by M. Leighton
Levi’s Blue
A Novel
M. Leighton
Levi’s Blue
Levi’s Blue Four beautiful days. Three steamy nights. One breathtaking love.
Levi Michaelson. He wanted four dates. Four opportunities to prove I could trust him. Four chances to change my mind about him.
I agreed.
Probably not my smartest decision. He was everything I knew to avoid—gorgeous, charming, sexy as hell—but I couldn’t help myself. When he touched me, the whole world disappeared. I should’ve known I could lose myself to him, that he could be the one man to destroy me.
I guess it’s true what they say—some things are too good to be true. And Levi Michaelson might just be one of them.
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First Edition
Copyright 2016, M. Leighton
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This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and storylines are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Dear Reader,
Have you ever been lost? Ever lose your way home when you were little? Did you ever feel so alone and so scared that you couldn’t remember how you got where you are?
I have.
Literally and metaphorically.
In fact, I’ve felt a bit lost for a while now. I think that’s normal when a series of events turns your life on its ear. But, like getting lost as a child, eventually, when you walk in circles long enough, you’ll find your way back. Sometimes it’s a neighbor, a teacher, a family friend, or even a dog that might see you safely home, but you make it, and home has never felt quite as good as it does in those first few moments of being back where you belong.
Levi’s Blue has brought me home. Levi and Evie have brought me back to the place where I belong, doing what I love, the way I love doing it.
A special thank you to them, and to you for sticking with me on my journey.
It’s good to be home.
Dedication
To my dad, who brought me home more times than I can count. He never let me stay lost long.
And to my husband, whose heart, whose laugh, whose arms are my home. I love you, babe. More than anything in the whole entire world.
CHAPTER 1
EVIE
I STOP in the doorway and reach for the wall. The plaster feels good against my damp palms. Cool, refreshing. Stable.
I’m nervous.
It’s hot in there, in the next room. I can tell because the humid air gushes through the opening and caresses my face like the kiss of summer, warm and moist.
I take a steadying breath and reach out with all my senses. It’s second nature to me now.
I hear the shuffle of feet, the rustle of movement. I smell the scent of a dozen colognes and perfumes, mixing with the faint aroma of alcohol. And I feel the presence of people nearby, their charge, their…static. They change the air around them, the way it sounds and smells, but also the way it feels as it washes over me. It feels heavier. More electric.
And what does all that mean? People. Lots of them.
A crowd is waiting for me. I know they’re there, even though I can’t see them. I haven’t seen a face, a color, a sunset, or a star in thirteen years. These days, all of my mental pictures are made from what I can hear, taste, smell and feel. The only things I see are memories that are locked away inside my head, in a palace with a thousand rooms, each filled with sights from the first half of my life.
When I could see.
I pull in a single deep breath, drawing in all the concrete and certain elements I can detect. They are my sight now. They are the things that soothe me. Ground me. Comfort me.
Well, sometimes. When I’m not a jumbled mass of nerves, all twisted and tangled around each other.
For the most part, I’ve learned to take comfort in different things since the accident, to find peace in different ways. And tonight, braving a crowd of people who have come to see my work, my art… Well, I’ll need all the comfort I can get, wherever I can get it.
I hear the delicate click of footsteps, stilettoes on polished marble, as someone—Cherelyn, I presume—walks toward me. It’s a purposeful gait, a completely different sound than the casual meandering of those walking around the room next to the one I’m in, looking at the walls, at all the squares and rectangles that colorfully display little bits and pieces of my soul.
“You ready?” a voice says as the steps draw nearer. As I suspected, it’s Cherelyn.
“Not even a little bit,” I admit, my innards knotted like a clutch of angry snakes, hissing and spitting.
“Too bad. This is your night and you’re going to enjoy it if I have to hog-tie you and drag you out there.”
I smile. “Hog-tie me? What the hell is that?”
“It’s a Texas thing. Now come on.” She tugs gently at my arm, but I resist.
“We aren’t in Texas, though. We’re in Shreveport, Louisiana.”
“I realize that, dingus.” Her answer is droll. I imagine her expression is, too, but I can’t see her, so I wouldn’t know. I’ve felt her pointed chin and high cheekbones, her pert nose and broad forehead, though, so I can conjure up what expression I think she might be wearing—a wry one. “You brought all that ’80s shit with you to school in New York. I brought Texas with me to Louisiana. Get over it and move your ass.”
“The ’80s were great for movies and music, and I’m offended that—”
“Stop right there. You’re stalling, and I can’t let you stall, because if you stall I might lose my nerve, and then I’ll stall and—”
“If you say ‘stall’ one more time, I’m gonna gag you and throw you in the closet.” I lay my hand over hers where she’s gripping my arm. Her fingers are digging in like someone who’s falling off a cliff that has no visible bottom. “Hey, it’s going to be fine. You know that, right?”
She sighs. I feel her minty breath breeze over the skin of my temple. “I know. I’m just nervous.”
Cherelyn is not only my best friend, she’s my biggest fan. She’s also the person who organized this showing, which is taking place in the gallery of a friend of her father’s. She has a lot to prove tonight, too.
“Aren’t I the one who’s supposed to be nervous? This is my opening after all.”
Just saying the words out loud causes my insides to dance and fidget. This is my opening, for my work. Holy shit!
“Oh, God!” I exclaim, my fingers tightening over the back of her hand. “I may hurl.”
That
snaps her out of it.
“Stop that! Stop that right this minute! You’re going to pull yourself together and go out there and charm the pants off of every person in that room. It’s what you do. It’s who you are. Now let’s do this.”
Cherelyn is the type of person who can’t be calmed by anyone when she gets in a snit. However, if she feels like she has to be strong for someone else—me, for instance—she’ll puke and rally (hopefully without the puking). It’s like she kicks into best friend mode. Shamefully, I sort of use that when I need to calm her. Kind of like reverse psychology. I let her come to my rescue. Even though I wasn’t entirely exaggerating about the throwing up part. I genuinely feel queasy.
Regardless, I continue with my role. “Okay, okay, okay. Go introduce me then. Let’s get this over with before I change my mind.”
She doesn’t budge, but after a short pause, she gives me a request that has become something of a game between us. “Tell me about the blonde first.”
I smile.
We’ve done this since I started to get back out into the social world my junior year of college. I make up stories about the people I can’t see. It used to ease my tension and lighten my mood, make me feel less nervous and self-conscious, but it didn’t take long for either of us to realize that it worked just as well for Cherelyn.
“The blonde with the big mouth? That one?”
“Yeah, her.”
I lower my voice like I’m telling State secrets. “She says her name is Petunia, but I heard through the grapevine that her stage name was Pussy Aplenty. You know, sorta like that Bond girl. Anyway, she’s an ex-porn star who took out a second mortgage to pay for her triple F boobs and then got a job as a fluffer for John Holmes. Rumor has it that he broke her gag reflex and she became a star overnight. She can swallow anything without barfing. You should probably keep all the men away from her.”
Cherelyn giggle-snorts, and I can feel some of her tension melt away as she relaxes, leaning against my side to rest her head against mine. “You should write stories.”
“I do. I just don’t use words.”
“You use paint. And you’re damn good at it, too. Maybe you should paint Porn Star Petunia one of these days.”
“I’d need the side of a building to do those boobs justice. Not my style. Sorry.”
“Eh, a girl can hope.”
Suddenly, I’m pulled into a tight embrace and kissed on the cheek. “You’re gonna be a star, Evie. A bona fide star.”
“I’d settle for enough money to pay my bills and not have to do the classes.”
“But you love teaching those classes.”
“I do, but I hate taking money for it. I do it because I want to help those kids. It seems…dirty to get paid for it. I’d rather be able to do them for free. I’d feel much better about it.”
“You get paid because the companies that donate to Healing Art need a tax write-off. You shouldn’t feel bad for taking their money. Those rich assholes can afford it and they undoubtedly need some good karma. Look at it as a service to the kids and the tyrants.”
“You’re not bitter at all,” I assert dryly.
“You forget. I know how those people work. I grew up in it. Lived around that corporate bullshit for half my life and was engaged to one for way too long. It’s an ugly, ugly business. Rich people can be so cruel, so ruthless. Unscrupulous. I mean, look at what happened to you!”
I close my unseeing eyes. I hate going back down that road. I’ve spent a lot of years letting it go, refusing to spend one more minute of my life dwelling on something I can’t change. Cherelyn is still furious about it, but I’m tired of wasting my energy. I’d much rather just move on and find a way to be happy without becoming consumed with the person who wrecked my life.
“I think I’ve done a pretty good job of making lemonade from those lemons, don’t you think?”
There’s a long, thoughtful pause as Cherelyn takes the hint and abandons that sore subject. “You’re the best maker of lemonade that I know.”
“Then how’s about going out there and introducing me so they don’t think I’m a no-show?”
She takes a deep breath. She’s bolstering herself. I can imagine her squaring her shoulders almost as clearly as I heard her suck in a gulp of courage. “I’ll make you proud.”
“You always do. But don’t make me sound like a superhero this time. That gets a little awkward.”
“What? You didn’t like my Dare Devil reference when we pitched to that new company who wanted to donate to Healing Art last week?”
“You’re joking, right?”
“Hell no! I thought they loved it. I mean, they donated enough to keep it going for, like, three years. In fact, I considered dressing you in red leather tonight just for effect.”
“Note to self: Never let Cherelyn pick out my clothes again.”
“Like I’d be able to pull that over on you anyway. You’re too damn smart and…sensey. I can’t even get you to wear a sheer blouse because you can feel the difference in the way the air flows over your skin. Weirdo.”
I shrug, unconcerned. “Comes with the territory. Lose your sight and everything else starts working overtime.” I pretend glance down at a watch I’m not wearing and couldn’t see even if I were. “Speaking of time…”
“Shit! Right. I’m going, I’m going.”
I grin as she takes off like a shot. I hear the light click of her hurried steps as she walks briskly across the gallery floor. Seconds later, I hear the delicate clink of metal against glass as she taps her champagne flute to get the attention of the crowd. Her voice rises above the ambient noise, and she gives a blissfully short introduction.
“Now, the woman of the hour. Please welcome Evian de Champlain.”
I inhale, memorizing the scent of this moment, the taste and texture of it. I lock it away in a room all its own. It deserves its own space since it’s the first of my dreams to come true. I’ll revisit these details hundreds of times before I die. Maybe paint something to give it life outside my head.
Hesitantly, I start out across the gallery. The light tap tap, tap tap of my cane’s tip grazing the floor is enough to quiet the audience. Silence falls around me like dusk, and I imagine that all eyes turn to watch me enter.
I squeeze the grip of my cane, the fingers of my free hand trembling at my side. My lips wobble as I attempt to keep my smile in place.
I count each step, having rehearsed this entrance a dozen times in the last week. There are forty-eight of them from the back doorway to the center of the room. I’m on twenty-three.
Twenty-four.
Twenty-five.
Twenty-six.
So far, so good.
I hear hushed murmurs and the soft slap of skin meeting skin as someone begins to clap. Others join in, and a subdued applause welcomes me to one of my biggest goals in life.
The moment is magical. Exquisite. Surreal. I’m so caught up in the splendor of it that the sound of something dropping and rolling across the floor barely registers in my mind. I only feel the rush of accomplishment. I only hear the heavy beat of my own heart. I only smell victory.
That is, until my foot skids over something and sends me tumbling backward. Then I hear nothing but my own gasp, one of surprise and humiliation.
It happens in slow motion, my blunder. Or at least it feels like it does. One foot flips out from under me, causing me to lose my balance. My other foot wavers unsteadily on my three-inch heel. My fingers open reflexively, and my cane goes flying out…somewhere. My arms flail as I reach out for stability and find nothing but air. And my face… I hate to even imagine what my expression is like.
I’m going to fall.
In an art gallery.
On opening night.
On my opening night.
In front of an assortment of rich and powerful people.
And just like that, my confidence, my moment, my dream comes crashing down around me.
I squeeze my eyes shut and brace
for impact. I know I’m racing toward the hard ground and can’t do a damn thing about it.
But that impact never comes.
Instead, I’m caught by a strong arm and jerked up against a warm body. A chest, I imagine. A wide one that’s as solid as a brick wall and as welcome as a feather mattress.
It takes me a second to realize I’m safe, but the instant I do, I turn my face into the expensive material of my savior’s jacket and hide. It’s the only thing I can do, because facing all these people is obviously out of the question. At least for a few more seconds. A few more heartbeats.
It’s during those few heartbeats of reprieve that some part of my humiliated brain notices two things, two very specific details, and tucks them away in an empty corner of my mind, to be taken out and looked at—and likely enjoyed—again later.
Much later.
Scent. The scent of the man holding me is curved as tightly and protectively around me as his arms. It’s a dark, manly aroma, equal parts high speed car chase and hot wax dripping onto bare skin. Inanely, I think to myself that this must be what heaven smells like. This man.
The second thing I notice is that where my breathing is erratic and shallow, his is deep and even. Measured. He is the calm in my storm, solid and steady and…comforting in an odd sort of way, like he has me and I don’t need to worry.
But that’s only one small part.
The rest of my brain? It’s in a tizzy.
As I’m nearly hyperventilating into this random guy’s tuxedo, I become aware that my fingers have a death grip on his lapels, and I’m holding on like white clinging to rice, even though I can feel how strong he is and that there’s probably zero chance of him dropping me. Still, I’m not letting go until I absolutely have to. Held against him is a very nice place to wither and die if one must.
As my flustered mind begins to clear, I listen to the utter silence around me. That’s when the tears, a bitter mixture of humiliation and gratitude, begin to prickle at the backs of my eyes.
I know everyone else is feeling as uncomfortable as I am. They don’t know what to do or what to say, so they do and say nothing. They just watch as the poor blind girl struggles to get her bearings.