You’re telling me.” Dax shifted his cup to the hand with the leash and scrubbed his jaw. “If I leave him in the shelter, he howls. Nonstop. It was disturbing the other dogs.” He pointed to the ground and in what was probably his sternest voice, which Lissa f
ound adorable, said, “Sit.”

  William stood on his hind legs and barked.

  Well, Lissa had to respect that bit of defiance. She squatted next to the dog and rubbed his sides. “Good boy.”

  Dax sighed. “You’re not helping.”

  “Encouraging free spirits is always the right thing to do,” she said in a baby voice to William. He licked her cheek and gave her a doggy smile.

  “There’s nothing wrong with him learning a little obedience.”

  Lissa stood and gave a dramatic shiver. “The horror.”

  Dax looked to the heavens and muttered something she couldn’t hear. He blew out a long breath before dropping his gaze back to her. “What are you doing out here? And why doesn’t it surprise me that you were getting hassled by the cops?”

  She held up her hands. “Just trying to make an honest living.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Lissa playfully socked him in the arm. “You really need to have a little faith in people.” Turning, she bent over to gather her belongings. “I was trying to make a little pocket money with street portraits,” she said over her shoulder. “Little mementos for people to buy, you know? I need to stay busy until school starts. And I know it sounds stupid, but if I’m not making even a little bit of money on my art, I sort of feel like I’m just playing at being an artist.”

  She straightened and turned, tossing her backpack over one shoulder.

  Dax jerked his gaze up to her face. His cheeks were stained a brick red. “Uh…” He swallowed. “Why is that stupid?”

  Lissa tilted her head. Had Dax been checking out her butt? His embarrassment about a normal male reaction was sweetly endearing. As was the way he was now looking anywhere but at her. Dax was so unlike the men of her acquaintance. The guys she knew would have dropped a crude come-on, not looked as guilty as a puppy who’d just piddled on the carpet.

  She laid a hand on his forearm and squeezed.

  He dropped his gaze to her face. The heat in his eyes hit her like a freight train, and she sucked in a startled breath. This was no Boy Scout looking at her. No, the Dax before her now was all man. One who looked like he not only knew her deepest desires, but was more than capable of delivering on them. He raised a hand and traced the line of the bead choker that circled her throat.

  Her mouth went dry and her skin tingled. She leaned closer.

  A car sped past, and William tried to break away to chase after it. Dax lurched before reining him in.

  The crazy connection between them broke, and Lissa stepped back, disappointed. It wouldn’t be smart to start something now. Not smart, but she’d bet it would have been a hell of a lot of fun with Dax.

  “So,” he said. “Why is that stupid again?”

  “Hmm?” Lissa thought back to their conversation. “Oh. Because artists shouldn’t care about making money. Look at all the great ones who didn’t earn a dime while they were alive: van Gogh, Gauguin, El Greco. But having people willing to spend money on my art validates it in some silly way to my mind. I know I shouldn’t care, but I do.” She shrugged. Just another reason why her parents were probably right about her. She was too commercial to be truly talented as an artist. But she liked eating and buying funky jewelry. The money had to come from somewhere.

  “I don’t think that’s stupid at all.” Dax raised an eyebrow. “In fact, that’s probably the smartest thing I’ve heard you say.” William tugged at the end of his tether, anxious to run, and Dax gripped the leash tighter. His long fingers clenched, veins rising on the back of his hand.

  Lissa rested her fingertips on her throat, trying to duplicate the feel of Dax’s touch. He truly had remarkable hands. Large and callused, yet gentle and deft. She tried to memorize the lines of that hand, wanting to improve upon her sketch. It reminded her of David, Michelangelo’s masterpiece. The sculpted David was a thoughtful, innocuous-looking man. But his hands…they showed his strength and experience. Lissa had spent many an evening in her parents’ trailer, staring at a picture of that statue and trying to capture those hands on her sketch pad.

  A thought struck her. She had six weeks to kill. Six weeks and one man whose image she desperately wanted to perfect.

  “Dax,” she said, and smiled as innocently as she knew how. “I have a proposal for you.”

  He turned and walked down the sidewalk. Away from her. “Nope,” he called back.

  She trotted after him and William, her pack slapping against her butt. “But you haven’t heard what it is.”

  “Don’t need to. I’m better off steering clear of any idea of yours.”

  Of all the nerve. “Hey, my ideas are always rock solid.” Well, almost always. At least a majority of the time. A plurality? Her cockamamy idea to sell her work exclusively to the Sam Morris Gallery, to trust the man when he said he could only sell her paintings for forty bucks a pop, that hadn’t been her brightest plan. But she’d made up for it. Gotten back what was her due.

  Dax walked faster.

  He wanted to play hardball? She could do that. She threaded her arm through his, as if they were a couple walking in the park, and gave him her brightest smile. “I’m a painter, Dax. I need to have a brush in my hand or else I feel lost.” She waved back in the direction they’d come. “That’s what that was about. I have six weeks here and want to keep my paintbrush in the game. But I have an idea—”

  He came to an abrupt stop. “You want to paint?”

  “Well, yes. And I have a particular sub—”

  “I have a painting job for you.”

  “You do?” She frowned. “And stop interrupting me.”

  He stepped closer, and she caught a hint of cedar and grass. He smelled like the woods after a rain. “I see that sugary smile you’re giving me. Hear the sweetness in your voice. I need to interrupt you for self-preservation. Because I know whatever you’re going to say I won’t like.”

  She scowled, because he was probably right.

  “But if you want to paint,” he said, “I have a job for you.”

  She cocked her head. “You do?” Dax didn’t seem like the kind of guy to hang art on his walls. Maybe a nature scene. She was a figurative artist, but there were a lot of beautiful landscapes around here she could paint the heck out of.

  He narrowed his eyes, and one edge of his lips eased upward into a wicked smirk. “Sure. You’re looking for work. I’m looking to keep you out of trouble for the safety and well-being of the citizens of Pineville. It’s a win-win opportunity.”

  Her stomach dipped. A sweet Dax was sexy. When he was exasperated with her, it was enough to make her tingle. But a devilish-looking Dax? Whoa, Nellie. The soft breeze that tossed her curls about did nothing to cool her heated skin. A Dax gone bad was lethal.

  She pulled the neck of her top away from her body and flapped it to get some air. “For the man who gave me a ride out of New Orleans, anything.”

  His smile deepened and a dimple appeared in his left cheek. “I’m so glad you phrased it that way. Come with me.”

  “Where are we going?” she asked, suspicion curling low in her belly.

  He draped an arm around her shoulders and dropped his sneaky bomb. “Forever Friends needs a new coat of paint.”

  Chapter 6

  Dax stomped into the offices of Off-Road Adventures and tossed his pack in the corner. He gave a full-body shudder.

  “Well, that sounded like an exciting trip.” Jesse pushed his chair back from behind the large oak desk that acted as a reception area. He slicked his palm over the top of his cue-ball head.

  Dax fisted his hands on his hips. “We have to change the waiver. No women pregnant more than eight months.” An image of the mess in the back of the Cessna 206 float plane Off-Road Adventures leased clawed at his retinas. “Seven, to be safe.”

  “We do have language about health warnings.” Jesse reached for a mug of coff
ee and took a sip. “I’m surprised you took her to Isle Royale to start with.”

  “She was wearing a bulky coat!” Rubbing the back of his neck, he groaned. “I didn’t realize she was pregnant until we landed and started hiking. Jesus.” Dax ground his jaw. “He said they wanted to get one last backpacking trip in before they started a family. Can you believe that man took such a risk with his wife?”

  Jesse shrugged. “They didn’t think the baby was coming for another month. I’ve heard of crazier. Besides, I called the hospital. The new family is all happy and healthy. No harm, no foul.”

  “You didn’t have to clean the back of the plane.” He wished he could bleach his eyes. The actual baby hadn’t been so bad. He’d been kind of crusty, but cute enough. No, it was all the other stuff that came out.

  He was never having kids.

  “I heard you did a good job keeping the new dad calm and relaying instructions to him from the hospital over the radio.” Jesse stood and circled the desk. He clapped Dax on the shoulder. “Good job. And that’s a trip that will go down in our personal record book. You flying while a man delivers his own son in the back seat.”

  Dax scratched his chest. “I was hoping we could give them their fee back, minus the gas. With a new kid, they could probably use it.”

  Jesse grinned. “You always were a softy.”

  “But not a good businessman apparently,” a voice Dax had come to hate said behind him.

  Dax turned and saw Christian Bowers lounging in the doorway, wearing that damn snotty smirk that made Dax itch to smack it off.

  Christian sauntered in and handed Jesse a set of stapled papers. Colorful bar graphs filled the top page. “Here’s the forecasting analysis you asked for. But giving refunds to people without cause won’t improve the bottom line.”

  Without looking at Dax, Jesse took the papers and shuffled back behind his desk. “With the publicity we’ll get from the midair birth, I think we’ll still come out ahead even if we refund them the full cost of their trip. Soon, those decisions won’t be up to me. One of you will decide on your own policies.”