Talking Trouble

by Barbara Elsborg

  There was still no one around, so she retreated to her bathroom and had a shower. She was hungry and desperate for a coffee but none of the stuff in the kitchen was hers. Although she didn’t think Jean-Paul would mind if she had a spoonful of his coffee, she was certain Nikki would, and Mollie didn’t know which cupboard was which.

  Once she was dressed, she looked up the number of a taxi company and called them. Thirty minutes later, she was on her way to Otley and still no one in the house had stirred. Mollie was a rise early, go to bed early type of person, even in the holidays.

  She’d already decided to run the same route tomorrow, hoping there were no more escapees, and it didn’t have anything to do with the hope of seeing Hoodie Guy again. Well, not much to do with it.

  * * * *

  Flint walked along with his hands in his pockets, head down. Why had she hugged him? Why had he hugged her? He couldn’t even ask her name, if she was married, engaged, single. Did he care? He usually didn’t, but now he found that he did. She had legs that went on forever and a cute haircut, but those bruises and marks on her face and arms and legs. Where had they come from? An accident?

  He’d wanted to look directly at her but he couldn’t without her seeing him and he hadn’t forgotten the importance of no one finding out he was living here. For all he knew she was a tabloid journalist. He hoped she wasn’t. He wanted her to be ordinary, with no emotional baggage, no any sort of baggage.

  Part way around another slow circuit of the reservoir, trying to practice sounds, trying to make sense, he climbed over a wall and sat for a while on a flat rock, looking out over the water. He didn’t want to go back to the house. He didn’t want to do anything except the same walk tomorrow because he’d like to see her again, even though he couldn’t talk to her and she probably thought he was some kind of weirdo. Pixie Girl had made him laugh and unbelievably, he’d managed to make her laugh, and that had strengthened his tenuous hold on hope. For a while, she’d given him belief. Now despair was back, blackening his mood.

  When he let himself into the house, Beat emerged and began shouting at him. Ham appeared and stood stony-faced at her side. Beat held out the phone she’d given him last night and waved it in his face. Flint took from the gestures that he hadn’t been supposed to go out and particularly not without the phone. Too fucking bad. Beat held out her hand, presumably for the keys, and he shook his head. What could they do? Pin him down and rip them from his pocket? Ham held up his wrist and pointed to his watch. What?

  Beat pointed to her mouth and snapped her fingers together in front of her lips. But it was only when she showed him several sheets of paper covered with diagrams that he realized what she was trying to tell him. The speech therapist had been and gone. Shit. He snatched the papers and went upstairs.

  Once he’d locked his bedroom door, he tossed the information on the bed and stripped on his way to the bathroom. He’d forgotten about that. He didn’t want to think about speech therapy. He let Pixie Girl fill his head. And pretty soon she filled his cock. As he swept his hand up and down, relief that he could still do this dragged a groan from his throat. It was the first time he’d checked his cock was in full working order since all this crap had happened.

  He stroked faster, needing more friction. His knuckles rubbed against his inner thighs and a moan escaped from his mouth. He tightened his grip and his balls clenched. Heat swirled in his belly and he curled his toes on the floor of the shower. His breathing quickened and he tensed in anticipation. Not difficult to imagine Pixie Girl on her knees in front of him, and he whimpered as pressure built in the back of his head.

  His eyes squeezed shut, he pictured himself fucking her mouth, her hands clasping his thighs, fingers drifting toward the seam of his bum. He dragged harder at his cock and fell over the edge, caught up in an orgasm so strong it made his knees shake. His lungs had locked, his chest so tight he couldn’t inhale for a moment before he forced himself to suck in air, then exhaled with a forceful huff. Cum coated his fingers and the glass in front of him. He leaned back and rested his head on the tiles, milking the dregs of his orgasm, concentrating on breathing in and out, wondering if his hand was all he was going to get until he was better.

  Chapter Eleven

  When Lysander heard a car pull up outside, he finally stopped pacing in the hall. As he strode for the door, he glanced down, almost expecting to see that he’d worn a furrow. He heard Mollie’s voice and dragged the door open. She and an Asian guy stood by the boot of a taxi.

  “Hi.” Mollie smiled at him and his throat went tight.

  “Where’ve you been?” he barked. He only realized what he’d done when he saw her eyes widen. “I was worried.” He wanted to explain why he was worried when he couldn’t find her, but it wasn’t the right time. Maybe it never would be.

  “You can see where I’ve been.” She lifted her shopping out of the boot. “It says Sainsbury’s on the bags.”

  She had a wary expression on her face. I’m freaking her out.

  “Let me give you a hand.” Lysander took the groceries from the cab driver.

  Mollie paid and followed Lysander with the rest of the bags. “Er, those two I need in my room. The others in the kitchen, please.”

  He put down the bags that were for the kitchen and carried the two she’d indicated to her room. As he reached the door, the bottom corner of one gave way and a book called How to Identify Snakes slipped out.

  “I don’t think you need to worry about snakes,” he said.

  “I saw one this morning. Huge. A boa constrictor.”

  “No.” He shook his head and smiled. “Grass snake, probably.”

  “I’m serious. It was a boa constrictor. A guy caught it, though.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  They carried the other bags to the kitchen.

  “The man said he thought someone had dumped it. The snake probably got too big to handle. I’m just glad he found it and I know I should be thinking that for the sake of the snake because it couldn’t survive long outside a vivarium, but I definitely would have had nightmares about it slithering into the house and heading for my room because it fancied a cuddle.”

  He smiled. “You’d be safe on the top floor.”

  “No snake cuddling up there?”

  “Nothing you need to be scared of.”

  A tinge of red stained her cheeks.

  “I wanted you to pose for me this morning.”

  She put her purchases away in her cupboard. “I needed to go shopping.”

  “Come now.” He strode for the door then stopped. “Please.”

  “No, not now. I have to unpack the food and I need a coffee.”

  “Hurry up then.” He leaned against the wall with his arms crossed.

  “Would you like a coffee?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why don’t you make us both one while I put everything away? Please.” She smiled at him.

  The cheeky… But he made drinks while she unpacked.

  “Now?” he asked and handed her a mug.

  “Okay.”

  He swallowed with relief when she followed him up the stairs. When she didn’t come into his studio he turned to see her standing on the threshold. He’d forgotten that she hadn’t seen his work before. Every wall had paintings leaning against it, several deep in places. One stack faced the wall. They were for personal consumption. Various sized sketch pads containing his drawings, both half finished and complete, were heaped on shelves and piled on the floor next to his angled desk and stool, and three easels held work in transition. He always had several pieces on the go. Containers and tubes of paint were everywhere.

  Mollie stepped gingerly into the room. “Is the floor dry?”

  He laughed. “Yeah.”

  “It looks amazing.”

  “What? The floor?” There was little wood not covered in paint.

  “Yep, the floor. As though it’s been deliberately spattered, and that’s kind of cool. Like Pollock had done
it. Jack the dripper.”

  He was surprised that she knew Pollock had been called that. Her gaze lingered on the couch. He’d thrown a clean white sheet over it. He watched her carefully as she walked around.

  “You’re very versatile. I want to say you’re really good, but you already know that and it’s a bit patronizing. What do I know about what’s good and what’s not?”

  “Easy to be good, not so easy to be liked. Do you like my work?”

  “Yes, I do, and I’m not saying that because you’ve given me a place in your house.” She sipped her coffee.

  He watched her as she went around the room looking at the canvases. She finally stilled in front of one particular painting that stood on its own. Lysander found himself holding his breath. He liked watching her. He liked the contrast of her boy’s haircut and her innate femininity. He liked her clear skin and sweet lips. He liked her long legs and delicate neck. He liked her openness and that she had a secret, though he suspected he wouldn’t like the secret itself. How many secrets were good ones? The longer she stared at his painting without moving, the more he liked her.

  “What do you see?” He slid up behind her, close enough to touch, though not touching.

  “I see a tree that’s…dying and yet still has a hint of life, a path through wet grass trodden by bare feet that ends nowhere, a setting sun, a laden sky and…something hidden.”

  His heart thumped. “What?”

  “Is that a gold ring caught in the roots of the tree?”

  “Yes. Not many have spotted that.” Not even his agent, though Marcus gushed over the painting every time he came up from London and was keen to sell it. Lysander never would.

  “I like looking deeper into things,” she said. “Poems, stories, music, paintings. They all have a meaning. It might be obvious or hidden, and sometimes I wonder if the person even knows what they’ve done, whether an author intentionally puts a message in his story or whether it flows from his subconscious. Whether that twist of gold was an afterthought or the whole point of the painting. When I talk to the kids about art, I ask them how it makes them feel. That’s what I think when I read or look or listen to something. What does it say to me? What can I take from it?”

  Lysander’s heart pounded. “And what does this painting say?”

  “That a journey has ended abruptly. The path should and could go somewhere, the grass crushed by feet, but it just ends. Why? What stopped that person moving on? The tree is still alive, but death is coming, maybe. The ring is some sort of symbol, maybe of marriage to the earth? The painting is sad, but there’s hope in it, signs that all is not lost. I like that you have that break in the cloud around the branch, as though the tree’s punching through the darkness even as it struggles to survive. So I think it’s about hope even in despair, about a future even though the path is going nowhere. There’s nothing to stop the feet walking on other than the desire of the person to do so.”

  He swallowed the lump in his throat. “That’s rather insightful.”

  “Just what I see. It could mean something totally different to you or anyone else. That’s what’s so attractive about art. That wood on the horizon is saying something too. The solitary tree is the same species but different. So isolated, but not dying, struggling to survive, to make its position clear.” She turned to look at him. “Is it you?”

  He hid his surprise under a smile. “I’m in all my paintings. Maybe I’m the gold ring.”

  “Maybe you’re that Japanese knotweed on the left-hand side. Horrible invidious thing. Can’t get rid of it. Keeps popping up uninvited, the bloody menace.”

  He laughed and gestured to the couch under the window. “Strip to your bra and pants.”

  She tensed, only slightly, but he didn’t miss it. He could have asked her to strip to nothing, though he’d suspected that would have pushed her too hard, too soon. Isla and Nikki had taken their clothes off without being asked, but then so had Jean-Paul. Persuading Aden had been trickier.

  “Please,” he added.

  “Where’s your sense of romance? Don’t I even get chocolates? A single Mars bar?”

  “Depends on whether you cooperate.”

  “Do I still get to keep the room if I say no?”

  “Yes.” Because eventually she’d say yes.

  She put down her mug and unfastened the buttons on her shirt. His cock began to thicken. Oh fuck. He turned his back and pulled his shirt out of his pants.

  “What have you turned around for?” she asked.

  “I thought you might like to undress without me watching.” He reckoned if she was thinking twice about this, him not staring at her with a hard-on might help. Though there was nothing he wanted to do more than watch. Except perhaps undress her himself. He heard the sounds of her removing her shoes, pants, shirt, and he waited, his stomach clenching, his balls tingling. Part of him hadn’t actually thought she’d do it.

  “Okay.” Her voice held a touch of hesitation, and when he turned he looked first at her face because that would tell him all. Strength and defiance had overrun her uncertainty and that pleased him. When he let his gaze drop, he understood why and he was no longer pleased.

  “Christ Almighty,” he whispered. “How many steps did you fall down?”

  “Top to bottom.”

  She was covered in bruises and scrapes, some still red, others had turned to varying shades of blue, purple and brown. He could see what could be the imprint of a shoe on her ribs and red ovals that looked like fingerprints on her arms. Were those marks around her wrist an indication that she’d been tied up? He was sure she had. Rage at who had done this to her left him speechless.

  “Not what you expected?” she asked in a quiet voice. “Shall I get dressed again?”

  “No,” he snapped.

  She sighed.

  “Did he rape you?” He tried to keep his voice calm, but fury spat and crackled through his veins like water on hot oil.

  Her mouth stayed shut. He waited and finally she heaved a sigh. “I fell down the steps of a bus.”

  She met his gaze, and although he was certain that she was lying, he didn’t think she’d been raped. Or was that just wishful thinking? He continued to stare at her, reconsidering his plan. Her bra and pants were plain white cotton, nothing fancy about them at all, and that gave him an idea of what he wanted to do, though she wouldn’t like it, so he wouldn’t tell her.

  “The way I work is this.” Though it wasn’t always the case. “I take a large number of photographs and make a fair number of sketches before I put paint on canvas. I’ll need you to pose every day. For the moment, I want you to move. Just walk around the room, change your facial expressions, don’t talk to me, ignore me.”

  He grabbed his camera. He’d expected her to be self-conscious, but she wasn’t. He knew she’d seen Jean-Paul kiss him, but she’d also seen Nikki drape herself across his lap. She knew he was interested in her. He pressed the shutter time after time as Mollie looked away from the camera, stared past the camera, smiled and frowned. She switched from relaxed to anxious, from amused to annoyed, from pensive to vacant without him having to say a word.

  The series of paintings would be called ‘Awakening’, and show Mollie in metamorphosis. Her underwear would change. If she didn’t have anything different, he’d order some online. Maybe he would anyway. He was startled by an overwhelming surge of lust when he looked at her breasts encased in plain white cotton and imagined them showcased in black lace. Get your mind on track. The marks on her body would fade to shades of green, then yellow, pale brown and finally disappear. He’d capture it all. The last painting would be of Mollie naked, her skin perfectly clear, and finally a smile on her beautiful face.

  When he put down the camera, he knew he’d taken far more pictures than he needed. Mollie lay on the couch, legs bent, one arm hanging down, fingers brushing the floor as she stared up at the ceiling where he’d painted a star cluster based on an image from the Hubble telescope.

  “Don�
��t move,” he snapped and grabbed his sketch book.

  Mollie thought it was a good thing Lysander could only capture the outside of her and not see what was in her head. She’d stripped when he’d asked and amazed herself with her daring, although when her gaze had followed his to her bruises, she had wondered what the hell she’d been thinking. Worries he might make a move on her disappeared, though whispers of disappointment took their place.

  He was a man she’d never get close to. He’d keep her at arm’s length, but his passion would make her forget. Mollie liked people who were excited by what they did. They made her feel there was something still to strive for. She liked Lysander’s arrogance even though she knew she shouldn’t. Yet there was something missing in his life, otherwise why fill the place with strangers? Maybe his world was like hers, the ground solid beneath her feet, but still pitted with crevasses and blind spots, not everything sure and certain in the future.

  If he’d pulled her into his arms and kissed her would she have let him fuck her? Part of her thought yes, the other part no and she smiled. Mollie girl, your head’s in those stars up there on the ceiling. Lysander wanted to paint her, not fuck her. He’d guessed she’d been beaten but he hadn’t pushed and she was grateful for that. The bruises would heal. She’d never see Lewin again. It was over. Worse things happened. Another step on the road and she’d managed to mostly miss the potholes.

  Thurston was a safe place to get herself back together, but before her money ran out she’d have to make a decision. Risk staying in teaching or not? Was Lewin really a danger to her? Time and distance had reduced the menace, though she still struggled to accept what he’d done, to believe someone she’d cared about could harbor such a dangerous, dark side. It wasn’t the first time she’d been let down by her optimism. She still had mental scars and now physical ones too, and after they’d faded, she’d still remember what he did. Her eyes closed.