by Elle Casey
At this point, now that I’ve seen pretty much all of him, I’m going to have a hell of a time keeping myself from staring at him while he works and not fantasizing about all kinds of dangerous things. It’s been way too long since I’ve had sex. The way I’m reacting to his body, in the middle of an art studio no less, tells me that I’m on a hair-trigger. God forbid he realize that and use it to manipulate me.
No matter what, I cannot afford to let that happen to either one of us. No matter how much certain parts of me might want it, there will be no sex or even a hint of that between us. And under no circumstances can he find out that he makes me think about these things between us.
I move around on the stool uncomfortably, my nipples suddenly too sensitive and other parts of me just as aroused. I seriously need an ice cold shower right now.
Tarin avoids my eyes as he zips the suit up the rest of the way.
Thank the universe for small favors. I fan myself, pretending it’s the weak air conditioning in the room making me sweat.
“Okay, so you ever work with acrylics before?” Greg, who’s totally oblivious to my sexual distress, is pulling out a blank canvas and setting it on an easel in the middle of the room.
“No. Nothing. I’ve never painted.” The tone of his voice belies his interest. Now that we’re past the butting of heads, his natural interest is taking over. I’m secretly thrilled but I make sure to keep that emotion from showing.
“Okay, well, first thing you need to know is it’s water-based, so if you want to change colors, you just rinse your brush in the can. Here’s a rag so you can dry it off.” He hands Tarin an old rag as he approaches. “The paints dry a lot faster than oils, so you don’t have as much time to make changes before things start to get tacky.” Greg gestures to a flat board covered in a rainbow of colors. “There’s a palette. You can squeeze out the colors you want around the edges and use the center to mix new ones. You remember probably from kindergarten … the primary colors are yellow, blue, and red … you can mix them into whatever you want or use these colors that are already mixed in the tubes or bottles. If you want something lighter, add white … darker, add black. Don’t be shy about loading up your brush with paint. You don’t want the canvas showing through.” He gestures to the can with the water in it. “I’ve got brushes there for ya, but if you prefer to use a palette knife, I have some of those too.”
“I don’t need any of that,” says Tarin.
Greg looks at Tarin and then at me, shrugging. “Whatever you say, man.” He turns his attention more fully to me as he walks over. “Listen, I have to take off for a while. You okay here?”
I nod. “We’re fine. Want me to lock up after I go?”
“Yeah, that’d be great. See you in a couple days?” He leans in to kiss my cheek. All I can smell is paint, turpentine, and dust. This is Greg’s normal cologne.
“Yeah, see in you in two days. I’ll text you if anything changes.”
“Stay golden,” he quips as he shuts the door behind him.
The room goes almost completely silent. Tarin stares at the empty canvas. The sounds of a clock ticking get louder as the sense of awkwardness grows. I say nothing, determined to wait his stubborn ass out on this chair until it’s time to go.
Tarin sighs and grabs a tube of black paint. His back is to me, but I can see that the palette remains untouched. Seconds later he’s pushing his hand into the canvas, leaving a giant black streak behind.
I shake my head. Finger-painting? We’re doing finger-painting? I can’t help but smile. He can’t see me at this angle, so it’s safe to let my feelings show. He is such a total brat. I should probably be mad about this, but I have to admit, I admire his spirit. Austin would have done the same thing.
Chapter Eighteen
“CAN YOU COME OVER HERE for me?” Tarin asks about ten minutes later. He moves to the side as he turns to look at me, and I can see he’s got the entire canvas covered in blobs and streaks of dark colors in black, blue, and a red so deep it reminds me of blood.
I get off the stool and move forward, not getting close enough to be touched. I don’t trust him not to mess up my clothes out of revenge. When I’m parallel to him, I stop.
“I need you to pose for me,” he explains.
My right eyebrow goes up. “Excuse me?”
“I need a model and you’re the only one around. Just go sit on that table over there, would you?” He motions to a table behind his easel that has paintings stacked on it.
I search his face for guile but see none there, so I walk over and move the paintings to the side so I can sit on the table. I dangle my legs over the edge, my jeans and sneakers in no danger of being ruined. Everything over here is long dry, and the dust doesn’t bother me when I’m dressed this casually.
Tarin puts some paints on the palette finally and picks up a brush, wiping the water off on his rag.
“So, tell me about you,” he says out of the blue as he dips his brush into some yellow paint.
I frown. His face is hidden behind the easel and canvas, so I can’t see his expression. The tone of his voice makes me think he’s not even really paying attention to my answer much. He’s concentrating on what he’s doing with his brush, his arm moving in small circles. I can’t imagine what about me says he should be painting in bright yellow, since my shirt is white and my jeans dark blue, but I withhold my comments. At least he’s doing something other than staring at a blank canvas.
“There’s not much to tell.” I’m looking down at my nails, trying to decide if I should put polish on them later. Going to Jack’s show is occasion enough to put up with the hassle. I love when they’re painted but hate when they chip just hours later, and I never was one for acrylics.
He leans out and looks at me. “Chin up,” he orders, gesturing with his own chin.
I drop my fingers and do what he says. His face disappears back behind the painting but comes out now and again as he pauses in his brush strokes.
“How about a husband? Got one of those?”
“No.”
“Boyfriend?”
I squirm a little, hoping we aren’t going to get any deeper into my life than this. “No.”
He leans out. “In the market for one, or do you play for the other team?”
I can’t help but smile. “Isn’t there a third option?”
He disappears again. “No, not really. Isn’t everyone looking for love?” His arm swoops around. I think he’s picked up blue on his brush now.
“No, not me. I’m straight, unattached, and happy to stay that way. I’m not looking for love.” I already had my chance and blew it. I push aside the pain, knowing this isn’t the place to wallow in it.
“Bullshit.” The frame jiggles with his efforts. I can’t tell if he’s reacting to my answer or using an especially inspired painting technique.
“It’s not bullshit, it’s the truth. Not everyone has to be in a relationship to be happy.”
“You do, though.”
My mood is quickly slipping south. I don’t like his completely assured tone. “You don’t even know me, Tarin.”
“I talked to Stick about you. He knew Austin pretty well. Better than me.”
I don’t like where this conversation is headed. “I don’t like to talk about Austin.”
“Why not?” Tarin picks that moment to stick his head out from behind the canvas, and he catches me scowling. “Miss him too much?”
“Yeah. I miss him too much. Talk about something else.”
His head is hidden again when he says his next words.
“Or maybe you feel guilty about something. Maybe that’s why you don’t like to talk about him. Guilt will do that to a person, you know? Makes them avoid things. Hide from things.”
My throat feels like it’s closing up on me. My face goes red with heat and tears threaten. I jump off the table without thinking and stride to the door. All I can think is that I don’t want him to see me like this. He can’t know that his del
iberate jab hit me right where it hurts.
“Where are you going? I wasn’t done.” He sounds a little too happy about my departure and my reaction. Now I know he did this on purpose. This is my punishment for making him paint. Fucking bastard.
“I’ll be right back.” I step outside and close the door behind me, gulping big breaths of air.
Scott sees me through the car window and gets out, jogging the few steps it takes to get to my side. He puts his hand on my shoulder and stares at me.
I can’t meet his gaze. I look away, forcing the tears to re-absorb themselves and not fall. I don’t trust myself to speak right away, so I remain silent.
“What’s wrong?” When I don’t answer, Scott sounds alarmed. “Seriously, Scarlett, what the hell happened?”
I shake my head. “Nothing. Really, it was nothing. He just … said some shit about Austin that got to me. I had to get out of there for little while.”
“What a dick.” Scott lets go of my shoulder and moves towards the door.
I grab him by the arm and yank him back. Scott’s shoes slide in the small rocks sprinkled over the blacktop with the sudden loss of momentum.
“No!” I say too sharply. I calm myself before continuing. “Don’t say a word. He can’t know it affects me like this, all right? He’ll just keep pressing my buttons over and over. I have to show him it doesn’t matter, that it won’t change things.”
Scott pulls his arm out of my grip. “What you should be showing him is that real people don’t fucking do shit like that.” He kicks a stone. “Spoiled, arrogant, ass fuck, prima donna, butt munch.”
I nod, smiling at his outrage. “I know. You’re right. But let’s give him some more time. I have a feeling part of the reason he’s acting out so much is because he’s got a block on his creativity right now.”
Scott takes a deep breath. I know he remembers when it happened to Austin. It was devastating for everyone at the time, and we’re still living with the fallout. “Tarin trashed his studio,” he finally says.
“Yeah. And the garbage he was playing before he did that was bad.”
“I heard it. What are we going to do?”
“What we always do. Get rid of the noise that’s drowning out the voice of his muse. Get rid of the poison. Get back to basics.”
“What if it doesn’t work this time?” Scott’s brows are drawn together, and I can’t tell whether his concern is for Tarin or me. I step over hug him without thinking about it.
“We don’t fail, remember?” I say over his shoulder, trying not to sound weak. “We don’t fail.”
Ricky’s standing next to us. I didn’t even hear him get out of the car and suddenly he’s just there.
“What are you?” Scott says to Ricky, pulling out of my hug, “a fucking ninja?”
Ricky doesn’t smile. “What’s going on? Do you need me to go in there?”
I shake my head. “No. Just leave him alone for a little while.”
“Guy’s being a dick,” says Scott, not as ready as I am to forgive and forget.
“What’d he do?” Ricky looks angry, but not at us.
“Scott just let it go,” I warn, but there’s no stopping Scott when he’s offended for me.
“He’s fucking with her head. Saying shit about Austin.”
Ricky’s nostrils flare as he presses his lips together. He shakes his head and looks at the ground, saying nothing.
“Let’s just take a breather out here for a little while and then I’ll go back in,” I say, trying to diffuse the anger building up around me. No matter how in control I am, Scott always knows when I’m hurt and jumps to my defense. Apparently Ricky is joining the party.
“You’re not going in there alone again,” insists Scott. “I’ll go with you. He wouldn’t say that shit with someone else there to hear it.”
“It wasn’t that big a deal,” I say. Tarin’s words were so simple and basic. The fact that they caused me so much pain is my fault, not Tarin’s.
“Bullshit. He knew exactly what he was doing … punk.” Scott is furious. The more we talk about it, the angrier he gets. “None of our other clients went there. They knew better than to talk about Austin.” His voice cracks when it gets to his brother’s name. “It’s just … not cool. Not cool at all.” He runs his hand through his hair, making it stand on end.
I grip his shoulder and shake him a little, trying to pull him off this track he’s on. I can’t forget that Austin was his big brother. Scott is hurting for me over Tarin’s careless words, but he’s hurting for himself, too. Being around people like Tarin makes the pain of Austin’s loss especially raw for us, even though he’s been gone for two years now.
“I’m going in there,” says Scott, making a move towards the door.
I grab his shirt and yank him back. “No! I’m serious. Stop, Scott. Don’t undo what we’ve accomplished so far by losing your cool.”
“What have we accomplished? The guy’s a douche! He needs to know.”
“He knows. Trust me, he knows. He’s just acting out against his loss of control. You know this is normal.”
“No it’s not. He’s fighting dirty.”
I shrug. “So we fight dirty too. Come on. We’re in this to win it.” I punch him lightly in the arm. “Don’t make our job harder.”
Scott huffs out a breath. He looks at the sky for a few seconds, collecting himself, before finally capitulating. “Fine.” He checks his watch. “But we’re out of time, so we need to go anyway.”
“I’ll go tell him,” I say, heading to the door.
Scott’s right at my heels and Ricky’s behind him. “I’m coming,” Scott says. “Don’t try to stop me.”
I smile. He can’t see my reaction, but I’m sure he can hear my gratitude in my voice. “I won’t.”
I open the door and step inside, my eyes taking a moment to adjust to the dimmer interior.
“I’m almost done,” says Tarin, all of his concentration on his work.
The three of us stand in the entrance, waiting for him silently.
He looks over a few seconds later and freezes. “What?”
“Time to go,” says Scott. He’s making no effort to disguise the fact that he’s not happy.
“Check out my masterpiece.” Tarin puts down his paintbrush and picks up the painting, carefully turning it around so we can all see it.
I stare at it for a while, trying to figure out what the hell I’m looking at.
“What is that …? Pac-Man?” Scott looks at Tarin and then me. “Is it Pac-Man?”
“Yeah. That’s Pac-Man,” says Ricky.
“No, it’s not Pac-Man,” responds Tarin, obviously annoyed.
The Pac-Man conclusion seems perfectly reasonable to me. There’s a big yellow blob in the middle of the picture and a blue blob near it.
Scott points. “Yeah, that’s one of the ghosts right there and Pac-Man’s about to eat him. Wabba, wabba, wabba, wabba…”
My face is flaming red. I feel like a fool for having sat on that table as his model.
“That’s not fucking Pac-Man, okay? And it’s not a ghost. That’s supposed to be her.” He gestures at me with the painting.
Ricky snorts and then turns around quickly, hiding his face.
Scott goes from amused to angry in a nanosecond. “You know what, dude?” He’s so pissed I’m surprised there isn’t steam coming out of his ears. “That’s fucked up. You’ve gone too far this time.”
Tarin raises his voice. “Fuck you, man! I’m not a fucking painter, okay!” He throws the canvas onto the ground and stalks over in our direction. We part like the Red Sea and let him through. I turn away when the sharp buzz of a zipper going down reaches my ears, only catching a small glimpse of his tattooed back before I can see no more.
I walk over to the painting and pick it up gingerly from the floor, resting it in the easel. I use the rag to wipe the black and blue paint from my fingers and a little dust from some of the wet paint on one of the corners. My sm
ile will not go away as I stare at the finger-painted mess. For someone not trying to paint a video game character, he sure did a pretty damn good job of it.
“I hear you laughing over there,” Tarin says. He’s pouting, I can hear it in his voice. “Just throw it in the garbage.”
I turn back, hoping he’s dressed. My blood pressure stays level when I realize he is, even though a slight trill of disappointment runs through my veins. “I’m not going to throw it away. I want Greg to see it.”
“Why? So he can laugh at me too?”
“No. So he can give you some pointers next time.” I walk to the door where Ricky is standing and holding it open.
“There’s not going to be any next time,” says Tarin, staring me down.
I shake my head slightly at Scott, sensing he’s about to unload his temper on Tarin. Scott turns on his heel and leaves the studio, not saying a word.
“What’s his problem?” Tarin asks, watching him go.
I don’t say anything, not trusting myself to make the right decision with my words. A piece of me thinks Tarin should hear the straight-up truth about how his words hurt people like Scott and me; but the other piece of me worries he’s too far gone right now to care. Neither Scott nor I can put up with too much more abuse before something bad happens. I don’t like the idea of putting that kind of ammunition in Tarin’s hands. I can’t trust him enough yet.
“He’s just having a bad day. Come on,” I say, gesturing towards the door, “we have an appointment with your lawyers.”
“I’m hungry.”
“We’ll eat on the way. I brought food.”
“Of course you did.”
I pass Ricky as he begins talking. “Tarin…”
“What?”
Ricky says nothing. I can’t see them anymore because I’m outside and they’re still in the studio.
“What?!” asks Tarin, more insistently this time.
Ricky walks out without saying a word and gets into the car. He starts the engine and just stares out the window. Scott joins him in the front seat, also staring off into space.