by Libby Rice
Lissa swallowed a giggle. I’m holed up with a sex ninja.
She stopped laughing when he didn’t give her what she wanted. Swirling two knuckles over her core, Cole didn’t offer a hint of satisfaction. She wanted his fingers to slide deep. He drew gentle figure eights around her clitoris, nice and easy. She wanted him to ditch the boxer briefs and slam home. He used the back of his hand in driving pulses against her open sex, light on the friction.
At least he talked. “Yeah, if you saw me touch you through my eyes, you know I can barely breathe.” His face flushed, eyes going glassy. “You know I get restless and single-minded.”
“Cole,” she began, but he stopped her protest.
“You smell like cinnamon”—a long inhale left him looking crazed—“like your whole body’s been dusted.”
Probably because it had been. Nothing like a little spicy cinnamon body powder to take the edge off a long flight. “You like?” When he didn’t answer, Lissa amped up the urging, ready to get explicit. “Could we—”
“Too late, baby. We can’t go back.”
As if she wanted to. But she knew he didn’t mean this particular encounter. Cole had resisted every part of her for so long. Now he admitted the futility of his efforts, letting his sensual monologue ride in on soft touches, relaxing her, opening her. Driving her nuts.
“Cole,” she said again, only this time she meant something different.
“At least you’re saying the right name.” His fingers barely glided over her skin. “I know. You want harder, deeper, faster. This is what I want.”
Torture ensued, like he’d injected warm massage oil into her veins. Her body grew languid and sluggish. The need to come was ever present without being overwhelming. Once her hips rolled toward him in a lazy grind, she felt an unhurried push into the center of her being. Lissa boiled over. Rather than a fiery burst, she melted in a leisurely rush of warmth.
“Ooooooh, Cole.” She moaned his name too many times to count, and all the while he kept his finger inside her body, perfectly still.
When she opened her eyes, she saw a man on the brink of either violence or madness. Shoulders taut, lips rolled inward over teeth, he’d thrown his head back to stare at the ceiling. Cole held himself in check by the thinnest of threads.
“I picked you, and I picked India in tribute. You were to clear my conscience.”
The words flash-froze her pleasure even though she’d suspected as much all along. Lissa jerked upright and scooted away, wishing she’d misheard, sure she hadn’t.
He pinned her with his clear blue gaze. “But all that matters now,” he said, his tone low and dark, “is making sure you say my name when you come. And when you wake. And when you sleep. When you’re afraid. When you’re happy. Or sad. Or bored. Or lonely.”
A chill crept over her exposed skin, and she wished she’d been gentler with the space heater. Cole had wooed her with the tough love of a harsh critic. His tendency to push her away before dragging her close had somehow made him the center of her world and, she now knew, her the center of his.
That truth should make her ecstatic, erase the pain of their inauspicious start, yet it felt irrelevant. The tone of Cole’s confession, the strain evident in every line of his body, told her the more Cole let himself love another, the more he hated himself.
Chapter 29
She’d said, “You’re welcome.”
Here he’d admitted to overshooting his goals to the level of betraying his ideals, and all she’d mustered up was you’re fucking welcome.
“For what?” he couldn’t help but ask.
By now she was off the bed, shimmying those long, smooth legs into a fresh pair of jeans. “You haven’t found absolution, but wanting me—dare I say, needing me, even caring for me—has delivered a hell of a lot of closure.”
She zipped her pants and stared at him, pained, obviously waiting for a string of denials about how he felt.
Denials that didn’t come. If a woman haunted his dreams and preoccupied his mind, that woman was no longer his wife. That woman had morphed into an attitude with long legs and glossy auburn hair.
Closure. he supposed.
“Always so confident,” he said, mostly to fill the empty, expectant space with sound.
“More like observant.” She pulled a down jacket over the tiny T-shirt she’d slept in. “Remember, I’m the one who looks behind the veneer. In you, I see a man clutching a rule book telling him how life should be lived. Like a dieter who eats when he’s not hungry, you seek comfort in routine, somehow finding pleasure in the guilt of self-sabotage. Because if you feel bad, you can credit yourself with at least respecting the rules, even though you no longer obey them.”
When she reached for the strap of her portable easel, Cole grabbed for his own clothes.
“As much as that pisses me off,” she spat, “I call it progress.”
The muscles in Cole’s throat worked convulsively. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah?” Lissa bent to tie a shoe. “When we met, you were involved with a dead woman and felt guilty about me. Now you’re involved with me and still feel guilty about me. Get the difference?” The lecture died away, but Cole easily made out one last word—silent and exaggerated—that Lissa mouthed in his direction.
Progress.
His lips stiffened, preparing to lie. “I’m not involved—”
“Why do you care whose name I say?” Lissa grabbed the doorknob just as Cole jammed stiff arms into the sleeves of his own coat. “I’m saying it now, Cole. Why do you care?”
The rest of the lie dove down his throat, abandoning him to the truth. “When you say my name, I hear you. I don’t hear her in my head anymore. She left me. I hear you, see you, feel you. And it’s a relief.”
Fuck a relief, more like a miracle.
“Then hear me say this. I’ll only let you deny us for so long. I can’t be a dirty secret, not even one you only keep from yourself.”
The door didn’t slam in her wake, which lent her solemn vow all the more power. Cole grabbed his lightest camera and eased into the hall behind her, keeping his distance. Her instinct might tell her she needed space, but his said she’d roam the streets of New Delhi alone about the time Indians embraced carpool lanes.
Outside the guesthouse, the city teemed with the schizophrenic business of survival. Trailing a few feet back, Cole followed Lissa along a narrow street. Sidewalk free, they joined the throng of people walking in the eight inches of road separating the parked cars from the moving ones. Crowded apartments loomed above, and Cole smiled inwardly at the sound of chattering housewives who hung laundry and beat Persian rugs over sagging balconies.
A haze of engine exhaust bloated the air, and Cole saw Lissa cough into an elbow every few minutes. Pollution hit people differently, burning in the eyes and the nose, even the throat. For an unlucky few, all three. With multiple motorbikes for every car, two-stroke smoke became more than an ambient irritant. It was a steady part of a balanced diet.
Lissa skirted around a stray dog doing its business in the limited walking lane, and then she stopped. Looking past her frozen shoulder, Cole saw her attention land on a child. A little girl, probably around four years old, clung to the back of motorcycle like a seasoned pro. The driver paid her little mind as he surged in and out of stopped traffic.
Catching up, Cole spoke to her back. “They have slightly less stringent car seat regulations.”
“She’s a baby,” Lissa breathed.
“This is India.” Cole replied. “That’s baby’s a seasoned pro.” Her sanitized vision of humanity would die a quick death. He hoped it could be painless.
She turned, and he saw the remnants of their fight in her eyes, now cauldrons of fatigue and cynicism. Usually so merry, those dark, beautiful pools swirled with indecision.
“Don’t give up yet.” A grimace stretched his lips. “You’ve come too far.” Frankly, Cole didn’t care to examine whether he meant for her
to hold out for India, or for him.
Remaining somber, she whispered, “Ditto,” and kept walking.
Right into a goat. The animal had been pawing at the base of an overloaded utility pole and reared back for a running start about the time Lissa attempted to pass. The two collided. This time Lissa didn’t bother to stop. Slim shoulders merely lifted in a shrug as she moved on.
A few blocks landed them in the traffic circle they’d discovered that morning. The street fires had long smoldered, not to return until the night brought bitter cold. Lissa stopped at the edge of the street, and Cole sped up. Crossing an Indian road took brass balls and gold-medal technique. The trick was to wade through slowly—forget waiting for a break in the flow—and let the traffic diverge around you, rather like walking through a school of fish.
Too many times Cole had witnessed failed attempts to dart through the chaos. Those people ended up dragged aside by other pedestrians, bleeding or dead.
Before he could reach her, Lissa withdrew. Her hand went to the shoulder strap on her easel and, navigating the waves of people and animals like she was born to it, she retreated to the edge of the nearest building. The whole time her gaze remained trained on the traffic circle itself.
Like before, Cole positioned himself at a respectable distance, one that gave him a feel for her target. Homing in didn’t take long. A chain-link fence enclosed an elevated patch of dirt in the center of the circle. Beyond the fence, Cole spied a makeshift tent formed of ragged sheets and blankets. A woman sat on a pallet outside the dwelling.
She was breastfeeding an infant.
Around her, children played as though thousands of cars didn’t wiz by hourly. For all the attention they paid, those children might have been playing pirate ship in his isolated backyard in Nederland, Colorado. One small boy appeared particularly afflicted. He fumbled in the dirt with the others but moved on all fours, belly up. From knee to mid-shin, a shiny fixture protruded from his leg, as though a brass comb had sprouted from the bone.
Lissa must have practiced with her easel. By the time Cole tore his attention from the fishbowl in the street, she’d set up, pencil in one hand, brush in the other.
The camera around his neck itched for action. Since Lissa was an attention magnet with her looks and equipment, he kept one eye on the viewfinder and another on the shoulders she arched over her canvas. The urge to immerse herself in work whenever life proved challenging said Lissa treated paint like he did pictures—therapy first, job second.
The first taker was a man in a suit. At home, he might have been a real estate agent. Cole heard him welcome Lissa to India and inquire, “Where are you from?”
Don’t go there. Don’t. Don’t…
“US,” Lissa replied.
“Aaah,” said the suit, blooming with an ecstatic smile. “I love America!”
Lissa kept sketching. She also kept nodding.
Which meant the suit began an impressive wind-up pitch. “How long will you stay in our beautiful country?”
“Not sure yet,” Lissa answered. When suit’s face fell, she added, “But so far? Fabulous.”
“Good, yes?” the guy replied, regaining steam. “Have you wish to purchase fine things in India?”
There it is.
“Maybe a rupee or two worth.”
Cole grunted. A letter had arrived in the mail as he and Lissa had driven out for the airport. He wondered at the amount of “emergency money” Lissa’s dad had loaded on the prepaid VISA inside. Suffice to say, she was likely equipped to purchase one of India’s nuclear weapons, if she’d like.
“I have car,” said suit. “Very nice car. I take you to best markets.”
Lissa finally looked leery. “Thanks, but—”
“No, no, madam! No obligation to buy. None at all. You come?”
“Uh”—Lissa gave her easel a long look and finally swiveled her head around to find Cole—“kinda busy.”
“My car very nice. Get to best shopping very, very fast.” His “very, very” sounded like “betty, betty.”
Cole cringed. The guy was safe, just a hustler looking to feed his family. But if Lissa didn’t learn early, she’d go through this exercise often. Plus, unlike Cole’s, Lissa’s art required her to remain stationary. She couldn’t evade touts by walking away on a string of “No thank yous.”
In an overabundance of enthusiasm, the suit moved to help Lissa pack her things so she could go to a very nice market in his very nice car. When Lissa moved closer to her easel in evasion, the guy’s palm almost landed on her arm.
“Hands off.” Cole’s voice sounded colder than he’d planned. When the suit spared him a glance, Cole tried to look casual but saw his failed effort in the way the tout subtly jumped away. Letting Lissa find her path among strangers in a strange land was one thing. Letting them touch her… quite another.
For a moment, Cole thought the man might press. Instead, he bobbled his head from side to side before melding into the passing crowd.
After that, Cole had expected Lissa to recoil with every new approach, not look him up and down as though unimpressed and then calmly put brush to canvas. Over the next couple of hours her painting took shape along with her ability to handle interruptions with warm efficiency. Cole watched her politely avoid offers to buy flowers, have her shoes shined, visit a textile factory of “best quality” ceramics, ride an elephant tethered to a stop sign two blocks away, and take a guided tour of the state of Rajasthan—private car, again betty, betty nice.
Some she chatted up, in the end refusing whatever was on offer. Others she waved on immediately. She laughed hysterically when a teenaged boy offered to clean her ears with a handful of medieval instruments for a hundred rupees.
Cole strived to leave her be, passing the time with his own photos of the happenings in and around the traffic circle. Fitting that no matter how he tried, all his photos appeared bleak and stricken, a wasteland of poverty porn. None highlighted the fact that these people were, by and large, joyful and content. By shirking the chains of great wealth, so many Indians seemed truly free.
Lissa’s quick acclimatization surprised him. Thrown into a world that couldn’t be further from her pampered existence and, within a day, she embraced the change. Thinking on it, Cole realized she’d done the same in Colorado. He’d never given her credit for “going rural” when life in Nederland had to have been a shock. Cole had seen firsthand how perfectly Lissa filled the role she’d been born to play, that of a young, beautiful socialite preordained for impressive feats. Yet she’d smoothly replaced gallery hobnobbing with frozen dinners and morning battles over a tree swing.
Without really knowing his goal, he circled back to check her progress. One look over her shoulder, and the din of the street receded.
Meaning crawled, layer by layer, up her canvas. On the bottom, Cole detected the dull gleam of a metal fence. Nothing stood beyond, leaving him with the sense of entrapment without reason. A thick diagonal slash segued to a separate scene above, showing a tangle of arms and legs and an occasional disembodied grin. Another slash led to the impression of dark, watchful eyes. The hint of an intent stare could have belonged to the breastfeeding mother or, just as easily, the passersby who tried not to look on in overt fascination.
The top fragment of canvas to fall to Lissa’s brush held a number of gauzy ovals, each in a different muted color and with a string trailing in its wake. On first pass, Cole didn’t get the significance. He plunged into the old abyss of Lissa’s work, the one where he felt like he’d missed a joke the whole world found hilarious.
Man out.
But the next color to land in broad swaths broke through his familiar frustration. Around the vague circles, Lissa streaked a grayish blue that puffed here and there into anemic clouds. Immediately Cole recognized the potential of a polluted sky. The withered circles had to be balloons—floating on the bloom of unspent youth but faded and shrunken to the point of hardship.
No matter how abstract, misunde
rstanding wasn’t an option. She painted, and he felt.
Simple as that.
In two hours Lissa had captured both the turmoil and tenacity on every Indian street corner. She hadn’t whitewashed the poverty. Neither had she ignored the promise.
“I get it,” he murmured against her neck, craving the cinnamon spice that wafted from beneath the warmth of her jacket.
“The painting or the fact that I’m the master of the universe?”
Both.
Under his chin, her shoulder jerked, suppressing a cough. The sharpness that escaped her lips cut through the blare of a passing motorbike. Overhead, the real clouds she’d painted so aptly hung like a blanket of noxious fumes her body obviously sought to reject. “That’s coming from your chest.” Not her throat. Her throat would be better.
She scanned the sky. “A tickle. The body must adjust somehow.”
Not like that. Before he could press, she tapped the side of the canvas with the wooden handle of her brush and said, “You know the drill, Cole. What do you feel when you look at this?”
Love.
The realization materialized slowly, lighting up protesting nerves, as surprising as it was unfair. If love were water, he’d used his ration. No one, especially not his Lissa, should shoulder the burden of his dehydrated soul.
“I feel”—his voice took on an edge—“you’ll do.”
Her anemic, “Bullshit,” only prompted more nonsense.
“I already told you I picked you for absolution. Well, thanks, because this”—he pointed at the drying balloons—“at last is good enough to give it to me.”
******
“Sure, sure, Cole,” Lissa said to herself, trekking up the long, stone steps to the main entrance of India’s largest mosque with her new driver-slash-shadow, Sonu, in tow, “I can do Delhi solo.” For two days now, she’d proven it.
Her first adventure had taken her to the outskirts of the city on the banks of the river Yamuna. There, she and Sonu had toured an amazing cultural complex with an air of a Hindu Disneyland. They’d explored acres of pink sandstone and white marble monuments, darting through ornate gates and past carved statues. Lissa hadn’t been able to take her easel into the facility, but after a boat ride through ten-thousand years of Indian heritage and culture, she’d sat upon a lush lawn, finally staring at a clear blue sky amid perfumed air, and dreamed up the perfect tribute.