by Elle Casey
“No, thanks.”
I frown, trying to concentrate on getting his arm clean instead of feeling terribly guilty. This is all my fault. And he’s being so cold, it’s almost physically painful to be in the same room with him. I feel like a stranger to him, a girl he has no interest in being around. We’re back to acting like pregnancy is a disease that he doesn’t want to catch.
I use the first aid kit Teagan put in the kitchen cabinet to finish up my doctoring of both him and me. As I’m putting the last gauze pad bandage on his arm, the front door opens and Teagan and Quin walk in. My heart sinks down into my toes. In an effort to hide my face and reaction, I focus on cleaning up the mess, crumbling up and tossing out bandage wrappers and the ruined towel.
“Hey, what’s going on? Why is the front window broken?” Teagan enters the kitchen and sees Colin’s arm. “Oh, man. Did you get in another fight?”
The censure in her voice instantly grates on my nerves. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, turning around to face her, my annoyance showing through.
Quin snorts. “Plain English. He fights a lot.” She looks at Colin, waiting for his answer.
“He wasn’t in a fight,” I say, acting like it was all just a big joke. I cringe inwardly as I try to come up with a lie that doesn’t seem completely self-serving.
“I tripped coming up the front stairs and put my elbow through the front window,” Colin says. “I’ll replace it tomorrow. Just give me a few minutes and I’ll cover it temporarily.”
“Wow, that must have been a hell of a trip,” Quin says, an eyebrow raised. “Sorry I missed it.”
I turn my back on her and act busy at the sink so that I’m not tempted to respond. It’s a horrible feeling to know that now I have Colin lying for me too. For a split second I consider just fessing up and telling them everything, but just as quickly I dismiss that thought. No way can I open that can of worms in this house with these people. Talk about a nightmare coming to life.
“I’m going upstairs,” Colin says. “Have a good night.”
He leaves the three of us in the kitchen and we all stand there looking at each other.
“Well, that was abrupt,” says Teagan. “What’s his problem?”
“I think we walked in on a lover’s quarrel,” Quin says, looking at me. “Did you break up with him?”
“We’re not even together like that,” I say, ignoring the funny feeling that idea gives me. “He’s just really busy. He has some shows coming up soon. I’ll bet he’s getting the work ready right now.” It makes me think of the stupid postcard and I realize now’s my chance to see what else he has going on up there in his secret cave. “I have to go talk to him about it.” I walk quickly out of the kitchen, but not quickly enough.
“What about dinner?” Teagan asks, following me down the hall.
“Do you want me to make it?” I ask as I start up the stairs. I’m tired, but I’ll sacrifice sleep to have something edible on the table.
Teagan stays down in the hallway looking up at me. “No, I can do it. Any special requests?”
“Nothing fancy,” I say, knowing our chances of having something edible improve as long as Teagan doesn’t get it into her head to cook something that takes more than two steps.
“Okay, gotcha. So no beef bourguignon?”
“Please, no,” I say, chuckling a little at the top of the first set of stairs.
“Enchiladas?” she says louder.
“Too many steps!” I yell.
“On the stairs or in the recipe?” she shouts.
I don’t answer because I’m almost to the attic and I need to get my game face on. Besides, Teagan knows exactly what I mean. Ever since my confession about her terrible cooking, she’s doubled her efforts to figure it all out. And so far, the results have been … mixed. But I have to give her points for effort.
I reach the old door at the top of the narrow stairs and raise my knuckles to give it a good knock. Breathing in and out slowly helps calm my nerves just a fraction as I try to come up with my opening line.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“COME IN,” COLIN SAYS FROM inside his attic studio.
I open the door and stick my head inside. “Do you mind if I come in and talk to you about your shows?”
“Nope.” His back is to me and he’s messing with some paints on a table. He’s wearing jeans that he’s designated for painting. They’re loose and covered in many colors, but still somehow sexy on him. I love the way they hang from his waist, sometimes exposing the top of his butt curve when his shirt is twisted or off. He wasn’t lying when he said he doesn’t wear underwear.
I walk inside and shut the door behind me. The smells up here remind me of Colin. He always has just the faintest hint of acrylic paint odor on him. It’s comforting in a way. This feels like a safe place to me, a hideout where I could come and pretend the world doesn’t exist. Something tells me it’s the same for him.
“Thanks,” I say, without preamble standing behind him.
“For what?” He swirls a paintbrush around inside a can of water, still not looking at me.
“For coming to my rescue.”
He turns partway around and sits on a stool, facing a blank canvas. His face is in profile, calling my attention to his strong chin and straight nose. “Is that what I did? Rescue you?” Picking up a rag, he dries off his brush.
“I guess. I mean … yes, you did.”
I wait for him to respond, but he doesn’t. He’s too busy selecting paint from different tubes, squeezing blobs out onto a palette. One of his feet is propped up on a rung of the stool while the other rests on the ground. His thigh muscle flexes under the denim of his pants when he leans forward and then back. He goes back to staring at the canvas once he’s done finding the right colors.
“You told Quin and Teagan that you tripped.”
He doesn’t respond.
“Thanks. For … lying.” My face burns with shame, and it only gets worse when Colin looks over at me, glares a couple seconds, and then goes back to staring at the canvas.
Tears rush to fill my eyes. I made the man who never lies … lie. The image of him in front of pure white goes blurry. I blink rapidly, trying to make the evidence of my sadness disappear. Instead, the tears fall from my eyes and tickle my cheeks on the way down. He’ll be branded a liar and it’s completely my fault. I’m so selfish.
I turn around and casually wipe my tears away so he won’t notice. Wandering over to the closest wall, I reach out for the paintings that are leaning there in groups, tipping them towards me so I can see what they are.
“Did you see the postcard that Geraldine sent out?” I ask.
“Nope.”
“She used a painting that looked a lot like me.” I keep my back to him, afraid to see his face.
He doesn’t answer, so I just keep on talking. “I didn’t know you did that one. I was kind of shocked, actually.” I look over my shoulder at him. He’s running his paintbrush down the center of his canvas. It’s filled with black paint, leaving a dark streak behind.
“Are there any other paintings of me I should know about?”
His brush freezes almost at the bottom of the canvas, and he finally looks at me. “Who says it was you?”
I snort. “Please. Anyone can see it’s me. Stringy hair? Long bangs? Pregnant? Sad as crud?”
He shakes his head and goes back to his black streak, finishing it off and adding more paint to his brush. He goes back over the line, this time putting more pressure on the brush. It’s thicker and bolder. Angrier.
My hands go to my hips. “Are you denying it’s me?”
“I’m not saying anything about anything.”
I walk closer. “Well, that’s rude.” My arms cross over my chest as I try to figure out what his problem is. It’s like he wants to fight with me. This is more than just a simple lie issue.
He flips his paintbrush around so that he’s holding it upright in a fist. His closed hand rests on hi
s leg, and he turns to me. “Rude? What’s rude? Not telling you things you think you should know? Keeping secrets? What? Which is it? Tell me.”
I bite my lip hard to keep from jumping into a response. He’s playing word games with me. I suppose I’m expected to feel bad about not telling him about my entire life now. As if.
“Yes,” I finally say. I can’t not answer since he’s staring holes into me. “It’s rude to paint a very intimate picture of me and sell it to some stranger.”
“Who says I’m selling it to anyone?”
“You gave it to Geraldine for the show.”
“I gave her all of my stuff. It was your job to filter through everything and hold back things you didn’t want her to have. And just because she has it doesn’t mean it’s for sale.”
“I don’t have a car, as you know, so it’s kind of hard for me to filter through anything when I can’t physically get to it.”
He shrugs off my excuses. “You could’ve asked me for a ride. You could’ve borrowed my car.”
“You’re busy. And it’s your car, not mine. I don’t feel right driving it around. It’s too valuable.”
He shakes his head as he flips his paintbrush around. “Whatever.”
This is going all wrong. I meant to come up here and just thank him. Instead, I feel like slapping him and yelling in his face.
I take a moment to figure out where things went pear-shaped and realize it was when I looked at him and saw anger there on his face. Or maybe it was disappointment. Either way, it felt like a dagger to the heart. But instead of blaming myself, I blamed him. I’m being unfair again, and here he is, cut up and bruised from protecting me, no questions asked. Could I be more of a jerk? I don’t think so.
I take a stool from across the room and bring it over to where Colin is, setting it down right next to him. I sit on it, and for a few minutes I just watch him paint. I’m working on getting up the nerve to say something when Colin speaks first.
“Why are you here?”
A sad smile appears on my face as I consider his question. “I’ve asked myself the same thing about a hundred times in the last few months.”
He grunts but doesn’t say anything.
“I used to think I was here to make my parents proud. To go to the right schools, to learn all the right skills, and to create a life for myself that’s everything my parents and I dreamed of.” I sigh as I realize that picture of my life has faded into a blurry gray image when it used to be electric rainbow-bright. “Then I got pregnant and everything went away. I lost everything.” A sad sigh and a cough keep the tears at bay. “I guess I don’t know the answer to your question. I don’t know why I’m here.”
His hand pauses in midair as he turns to me. “I meant here in the attic.”
His expression is so serious, it takes me a few seconds to figure out he’s messing with me. It’s only when he cracks a small smile that I can let my air out and breathe again.
I push him in the shoulder. “Jerk.”
He cleans his brush and picks up some red on the bristles. A streak of bold color joins the black.
Colin speaks without looking at me. “Why do you think your life is over just because you got pregnant? Girls get pregnant all the time and continue on with their lives.”
The fact that he’s not looking at me waiting for an answer makes it easier to talk and say things I normally would be more guarded about. I stare at a blob of paint on the floor and let my mind wander. My mouth opens and words just spill out, but I hardly pay them any attention. I’m living my past like an actor plays a role in a film. I can see myself and the other actors talking to each other, interacting with one another. Like it’s not real, but it is.
“I had a very specific path. I spent years on that path. Going to school, studying for hours every day, making all the right friends and wearing the right clothes that said the right things to people. I thought I fell in love with the perfect guy too. And one night the path just … disappeared. Or I got thrown off it. Or I jumped off it.” I sigh in defeat. “I don’t know how I got off the path exactly. I just know I can never get back on it again.”
“Bullshit.” He’s painting bold streaks all over the black now. In certain places the colors blend together into something ugly.
“You don’t know anything about me,” I say, almost wishing it weren’t true.
“Who was that guy? … Randy. Why was he here? Is he your boyfriend?”
I clench my teeth together, not wanting to answer.
“I got his plate number,” Colin says. “I’m going to have Dickerson look him up, I think. Pay him a visit … make sure he understands he’s not welcome back here.”
My hand flies up before I can think to stop it and grabs Colin’s upper arm. “No! Don’t.” I hastily yank my hand back and fold it up with my other one in my lap, squeezing my fingers together. My palms are sweaty. So are my armpits.
He stops painting and turns partway in his stool to face me. “If you don’t want me getting involved, then tell me why I shouldn’t.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
I GLANCE UP AT HIM under my lashes. He’s staring at me with his dark unwavering green eyes, and I know I’m being tested. Right now I could tell him to leave me the heck alone and go on with his life without me in it, and he’ll probably be mad or hurt enough to do it.
But God help me, I don’t want him to move on without me. It’s stupid and ridiculous and completely not what I ever thought I’d want for myself, but it’s true; I want Colin to be in my life, even if it’s just as my self-appointed protector. Colin the felon. Colin the fighter. Colin the one they call Trouble.
“You shouldn’t get involved because Randy and his friends are bad people who have a lot of money at their disposal and who aren’t afraid to use it to hurt other people that make them unhappy.”
“What?” Colin laughs. “Are they mafia?”
“Who, Randy? No. Not mafia.” If the mafia hung out at the polo club, maybe. I laugh at the idea. “Just people who think they’re better than everyone else, that’s all.”
“Why’s he showing up here acting like a prick? That his baby?” Colin points to my belly with the end of the paintbrush.
I don’t know why, but I suddenly feel very vulnerable. Wrapping my arms around my big belly, I lean over just a little, my eyes glued to Colin’s. “No. I would never … “ I can’t finish.
“Then why’s he here threatening you?”
“He was just here …” I give up with trying to find a lie that will fit. “He was here to warn me off or something, I don’t know. He’s friends with someone I know. Or knew. Or thought I knew. I don’t know.” I finish with a sigh. I’m so confused. I still don’t know how I could have been so wrong about Charlie. I have to be the most naive girl who ever walked on two legs.
Colin reaches over and before I realize what he’s going to do, he places a hand on my belly, right where the baby has decided to stretch. There are smears of paint on his fingers, but I don’t care.
“I can feel her move,” he whispers. “I can see her move, too.”
I nod, strong, strange emotions making it impossible for me to speak. His hand is so big and so warm. All I feel are good things coming from that sensation. He may be vicious and tough, but I would never know that from his touch on my body.
“What was he warning you off of?” Colin asks.
I shake my slowly from head side to side, staring at his hand on me.
“Tell me, Alissa. I can help you.”
I look up at him, tears making my eyesight blurry again. “I don’t want anyone to get involved. You could get hurt.”
He gives me a wry smile. “Please. You know I’m not happy unless I’m looking for a little trouble.”
I slide my hand over in response to the baby moving and my fingers settle in next to his. His skin is so warm and solid. I’d give just about anything to have those arms of his around me. “You should start avoiding trouble, I think, now that you’re a
serious artist, painter person.”
He shrugs, all nonchalant. “You want me to stop, I’ll stop.”
I stare up in his eyes, his very serious expression making me question what he means by that statement. “Stop what? Getting into trouble or stop painting?”
“Either. Both. I don’t care.”
A shy smile takes over my face; I can’t help it. He’s acting like I matter in his life. “Don’t be silly.”
He puts his paintbrush in the water can and turns more fully in his seat. Both of his hands are on my belly now and they’re moving around just the slightest bit as he gets a feel for my baby underneath. “I’m not being silly. I’m being serious. Tell me what I can do to help you. How can I make you happy?”
My brain has gone all mushy. I’m wallowing in the coziness of having him so near, touching me, wanting me to be happy. He’s so big. So strong. And he smells like Colin …
Oh, God. What in the heck am I doing?!
Emotions hit me full force. I’m getting way too attached to this man, and it feels like it’s unstoppable, like I have no control over my life or my heart anymore. And the last time that happened, everything crashed down around my ears and was demolished forever. The very idea of going through that again sends me into panic mode. I push his hands away.
“Why?” I say, a little too forcefully. “I don’t understand … why are you asking me this?”
He rolls his eyes to the ceiling and tips his head back for a few seconds. His eyes close and he tilts his head down again. As he shakes his head, he opens his eyes. “Jesus, Alissa, can’t a guy just want to help? Do you want me to tell you that I like you? Confess my feelings and emotions or something?”
Humiliation makes me scowl and stand up off my stool. How embarrassing! He thinks I’m some sort of school girl begging for confessions of love! “Oh, shut up, Colin.”