The Finished Masterpiece (Master of Trickery Book 3)

by Pepper Winters

  What?

  Why would Gil be with me?

  I bit my lip, looking over my partition as if Gil would magically appear. Staff milled about as sunshine beamed into the high-rise building. Some people had pulled blackout blinds to prevent direct light on their computer screens. The babble of voices and scents of coffee and warm machinery were a total contrast to Gil’s chilly, unwelcoming warehouse.

  And he wasn’t anywhere to be found.

  Not that he has any clue where I work.

  Olin Moss: Hi Justin. Nope. Haven’t seen him since yesterday. Why?

  A phone call came in on the office line, making me jolt. Placing my personal mobile on the desk, I did my job and answered the work one. The entire time I dealt with a customer requiring a new battery for a computer that was ten years out of date, I waited for Justin to reply.

  The little dots bounced beside his name, signalling he was typing.

  By the time I hung up, a message popped onto my screen.

  Justin Miller: I’m at his place, and he’s not here. He’s ALWAYS here. I’ve literally never come here and he’s not. It’s just odd is all.

  My heart picked up a strange beat.

  Olin Moss: Why would you think he’s with me?

  Justin Miller: Come on. It’s obvious you guys have unfinished history.

  I had no response to that. He was right.

  Olin Moss: He’s probably at the supermarket or something.

  Justin Miller: He gets food delivered. Doesn’t like people, remember?

  Olin Moss: Maybe he needed some fresh air?

  Justin Miller: In the year since we’ve kinda been friends, he’s never needed anything but his art.

  I didn’t reply straight away.

  What does he want me to say?

  Justin had been friends with Gil far longer than me these days. I’d entered Gil’s life and he’d promptly tried to shove me out of it. Why would I know his schedule?

  Olin Moss: Sorry, Justin. I don’t know where he is. Wish I could be more help.

  Justin Miller: No worries. It was a long shot. I’m just...jumping to conclusions. He’s a grown man. I’ll call him again tomorrow if I haven’t heard from him. Cheers.

  I sighed, ready to lock my phone and return to work, but a final message popped up.

  Justin Miller: I haven’t forgotten about dinner by the way. Let me know what night works and I’ll pick you up!

  Shannon caught my eye from across two cubicles. She had another trainee who probably wasn’t on their phone like I was.

  She waved and flounced over to me in her floaty skirt and cream blouse.

  I quickly locked my phone and shoved it into the desk drawer.

  “Hey, Olin. Everything going okay so far?”

  I nodded. “Yes. Great.”

  “Awesome.” She grinned. “Well, you know where I am if you need any help.”

  “I do.” Turning to my computer, I placed my fingers on the keyboard, doing my best to seem a worthwhile employee and not one with her head full of things she shouldn’t be thinking about.

  A head full of someone she shouldn’t be thinking about.

  Another email chimed. Shannon looked at me expectantly.

  I gritted my teeth, shoved Gil and Justin from my mind, and did my best to enjoy my new job.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ______________________________

  Olin

  -The Present-

  I KNOCKED.

  It was the polite thing to do.

  No crazy kidnapper lurked outside. No sounds of fists and curses came from inside. The normal, brisk Birmingham evening boasted typical background noises of pigeons and traffic.

  My knock went unanswered.

  My second knock was ignored too.

  I looked at my phone. Nine p.m.

  I’d taken longer than I wanted, what with a new job, going home to shower and change, I’d borrowed more time by eating a sandwich and gathering the courage to spend an entire night with Gil while he painted me.

  I would admit I’d been weak. I’d dragged my heels, searching for strength.

  I was late.

  But Gil should be here.

  Checking he hadn’t messaged me to postpone our arrangement, I put my phone away before I gave into the temptation to message Justin.

  He might know where Gil was...or he might not. Either way, I didn’t want to enter a messaging flurry while standing on Gil’s doorstep in the dark.

  Knocking again, I called, “Hello?”

  Deep, dark silence.

  “Gil?”

  Nothing.

  I tried the handle, expecting it to open.

  It didn’t.

  I paused, chewing my lip.

  What do I do?

  Go home? Wait?

  What if Justin was right?

  What if Gil wasn’t just missing...but taken?

  My heart exploded into gear, taking that question and drowning me in terrible scenarios. Of him inside, beaten and bleeding. Of him in the van, tied up and gagged. Of him dying—

  “Gil!”

  Backing up, I studied the large brick warehouse. The Total Trickery graffiti didn’t hide any other entrances: no fire escape ladders, no back-alley sneak-ins. The only other way was the large roller door used for trucks reversing to empty and pick up supplies.

  My thoughts grew evermore gruesome.

  I didn’t stop to think. I didn’t tell myself to calm the hell down.

  This was Gil.

  This was important.

  I’d handle his temper if he’d just changed his mind and didn’t want to paint me. I’d allow him to kick me out if he just wanted to forget I existed.

  Those I could get over.

  I could never get over failing him if any of the awful images my head turned out to be true.

  My handbag slid off my shoulder as I ducked and tested the roller door.

  It moved a fraction.

  I froze.

  I’d expected it to be padlocked to the ground, but either it wasn’t chained down or it was loose.

  Dropping to my haunches, I squirreled my fingers under the metal and pulled. It screamed and squeaked, creeping slowly from the ground.

  A large chain clanked by the pedestrian access, jangling in place and preventing the door from going any higher than a foot and a half.

  It wasn’t exactly a method of welcome, but I’d never been afraid of unconventional entries. Gil had taught me the allure of going to places we weren’t supposed to be at night. The park, the local swimming pool, even the school.

  We’d broken in one evening when my parents forgot I’d danced at the school hall as Beauty from a ballet rendition of Beauty and the Beast. They’d never turned up—even though I’d pinned their invitations to their pillows every night for a week.

  I hadn’t even told Gil that I’d danced as Belle, too shy to tell him about the performance. But somehow, he’d found out and waited for me outside my house when I got home. No one was inside. Just him sitting on the stoop with his sad smile and knowing gaze.

  I’d given him a shrug, fighting back tears. I’d wanted so badly for my mum and dad to watch me.

  He’d looked at my dangling ballet slippers and my still-painted face and hugged me close. “You were amazing, owl. Absolutely spectacular.”

  I pulled away, shock making my heart skip. “You saw?”

  “I saw.”

  “How?”

  “I broke in.” He kissed my forehead, took my hand in his, and walked me all the way back to school. “I want to watch you again.” He brushed away the strands of hair that’d come loose from my bun. “Would you do that for me? Give me a private dance?”

  I no longer needed my parents’ approval or smiles.

  I only needed his.

  I wanted to dance for him more than anything in the world.

  “Yes.”

  The minute I agreed, he climbed the storeroom behind the gym to the roof, jumped the distance to the main buil
ding, slipped through a skylight into the science lab, and made his way through dark and empty corridors to unlock the main door for me.

  With a secretive smirk, he’d led me to the school hall, picked me up and placed me on the stage that still held the backdrop of a magical castle where a beast was trapped by a curse, then commanded I put my ballet slippers back on and dance.

  To start with, I’d been so nervous I could barely walk, let alone dance.

  Dance was my special place; my vulnerable place.

  But his pride and affection soon became the music I needed to lose myself in my art.

  I didn’t need other dancers.

  I didn’t need the guy who played the Beast to hold me, spin me, throw me.

  I only needed Gil as he held his breath, devoured me with his eyes, and after—when I breathed hard and my body hummed with an endorphin rush—he’d climbed the steps to join me on the stage. “I’ve watched you dance a thousand times, but this...you stole my heart, O.”

  I’d thought he would kiss me.

  I’d hoped he’d make love to me.

  I believed he would have with the way his eyes glowed with love and pure desire etched his face.

  I’d never known lust had a recognisable mask.

  But it did.

  Gil wore it that night.

  Lust so deep and powerful, he didn’t have to touch me for my body to burn, my nipples to harden, my core to dampen.

  With our eyes locked and starlight our only illumination, it was the best foreplay I’d ever had. The only foreplay. We were two teenagers desperate to become adults, hungry to share, not just our hearts, but everything else too.

  The air sparked with electricity as he’d breathed my name. My hair prickled. My heart flurried. We stumbled into one another, only to scatter as a torch swung into the hall, and the grouchy voice of the groundskeeper complained about rats scurrying in the corners.

  I shook my head, dispelling the memory. My body still sang from that night. My toes still pinched from my ballet slippers. My heart still ravenous to claim Gil’s.

  Gil had always held such a raw power over me. I’d never gotten over what could’ve been between us because the almost-was was unbelievably special—the reality of it would’ve been our undoing.

  Hurry.

  I lay down on the ground and scooted under the door, dragging my handbag with me. The heavy metal clanged and banged as I let it fall to the floor, effectively announcing to every turpentine bottle and air compressor that a stranger had entered uninvited.

  Find him.

  Leaving my handbag by the door, I stood and brushed off dust and grime. “Gil?”

  My voice echoed in the unfurnished area.

  No response.

  “Gil, are you okay?” I kicked off my high heels and jogged in my stockings toward his office. The air hung heavy and still as if trying to convince me no one was there. But something tugged me forward. The silence was a pretender because my skin prickled the way it did whenever I was in Gil’s company.

  He’s here.

  Somewhere.

  His office was empty, the door slightly open as I pushed through and kept my shoulders braced. Even though I’d been in his home before, I couldn’t shed the sensation I wasn’t welcome.

  “Hello?” My voice fell to a whisper as I entered his apartment.

  Nothing.

  No sounds, no smells, no Gil.

  I stood by the couch, noticing the bottle of painkillers and the glass of water we’d shared.

  The clutter hadn’t been moved.

  Surely, he would’ve cleaned up after himself. His place seemed tidy. His warehouse was paint-speckled, but his equipment was clean and put away after use.

  “Are you here, Gil?” I strode toward the bathroom. The longer I stayed, the more uncomfortable I became. What was I thinking breaking into his place? Why did I think I’d have better luck finding him over Justin who’d been part of his life for the past year?

  Ego.

  That’s what this is.

  I thought I’d find him because there was something unexplainable between us. Because every word he gave me, no matter how harsh, begged me to keep coming back.

  The rainforest mural glittered in the glow of a single lamp, this time I spied an owl on fern branches, a symbol of me—just like my tattoo was a symbol of him.

  He’d never forgotten me. Never stopped wanting me.

  “Gil?” My chest hurt as I turned, taking in the space.

  A soft snick of a door opening behind me made me spin around at super speed.

  My hand flew to my throat as Gil tripped out of one of the rooms hidden in the graffiti rainforest I’d just admired.

  No lights illuminated behind him. I couldn’t see into the space he’d just vacated, but the faint whiff of strawberry followed him.

  My insides tangled.

  Strawberry.

  Like in his bathroom yesterday.

  I backed up as Gil turned around and closed the door. He locked it with a key that vanished into his pocket a moment later. He didn’t turn to face me; he didn’t show any sign of realising I was there.

  Pressing his forehead against the door, his hand stayed glued to the handle as if he couldn’t face life outside the room.

  My heart physically ached to touch him. To do something, anything, to eradicate the sorrow cloaking his shoulders.

  I was trapped.

  I’d found him, but I wasn’t meant to see this.

  I wanted to vanish, but if I moved, he’d notice me.

  I had no idea what to do, so I just stood there, blushing and afraid as he inhaled a shaky breath and turned slowly.

  It took him longer to move than normal, his senses dulled and reactions compromised. His gaze fixated on a mostly empty vodka bottle on the kitchen countertop. He made to move toward it, his eyes hazy and body loose from drinking.

  But then, he froze.

  His head whipped to me, his lips pulling back in a snarl. “Olin.”

  His eyes shot to the door behind him as if afraid of what I’d seen. “How shlong have you been standing...there?” His voice dripped with alcohol.

  He swayed; his face shadowed with fury.

  Out of everything that could’ve happened tonight, seeing Gil drunk was the hardest.

  Not because I feared he’d be violent and a threat to my safety but because of the many moonlight conversations we’d had about his father’s drinking.

  He’d been fiercely adamant he would never drink like him. The smell and taste of liquor repulsed him. He never wanted to ruin his life with a bottle.

  Yet seven years later, he was slurring and swaying before me.

  “Gil...what happened?”

  He stumbled to the side, shaking his head as if trying to eradicate the drunkenness he swam in. “You’re not meant to be here.”

  “You told me to come, remember? You were going to paint me.”

  “Ah...” His eyes unfocused as something brutal and damaging cast over his features. His breath hitched in such a helpless way, tears confiscated my vision. “It’s too late.”

  I rubbed at the liquid in my gaze. “What’s too late?”

  “Everything.” His face tried to settle on furious but just kept melting back into grief. His jeans and grey hoodie were grass stained and muddy. An area by his elbow was torn while blood marked the neckline. Green, taupe, and black paint speckled his skin.

  Needing to touch him. Crippling with the need to soothe, I dashed forward and wound my fingers with his.

  I couldn’t not touch him. I couldn’t not care. “Gil...what’s going on? Where have you been? You’re hurt. You’re filthy.”

  Yanking his fingers from mine, he groaned, “Get out.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Go.”

  “I’m staying.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Leave.”

  We’d had this conversation far too many times. I should honour his wishes. This was his place. There was no law about drink
ing alone.

  But...

  But.

  “I’m not leaving. No matter what you say or do, I’m not going anywhere. Not while you’re like this.”

  “Like what?” His eyes clung to mine, icy green winter.

  Dirty.

  Hurt.

  “Drunk.”

  “What I do or don’t do is none of your conshern.”

  “It is when I know this isn’t you.”

  “You don’t know me.” He stormed off, beelining for the kitchen as a thread of strawberry scent followed him, along with a trail of mud from his boots. “If you knew me, you’d run from me.” His voice thickened. “You should run. Please, God. Run.”

  I balled my hands and chased. “I’m not running, Gil. I’m going to help you.”

  “You can’t.”

  “Let me try.”

  He reached for the vodka bottle, but I beat him to it.

  “Don’t.” I held it out of arm’s reach. “Alcohol can’t cure your problems.”

  His face twisted. “But it can drown out the pain.”

  “No,” I said sadly. “It only amplifies it when it wears off.”

  “The reprieve is shworth it.” He swayed as he pounced on me, pressing me against the kitchen bench, trying to reach the bottle behind my back.

  I sucked in a breath as the air crackled like it always did when we touched.

  He stiffened.

  The outside world vanished.

  His focus slipped from the bottle to my lips in a heartbeat, imprisoning me in a different type of hell.

  I stopped breathing as his gaze darkened, hiding any vulnerabilities and secrets, turning him into an angry, intoxicated stranger.

  A stranger whose nostrils flared and hands landed on either side of my hips, trapping me all while his body pressed indecently into mine.

  “Gil...”

  “Don’t.” He shook his head fast, his lips twisting into a grimace.

  I shivered as he ducked his head and nuzzled his nose against my neck. The way we fit together, the way he knew instinctually what made me come apart said we’d done this a thousand times. As if it was acceptable, normal, real.

  The bottle clattered out of my fingers, banging against the tile and spilling its crystal liquor around our feet.

  Gil didn’t stop.

  His fingers dug into my hipbones, yanking me into him. His teeth grazed my neck, and the world erupted in fire.