by JA Huss
“Well, uh, yeah. I guess. But it’s a little overkill, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, well, Ford, he’s the perfect anti-Spencer. So seeing him that night—all nerdy and shit—I realized Carson was just a dweeb. Plus Ford showed me Spencer’s office. Have you ever been in there?”
“No, what’s in there?”
I walk off towards the hallway, then turn around and beckon her. “Follow me and I’ll show you.”
“I don’t have the code for the office, Ronnie.”
“That’s OK, I do. I watched Ford when he opened the door that afternoon. And normally I’d never remember a six-digit code, but this one is hard to forget.”
“Why?” she says as I stop at the office and key in the code for the electric locking mechanism.
“Because it spells Ronnie.”
I open the door and flick on the lights and she gasps, just like I did back in December when Ford was the one flicking on the lights.
“What the hell is this?” Rook asks as she makes a full three-sixty to take in the room.
“I have no fucking idea, Rook. That’s what makes him all the more confusing. Ford said they call it the Ronnie Shrine and even though that might be a little bit flattering, it’s verging on creepy for me. I mean, if we were together, then yeah. I’d like my man to have his office walls filled up with photographs of me naked and done up in these body paint costumes.”
It thrills me that he looks at me like this when he’s in here, and I’m a little bit uneasy about that thrill. Because there’s not just one image. But six of them. All me painted up to look like different things.
She walks over to the cyborg image and her fingers reach up to touch it. “I was the cyborg too,” she says softly. “God, I have to admit, Ronnie. I know he’s your guy and it’s probably weird that he painted me in all the same outfits as you, but that was the best summer of my life.”
I sigh. “No, I totally get it. Because those two years he was painting me up instead of you—well, those were the best two years of my life as well. And I miss them. I miss him so very badly, Rook. It makes my heart hurt, ya know?”
She comes over and pulls me into a hug. “I know. But Veronica, surely this is a good sign. He has to love you, bitch.”
I chuckle against her and then she joins in.
“He has to love you. You can’t even see your tits or pussy in these pictures, they’re covered in paint. He has them on the wall because he wants to be surrounded by you. If he just wanted pictures of his work on the walls, Ronnie, he could’ve put me up there, because all those photos were taken by Antoine, they’re stunning. And if he just wanted naked girls, he’d plaster porn up there.”
She’s right, but when I look back up at the images, instead of feeling better, I feel worse. I’m almost overwhelmed with the memories as they flood in…
Chapter Six
VERONICA
Three Years Ago—Bellvue Farm
“Come here,” Spencer says seductively as he reaches out for me. “I want to show you something, Bomb.”
I place my hand in his as he holds the screen door open for me. I walk through and we descend down the front steps of the old farmhouse and start walking across the grass. We’ve only been dating a week, and even though I’ve been at his house almost every day, we’ve never been back in the shop.
But that’s where he takes me now, and it’s got my stomach all twisted up. Not because I’m nervous or anything. It’s because I’m half a step behind him, so every few paces, his head turns and he flashes me this oh so fucking sexy grin. It even comes with a twinkle.
A few paces on he does it again, like he’s a boy with a secret. And while I might not know exactly what that secret is, I do know what it’s about. Sex.
Because Spencer fucking Shrike is nothing but sex. One hundred percent sex, one hundred percent of the time.
“Are you nervous, Bombshell?”
“No,” I lie.
He chuckles as we reach the shop door. “Maybe you should be?” He stops here and pulls my face to his, his lips gently caressing mine for a second, then his tongue takes over and I almost melt right there in the driveway. I even have a flash of concern that I’ll fall and skin my knees on the gravel.
But then his strong arms wrap me up and hold me steady as he whispers in my ear. “I want to show you something, OK?”
I nod, because I lose all control around him. I’d agree to just about anything.
“You ready?”
“Yes,” I whisper back.
He smiles and opens the door, waving me in.
I look around expectantly, waiting for something to happen, or at the very least for something to be different. But it looks the same as it did last week. Bikes. Some complete, like the Blackbird. Some in process, like the knockoff of the Blackbird he’s building as his first custom Shrike Bike.
It smells like a garage, like all garages smell. It smells like home to me, because my gramps, my dad, and all my brothers are bike mechanics as well as tattoo artists.
Spencer closes the door quietly and then tugs me off towards a dark hallway off to the left. “This way, Bomb. I’ve got a surprise.”
My stomach flips again. “What kind of surprise?” I ask, more curious than afraid. But I am a little bit afraid. It’s dark in this hallway.
He stops at a door. “You’ll see, baby.” And then he takes his keys out of his pocket and unlocks the door, opening it wide enough for me to step through.
And I see the very last thing I ever expected to see.
On the far side of this drab prefabricated shop building is… something breathtakingly beautiful. A large glass-walled atrium filled with trees and plants, the air sweet with well-cultivated earth, young trees, and sunlight.
I walk forward into the room. “What’s this?” I ask, astonished, twirling in place for a moment, trying to get a three-sixty view of the place. “It’s like a greenhouse.”
“It is a greenhouse. Only… a fancy kind. I told you this was my gran’s place until I inherited it.” Spencer stops to take a deep breath. “My gran was a botanist before she married my gramps. He died a long time ago, left her a bunch of money. They lived down in Denver, in the house I grew up in. And after he died my gran came up here to the farm and dedicated her life to plants.”
When he looks back at me I’m smiling as I picture this. Our relationship is so new, I have no history on him yet. I know he’s the heir to Shrike Bikes. I know he was in some trouble last spring and he got kicked out of the University of Denver, that’s why he transferred up to CSU as a senior. I know he’s hot. He’s a bit on the controlling caveman side, and he’s a spectacular lover.
I look up at the dome ceiling and I’m blown.
“It’s weird, isn’t it?” he asks, as he leads me to the center of the atrium, right underneath the geometric panes of glass that allow the sunlight to filter through and cover the ground in amazing patterns.
“What’s weird?” I ask, only half able to pay attention to his words.
“Dedicating your life to plants.”
This makes me look at him. “Is it? She must’ve loved plants, though, right? Like you love bikes and I love…” His eyes search mine for a few seconds and I’m suddenly completely off balance. I want to say art, but my mind says you.
He drops my hand and reaches out to touch the leaf on a nearby sapling. There are no fully mature trees in here, it’s far too small to house them. But there are plenty of young trees. Some almost as tall as the ceiling, which would be about twenty feet if I guess correctly. And one tree that is bigger than the rest, right in the center of the place, surrounded by the most perfect sea of grass I’ve ever seen.
“Aesculus glabra,” he says in a whisper.
I smile. Because seriously—Latin? This man is nothing but surprises. “What’s that mean?” I ask, mimicking his low voice.
“Ohio Buckeye.” He chuckles.
I study the trees more closely now, looking to see if they’re all
the same. “They’re all buckeyes?” He nods. They have buckeye trees outside the student center on campus. That’s how I even know about these trees. “This one is too big to be in here,” I say as my eyes find the tallest tree and then travel all the way up to the ceiling where the branches are reaching for the sun. “What happens when it outgrows this room?”
When I look over at him, he’s studying me, tilting his head a little. “What do you think happens?” And then something changes in him. It’s small, not even something physical, but something… internal. Like my answer to this question is critical.
“There are only two options.”
He smiles and nods his head. But he stays silent.
“Cut down the tree or tear down the building,” I answer.
“Which do you think will happen?”
I look around at this beautiful place. The glass is a work of art in and of itself. They are not just rectangular panes, they are all different types of shapes. Triangles mostly, but some are square, some are circular, outlined by thick metal lines, similar to a stained-glass window, except all the glass is clear to allow the sun to shine through.
I look at all the rows and rows of potted plants, then a wall of hedges along one side of the room. My eyes take in the many saplings. Some are even out of the ground, their roots wrapped in burlap. Like they are waiting to be transplanted. There’s a system of pipes with spray nozzles over many of the benches holding seedlings, and there’s a workroom off to one side that looks like an office.
I look back over at Spencer. “You’re going to destroy this room.” I pause, because it’s painful to even picture it. But then I look up at the tree and imagine how many years his gran must’ve cared for it to be so big. “How old is it?”
“As old as me,” he replies as he looks around at the room. Maybe trying to come to terms with the fact that he has to tear it down to save this one life. “The crews are coming in next week to take everything away. I’ve sold all the plants.” He points to the big buckeye. “Except that one, of course. It gets to stay forever. My gran lost herself in here. She never recovered when my gramps died before I was born. She really did dedicate her life to plants. When she died and left me this place I expected to have instructions, ya know?” He draws his gaze away from his tree and looks down at me now, his blue-gray eyes a little turned down with sadness. “But there was nothing in the will about the greenhouse.” He shrugs. “I was sorta lost over it. I didn’t know what to do, so I just kept paying her two gardeners and pretended everything was fine. The tree really needed to be set free a long time ago, but I guess she couldn’t bring herself to destroy the room to save it.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m not sure what I’m sorry about, really. Maybe that you are the one who has to make the decision. Or maybe just because it’s a sad story and it deserves an apology.”
He inhales deeply and then lets it out slowly. “Yeah, but that’s not really why I brought you here.”
“No? Not to see the tree?”
He shakes his head. “No. I have a request and I’m hoping that you’ll say yes, even if it sounds a little weird.”
I just stare at him, waiting for it.
“Let me paint your body.”
“Excuse me,” I laugh. “What the what?”
He walks over to the office and pulls out a cart, then drags it through the grass, bending the perfect green blades and leaving tracks in the carpet of green. The cart is filled with painting supplies.
“You’re serious? My body?”
He holds up a finger and walks back to the office and comes out with a portfolio. “Please, Veronica, have a seat.” I think it’s the formal use of my name that makes me obey, but I have to admit, I’m curious. I sit down in the thick grass.
Spencer lies down next to me, propping himself up on his elbow, and opens the black portfolio. “This,” he says as he looks up at me with the most serious expression I’ve ever seen him wear, “is what I do, Ronnie. Besides build bikes and major in business in college, of course. This”—he pokes the clear plastic that covers the first photograph in the collection—“this is what I do. I paint naked girls.”
I take the portfolio from him and look closely at the images. They are beautiful, but they’re naked. “You want to paint my naked body?” I ask, as I look back up to him.
“Yes,” he says, holding my gaze. And then he breaks it and turns back to the page. “This was my model in France. I studied as an apprentice there a couple summers ago and that’s where I created this portfolio. But I’ve been busy.” He looks up at me sheepishly now, maybe embarrassed about all the trouble he’s been in. “And to be honest, I’m a little picky about my models. They have to be perfect. Not like, perfect bodies, just… perfect for me.” He stares at me. “You know?”
I look back at the book on my lap. These girls look like they are wearing clothes, but it’s an illusion created with liquid color. Put the shadows in just the right places and things take on depth. Curve a line that should be straight, and suddenly it pops out of the canvas.
Spencer Shrike seems to be a genius at manipulating perspective with paint.
“You really are an artist? You weren’t in my class just to pose naked for me?”
He laughs big now. “Well, yeah, Bomb. The whole reason I asked to join the class was to get close to you, that’s true. But I am an artist. And next week I’ll stop being a model and start being a student again. But what I want to know right now is will you let me paint you up in here and take some pictures so I can have them framed and shit?”
“You want to frame me? Naked?”
He nods. “I really do.”
“Like… make me your art?”
“Yeah,” he says, jumping to his feet, grabbing my hand and pulling me with him. His palms go to my waist and hold me tight, they pull me into his solid chest. One hand slips behind my ass and the other tips my chin up so I have to look him in the eyes. “Let me take you somewhere else today, Veronica. Be my canvas, be my fantasy. Come into my imagination for a little while, explore with me, let me take you somewhere magical. And when I’m done, I promise I’ll bring you back.”
“What if I don’t want to come back?” I say, totally one hundred percent serious. “What if I like that journey? What if I want to stay gone with you forever?”
He doesn’t answer, instead he leans in and kisses me. Not the hard crushing way he kissed me that first time. Not the sexy seductive way he does when he’s fucking me.
But some totally different way that I’m not sure I can describe. I just know it’s… different.
I come up from the kiss gasping for air. “When do we leave?”
“Right now, Bombshell.”
“When do we come back?”
“When it’s over.”
“So you really didn’t bring me out here to make love to me?”
“No, baby.” He must read my disappointment, because he tips my chin up again. “But my paintbrush will.”
I shudder.
And this is when I realize. I’m caught in his fantasy.
Spencer walked into my life, tipped me upside down, and shook the love right out of me.
My love spills out all over the place.
My love piles up at his feet.
Chapter Seven
VERONICA
“I’ve never seen this costume before,” Rook says as she points to the framed picture on Spencer’s large walnut desk. It’s the magical one of me in the atrium.
I open my mouth to respond, but I stop before she realizes. It feels like a secret. Like that’s a special place that only Spencer and I even know exists. The entire day was like a dream. A fantastical dream. That was the best day of my life. And even though I understood back then that it was gonna rank up there as far as memories go, three years later it is so much more.
I have no idea if Spencer ever brought another girl to his gran’s atrium, but I doubt it. And just knowing that makes me feel special and sick at the same tim
e. Like—why? How? How did we go from those perfect days during senior year to this?
My chest heaves with a sob and I turn and walk out before Rook catches on to my grief. The light flicks off as she exits behind me, and then I gather myself and wait for her at the top of the basement stairs.
She’s got a pouty face on when she catches up with me. “You’re sad?”
All I can do is nod, because if I speak right now, I’m gonna lose it and cry like a baby. Rook nods at me as she scoots past, then I follow her downstairs. When she opens the door, I brush past her hurriedly and flop down on her couch. We spent a lot of time together down here in her farm apartment. After she outed all those assholes involved in a human trafficking ring back in Chicago she was relentlessly followed by the media. And the weirdos. Like those awful people who picket the homes of dead soldiers. They marched around town with giant signs, declaring her a slave-trading whore.
And yeah, Rook was involved in some pretty insane shit back in Chicago. But she was just a kid who got caught up with an abusive man. He beat the shit out of her for years. You can hardly blame a homeless sixteen-year-old for being susceptible to a ring of powerful and abusive slave traders.
“OK, Ronnie,” Rook says as she plops down on the couch next to me. “Spill, bitch. What’s going on with you?”
I think it over for a few seconds, trying to find a good place to start. “You know how you said—” I stop, because it’s unfair to drag her down into my wallowing bog of pity.
“Said what? Come on, just talk.”
I take a deep breath. “All that stuff about Ashleigh. About being sorta jealous. Well… I feel like that too. About you and her. Because you guys both have what I want.”
I feel terrible for admitting that, but it’s true.
“Ronnie, I have nothing but Ronin. And I know this sounds flippant because believe me, I understand what it’s like to have no money. But that money means nothing to me. It’s just… there. I know I’ll never be homeless and I’m not gonna starve. And if I wanted to run away again, I could. But that’s all that money means to me. I have nothing but Ronin.”