by Mari Arden
A void.
I close the book.
* * *
The night is young.
I wish it were done already.
Sleep is a ghost I feel but can't touch. No matter how long I lay or how hard I squeeze my eyes shut, slumber taunts me; so close, and yet not close enough. Finally I decide to get up and go for a walk. Slipping on my jeans and hoodie from earlier I leave my room. Sounds of music and laughter drift from several directions, alerting me to the number of parties going on tonight.
My tennis shoes barely make a sound as I pass by. A few groups of people walk toward me, but I sidle closer to the wall, and their strides don't break. They never see me. This is such an engrained part of me I wonder if there was ever a time I was different. I flittered through high school the same way, a shadow people rarely noticed, but might recall because of the strange boy who hovered over like a watchdog, protective, alert, careful.
Obsessive.
He wasn't always like that. Or maybe he was, but I was so desperate for someone I made myself blind to it. I wanted a brother. I wanted a friend. I wanted someone to understand the way I was sure he could.
But he wasn't a brother. He wanted to be more than a friend. For a time he was my boyfriend. He never left me, not even when Grandma did. For his loyalty I felt obligated to let him touch me, to let him absorb my softness as if it could be his own.
He didn't disappoint me the way my parents did. For his constancy I let him take me away. I let him pretend the life we led was normal. I let him pretend we were normal.
He was a constant in my life, the only thing that never left me. But in the end I dealt him the ultimate betrayal.
I fled.
He might try to look for me, but the rest of them wouldn't, not with everything that happened that night, not with what I did. If they were to look for me, they'd start with New York where I led them to believe I had a dream of going. Then they might branch out to the other cities. They might think I want to hide in the big city. They would never think to look for me here, right under their nose; attending a school I never had any intention of attending. The money Grandma spent years saving was enough for one year of tuition and housing. Next year I would need to apply for financial aid. Next year, I may only be able to attend one class or maybe two. It doesn't matter, I remind myself. One step at a time. If I graduate college, I will be the first Hendricks woman to do so.
I will be the first to have succeeded in society.
The thought should cheer me, but it only serves to remind me of how high each obstacle is, how much I have to overcome.
The night air isn't as chilly as I thought it would be. There's a group nearby. Automatically, I walk around them, stepping onto the sidewalk. I see lights and bodies. I hear laughter and bits of conversation carried by the wind.
"Cheers…so she said…"
"Dry humping all over the streets…"
"Hey!"
I keep my head down, wondering how far I have to walk before my body becomes as tired as my mind.
"Hey!"
I think about Maddie's and how I have to be there at ten tomorrow morning. Will Alaina be there?
"Hey!" A hand grasps my arm. "Someone so small shouldn't be allowed to walk so fast. Isn't there a law of physics against that or something?"
I have to blink twice before I can believe who's in front of me. Pax flashes me his signature one-dimpled grin. "What are you doing out here by yourself?" he asks.
"What are you?" I counter back.
He laughs. "I'm with the guys, actually. I saw you walk by and followed you."
"Worried I'm going to roll down the sidewalk?"
"I figure you learned your lesson the first time," he answers with a familiar amused glint in his eye. "But it's better to be safe than sorry."
"I had a little too much to drink that night," I admit.
"It happens," he shrugs. "One time during my sophomore year I got drunk and hid in a tree for three hours. The guys only found me because I dozed off and fell down."
I gasp. "Oh no! Were you hurt?"
"A couple stitches. A dislocated shoulder. Nothing a big tough guy like me can't handle," he winks.
"I'm sure."
"You know what I just realized? I don't know your name. I know you lose buttons on your shirts when you drink-"
I gasp, as a shade the color of strawberries covers my face. "That- that was an accident! Someone did it on purpose to me. She told me I'd thank her later…" I drift off as I realize how ridiculous I sound.
"'Accident' and 'on purpose' don't usually go together in a sentence. Did you drink tonight?" he teases.
"No," I protest. I shake my head for emphasis. "It was my first time," I reveal.
"So now I know you've only drank once in your life, you work at Maddie’s, and you had one night of spontaneity. That's four things," he holds up four fingers. "What's your name?"
I hesitate, debating whether I should tell him or not. After a few seconds I decide there's no harm in it. "Julianna Hendricks."
"Julianna Hendricks," he repeats, tossing it in his mouth. I watch his lips move.
"People call me Jules."
"Jules," he echoes. "I like that."
There's a full moon tonight, and we're right underneath it because I suddenly notice how thick Pax's eyelashes are. My eyes follow the way they frame his eyes, how they seem to make his pupils appear darker even though I've seen the light green flecks up close.
"Hmm?" I murmur. Of course the universe would give lashes like that to men like Pax who couldn't possibly know how to appreciate them. The universe is ironic like that, giving and taking on a whim.
"I said are you staring at me?"
That jerks me out of my thoughts. I bite my lower lip, alarmed and embarrassed he's caught me.
"Because if you are," he continues, "it's only fair that I get to stare, too."
If my mind were a TV, there would be nothing but static right now. I can't think of a single reply. He steps closer, seeming to enjoy my discomfort. This should spur more of a rise out of me, but I've noticed his eyes haven't left my face- not even for a second. Abruptly I feel like an antique someone analyzes before purchasing. I don't know if I feel anger or outrage… or interest.
"I'm an artist," I blurt out. "I- I draw things and people sometimes and that's why I was…" staring at you, I finish silently. I can't bring myself to admit it out loud.
He raises an eyebrow. I'm not sure what that gesture means. "That's impressive." Slowly, he grins, an indolent smile that reminds me of lazy mornings and breakfast in bed. "Was that your way of asking me if you can paint me?"
"What?" I sputter. "No."
"I'm not shy."
"No," I repeat, red in the face. Why isn't my voice firm?
"Actually, I think it's a great idea. It would give you practice and I'd get to spend time staring at you."
"What?"
"You have a really interesting face. Your expressions are priceless. Have you ever tried drawing yourself?"
Instantly, a picture of the girl with the hole flashes in my mind. "I don't-"
He puts an arm around me, and my words stop. "Jules," he says huskily in a voice I've never heard him use before. It sends tingles down my back. It makes my pulse jump erratically. He bends until his mouth almost touches my ear, until I hear his breathing like it's my own. "Are you up for the challenge?"
Do you know that feeling when you want to say "no", when your mouth begins to form that word, but then "yes" comes out instead?
That's what happened.
CHAPTER 8
"This is against the law."
"Not particularly." Pax opens the door for me. "Not if we don’t get caught."
"Haven't you read 1984? There are cameras everywhere," I tell him seriously, pausing at the doorway.
"Look, my friend is a TA for the Arts program," he explains as he places a hand behind my back, gently pushing me in. Pax steps behind me into the darkness. "They don't us
e this room past eight p.m. He always leaves the key underneath the flowerpot. We're safe."
"Is this really necessary?" I counter as I struggle to see in the blanket of blackness that stretches before me. Walking forward, I make a sound as I almost stumble over something.
"Easy," Pax says softly, as he grabs my elbow. I feel his hardness behind my back. Instantly, I'm aware of how close we are, of how every hair on my body is suddenly standing on end. "You okay?"
"Yes." It comes out as a squeak. My face turns crimson, and I'm thankful the blackness hides that. Swallowing a ball of nerves down, I repeat, "Yes," my voice more even.
"Maybe I should stay close by- just in case." There's warmth to his voice that makes my breath catch in my throat. I move away, letting air fill the space. He doesn't follow me, and I can't stop the pang of disappointment that pierces me when I hear him move to the other side. I shake my head to clear it, confused about why I want to be near him when I clearly don't.
A few moments later, a bright light floods the space around us. I blink a few times, seeing spots as my eyes adjust. Soon, I see shiny wooden floors that look like they've just been mopped. Pristine, white walls surround us. Each side holds several paintings and drawings. My eyes are drawn to a particularly colorful painting depicting a clown on his head. His face is upside down, but his eyes are right side up, laughing at the contradiction.
"How do you know about this place?"
"My friend may or may not have been drunk when he showed me this room," Pax grins as he walks toward me. "And we may or may not have all crashed here at one time or another after a wild night." He shrugs mischievously. "I also may or may not have let him think I've forgotten about where this is."
I raise an eyebrow. "That's a lot of mays and may nots."
"It's all true," he swears with a false exaggeration of innocence.
"Is this where you bring girls?" I half joke, looking around. The instant the words are out I regret uttering them, wondering why I asked it, hoping he doesn't think I care. I pretend to examine the painting in front of me more closely.
"Nope, you're the first," Pax answers cheerfully as he starts pulling a canvas stand forward. I notice several are gathered to the side opposite from me, each covered with a piece of thin fabric. Bottles and cans of paint are stacked neatly against one wall and on top of a large sink.
His fingers are long and lean as he flips the canvas covering over, letting it fall to the floor softly. "Do you paint?" I ask.
"Sometimes. Here and there. Not enough to make a career out of it."
"Me too," I confess. "It's just a hobby."
"It can be therapeutic," he comments. "When I broke my leg, it was hard to stand so for a long time I had to stay in a sitting position. I learned to do a lot stuck like that. Painting was something I did occasionally to pass the time."
"What else did you do?" The question slips out.
"Oh, you know, I did a lot of sitting up and lying down. It involved a couple girls, a camera…"
It takes me a moment, but I get where he's going with it. "Gross!"
Pax keeps a straight face as he faces me. "Hey, that was a genuine career option I had to consider. What if I never walked again? At least my other muscles were still full and functioning."
I grab the covering on the floor, and throw it at him. He dodges it, sprinting toward me. "You're in for it now," he warns me right before he jumps on top of my body. I scream, unable to stop the laughter that tumbles out like grass flittering in the wind. We fall to the floor in a heap, and he climbs over me, using his athletic legs to pin my hands to my sides. I thrash, using my hips to dislodge him, but my attempts are futile, like a mortal playing with a god. He's got a big grin on his face as he lifts his long fingers over my body, hovering over my neck. "I'll tell you what," he begins. He waits for me to become still before he continues. "I'll let you go if you promise me something."
His fingers are almost to my chin. I lash out, attempting to bite them. "Whoa!" he bursts out laughing, but his body remains unmoving like hard cement. "Feisty," he says it almost like a praise, and I can't help how pleased I feel.
"Why don't you let me go first and then we can negotiate?" I suggest in my best persuasive voice. It's the same voice I used on Grandma, but it never worked for her. Still, I'm hoping for better results with Pax.
He pretends to think about it. "I can't let you do that," he finally says. "What if you go back on your words?"
"I won't," I lie.
"Should I trust the pretty girl who tried to bite off my fingers?" he asks, his bright eyes capturing mine. He bends until his whole face is mere inches away. This close I can smell the scent of a minty aftershave. Inhaling deeper, I pick out a smell, musky and masculine that is uniquely Pax. If sexy had a smell, I imagine it'd smell like this. His firm body is lying on top of me like bricks over a flowerbed. My heart starts a painful kick in my chest. I've never felt anything like it, not even when I was kissed for the first time, or when Braidon held me in his arms and whispered his declaration of love. The kick inside me is a storm, and the longer I stare into Pax's eyes, the harder the storm sways, pulsing, vibrating until my breathing is rocky and uneven.
"Pax." I don't know I've whispered his name until I see his eyes flicker down to my mouth. Self-conscious, my tongue snakes out, licking my suddenly dry lips.
"Jules," he says my name so softly I briefly wonder if I imagined it.
"You should trust me," I whisper.
His nose touches mine. "Should I?"
"Yes," I breathe. If I attempt any more words our mouths might touch.
He pulls back to stare down at me. One finger traces the curve of my chin. "Beautiful liar." He doesn't say it like an insult. He says it with a hint of… longing. I shake my head, and that movement brings Pax's finger right into the softness inside my mouth. An audible groan emits from him, and abruptly he jumps off. He mutters something as he puts a hand through his hair.
"I should be more careful with you," he says. "You have a way of making me forget."
I come up on my elbows. "Forget what?"
"That you're not mine." Yet. The unspoken word hangs between us.
I wait for the alarms to ring in my head, for my subconscious to start whispering thoughts of fleeing. But nothing happens. There is a strange buzz in my body, but it's a silent hum; a vibration of something I can't name.
Pax doesn't wait for me to respond to his confession. He walks to the sink and reaches up to the cabinets. From this angle I can see the indentation by his hips as his shirt rides up. The slip of skin is tan and looks as hard as he'd felt. I avert my eyes when he walks back. "Ready Madame artist?" he asks me in a horrible French accent.
"Oui," I respond, just as horrifically.
Pax walks to the middle of the room. "Should I lie here naked for you?" He's back to his amusing self, and the heat from moments before is no longer here, locked away in a corner until one of us unleashes it again.
"How about not."
"Do I detect a hint of disappointment?"
"You detect a hint of irritation," I retort with a smile. "All your talking is messing with my creative flow," I say as I bring a chair and place it in front of the easel. I find a nice sharp pencil on a shelf nearby, and flip my hair back as I prepare to sketch him. "Grab one of those chairs," I instruct. He obeys, lifting the chair over his head before he places it in the middle of the room. Pax slides into the seat, adjusting himself as he puts an arm over the back, and his other hand in front of him. I've never seen anyone look so sexy so casually, and I have to focus on the white paper in front of me to help slow my breathing.
What is it about this guy? I wonder as I lift the pencil up. Why am I more aware of him than of any one ever before? Sneaking another glance at him I note the smoldering gaze that he flashes at me as he looks up through thick eyelashes. His gaze is capable of penetrating a person's soul, and yet I've seen his eyes smile so brightly it's all I can do not to drown in it. Who is he? Is he the hand
some, smoldering quarterback from Mad Town? Or is he the all-star who learned to smile through hardship? Suddenly, I know how I want to sketch him.
"Don't move," I tell him. "I need to look at you."
"I like a woman who takes charge," he smirks.
"Try not to blink," I continue as my pencil touches the paper.
"That might hurt."
"No pain, no gain," I say as my hand starts to move, outlining his form.
I never used to draw or paint. I never used to do much of anything other than work and dream of a time when things might get easier. Grandma told me my mom didn't paint until she became a teenager when she finally realized dreams weren't real, and the only things worth doing in life were tangible and instant. So like Grandma, she began to use art to take her away, but it never could take her far enough. It became such a struggle that one day she left and never returned. The last I heard of her was three years ago when she was indicted on her fourth charge of prostitution and sentenced to ten years in jail. She had been in Florida at the time. I can't even remember what she looks like.
I found Grandma's art tools after she died. Grandma wasn't the neatest person but her tools were kept in pristine condition, carefully organized to preserve the life of each brush and every color. I'm not a good artist, not compared to Grandma, but I learned to appreciate an outlet where my emotions could go. I found it was better to bleed on paper than it was to cry alone. It didn't hurt as much.