"Ryn, I won't let anything happen to you," Brayden told me. "No one's going to use you."
"I don't think Lucas is," I said.
Judging by the look on Brayden's face, he wasn't accepting that easily at all.
Later that night I had the dream, the one I'd started having nightly after I'd woken up in the hospital post-memory loss. It was rare for me to have it these days, probably because the contents of it were never far from my waking thoughts.
I stand on the beach in the dark. My toes curl in the cold sand. The scent of salty high tide is still on my skin to compete with the dank smell of ocean that wafts over me. The roar of the waves seems loud enough to drown out all other sounds. Except it doesn't.
Voices.
Shadowed figures.
Gunshots.
I scream, loud enough to be heard over the crashing water.
I scream in real life too, loud enough to no doubt wake the neighbors, so I force myself to stop, swallow the yells as I blink myself fully awake. I'm bathed in sweat and breathing hard. I stumble to the bathroom and splash water on my face. I catch sight of myself in the mirror. I look wild-eyed.
It took me the better part of an hour, and a few shots of whiskey, to calm myself down sufficiently enough. I wrapped myself in a blanket on the couch, thankful that I didn't find any errant flowers lying around. That was a bright spot.
Even so, I had to force myself not to call Lucas. No more of that, I told myself firmly. I could get through this all by myself.
Finally, I felt better. I'd stopped shaking. So I went into my studio to study the night's work, to see if anything there might've triggered my dream.
Before I'd slept, I'd finished the first try at the painting I'd been commissioned to draw. The house in the photo was plain. Nondescript. And I'd been fine sketching it out. Perhaps my first drawing was a little uninspired, but I was sure that didn't show. And I'd managed to do a little more than a straightforward rendering. I'd blended and shaded. Made it look more art than photo.
And if the man who'd commissioned it didn't want it, so be it, I'd told myself. And then I'd gotten down to the actual painting of the house, ignoring my own inner critic, and anything else that threatened to get in my way. I forced all of it out of my mind ruthlessly, like I did with anything that could fuck with my art.
Under the harsh morning light, I studied yesterday's pieces and wondered if maybe the dream was all about the risk of trying something new. Dr. B had warned me that change—even and especially good change—was high on the list of stresses.
This picture seemed to underscore that. The dark slashes of color undercut what would've been a conventionally pleasing picture. A beach, a wash of water foaming the shore…the skyline of a storm rolling in, but a sinister one. I even shivered when I looked at it, as though the icy rain was cutting my skin.
Disturbingly beautiful. I could hear the critics now. But there was more to it. All of my paintings separately meant nothing. Put together, there was a pattern that I had yet to discern.
I had the book, my portfolio, kept painstakingly by Brayden. Pictures of each and every piece I'd sold. I flipped through them with a growing sense of dread.
What the hell happened to me?
I'd been on my own with an ID from the time I was seventeen, and I'd walked into that café with my new social security number and it hadn't triggered any manhunts or arrest records.
I was running. I knew that. From who, I couldn't remember.
Chapter Six
I didn't hear from Lucas for three days, but I didn't notice, because I'd been locked inside my own world, painting my ass off, as Brayden put it. I'd put aside the commissioned work, wary of having that dream again, but mainly it was because I'd been inspired by other things.
Like Lucas. More than I'd like to admit.
But then three days turned into a week that turned into two weeks and that lack of contact, I most definitely noticed. At first I was fine, and then I was upset, and then I was angry at myself for being upset. And then I was just angry. I'd gone a long time without letting a guy do this to me. I'd promised myself I'd be the one who walked away without a look back, and I had been…until the run, dammit. He'd pulled me back when he'd answered my distress call at three in the morning, just when I'd needed him most.
Bastard. Of course, I hadn't reached out to call him either, so we had a big game of chicken going on. Or maybe that was only happening in my own head.
Even though I didn't specifically talk about this with Brayden in these terms, he was good about not saying "I told you so." Instead, he took me out, brought me shopping and to dinner and made sure he fueled my art-driven rages.
When I came up for air after the last one, I realized that I'd effectively channeled the hurt and deception into what might be my best work ever. I'd closed the curtains on the city landscape and pictured my beloved woods instead. And when that hadn't worked, I'd gotten in the car and drove the three hours to the place that was still mine. My landlady knew my car, so I wasn't worried about scaring her, despite the fact it was one in the morning.
And finally, everything stilled. I didn't feel the man in the woods there the way I had in the past, not until four in the morning. And finally I was able to paint the way I needed to.
I slept most of the morning, until I couldn't ignore Brayden's incessant phone calls, reminding me of the event he'd committed me to. "Is that tonight?" I groaned. "You barely gave me any notice."
He had the nerve to sound amused when he said, "I told you about it two weeks ago. Come home now. All you've got to do is be showered by six and I'll have everything else taken care of."
I grumbled, but did as he asked. Sort of. I was home by the time Brayden and his glam squad showed at the door. I smiled, and they looked at me, horrified. Probably because I was covered in paint.
Brayden steered me toward the bathroom by the elbow, muttering, "I told you to shower by six."
"I did," I said defensively. "And then I started working again on the commissioned piece."
He stopped, rolled his eyes, because he knew he couldn't argue about a painting that was bringing in that much money, and turned to the two women armed with curling irons and makeup. "Do the best you can. Her hair's still damp so the paint should come out easily. Otherwise, make it look like highlights. Or something." Reluctantly, I sat and let them primp me. Brayden had picked out a dress that I ended up loving, although he refused to tell me where we were going with a definitive other than, "You'll see."
Which meant I was going to hate it.
Brayden called me on my attitude when we got into the car. "Don't get pissy with me because you still haven't heard from Lucas."
"How do you know I haven't heard from him?" I huffed.
He just snorted and handed me a glass of champagne as the limo pulled into the New York city night's traffic. "He's not the kind to keep in touch. We both know the type. We are the type." He softened then. "He's busy. And so are you, right?"
I had to agree. I sat back in the air-conditioned comfort and watched the city slowly roll by. Traffic was always more of a bitch during September, Brayden had warned me, and even though we were only going ten blocks, it would take forty minutes during rush hour.
Finally, we pulled up into a line of limos and I craned to look down the street. There was a red carpet with a step and repeat, tons of photographers and a line of limos around the block. Although yesterday had been a beautifully crisp fall day, today had been closer to sweltering. It was a humid seventy-five degrees and people were rushing to get inside the building and into the air conditioning. I didn't want to leave the car. "This looks like a big event."
"It's for charity," Brayden told me.
"Why are we here?"
"You don't want to do anything charitable?" he asked innocently.
"You've got an angle, Bray."
He didn't argue. "We're here to rehabilitate your image and make you out to be a productive member of society."
&n
bsp; "Nice try."
Brayden smirked. "A little charity work goes a long way. Besides, the crazy artist who's sleeping with Lucas and punching out his ex-girlfriends and reporters at her shows is a big draw."
"I didn't punch anyone out. Not any reporters," I corrected. It was my first appearance at an event since my own show…other than being caught coming out of Lucas's apartment. Now, I side-eyed Brayden. "What's the catch?"
"You're up for auction."
I groaned. "Like as a date?"
"Don't be silly," he scoffed. "You're too unstable for them to even consider that."
"Asshole," I said in a singsong voice even as my anxiety rose.
"You're donating a portrait session."
My heartbeat slowed slightly. "That's not so bad."
"And it needs to be completed by the end of the week."
"As in Friday? As in tomorrow is Friday Friday?" I asked, my voice rising with each word.
"All the artists who donated agreed to those terms so the portraits can be displayed at the charity's annual awards dinner. Which is held next week."
Great. Nothing like forced creativity. "I think you suck," I said through my teeth, since we'd entered what appeared to me as a glorified gauntlet.
"Just hang on to me." His grip tightened around mine. "And I'm not letting you out of my sight."
"God, this is awful," I murmured as several members of the board—according to Brayden's barely-there whisperings—descended on us. I heard a few of the photographers ask me if Lucas was coming, and neither Brayden nor I engaged them. A few asked me if I was planning on getting into another fight that night, and of course, I ignored that question too.
"Just smile and follow my lead. You're not leaving my side," Brayden assured me. "We only need to stay through the auction."
Flashbulbs popped and I wondered if Lucas might make a surprise appearance tonight. That would be just like him.
As if you know him so well, I chided myself. But I did. And that's what worried me the most.
I was halfway hoping to see him here. Instead, I spotted Meghan, and it was definitely not an equal trade. Nor a pleasant one.
Of course, people noticed that we were in a room together and were probably hoping for another fight. But I wouldn't make the same mistake twice of letting her get to me.
"You're doing great," Brayden said to me as he scanned the room.
"I'm trying. Anyone here for you?"
"There's always someone here for me." Brayden had always taken advantage of being good-looking and single, a combination that got him laid consistently.
He'd never wanted to be tied down. And even though I wanted him to have someone in his life who loved him, I'd realized that he did. That was me. And vice versa.
"Whatever happened to that guy you were seeing?"
"Zack?" He shrugged. "He's still around."
"Wait, so you've seen him more than once?"
"I see a lot of guys more than once. But that's as far as it goes."
I'd adopted my attitude about keeping things light from him, because it worked so well for him. At least it had…until Lucas.
To distract myself from that thought, I had some passed hors d'oeuvres, made some small talk and concentrated on getting through this alive. When the auction began, there were several artists I recognized through the magazines Brayden had around his apartment and the gallery, and others whose names I knew because of their artwork. It was an eclectic group and the first five artists got great bids.
Of course, now I was panicked that no one would bid on me. "Bray, if no one bids—"
"I've got you covered," he assured me, even as the auctioneer called me up to the stage. I didn't have time to think about refusing, because Brayden took me in hand, escorted me up the few stairs and gave me a subtle push the final way up to the stage. When the auctioneer read my bio out loud, I shifted uncomfortably. I wasn't used to eyes on me. On my art, fine.
I stared out into the crowd, the faces swimming in front of me. No one looked friendly. It was too quiet out there, and my mind started going places it shouldn't. I willed myself not to have a panic attack.
Thankfully, the bidding began quickly, and I was surprised to see so many hands go up from the start. After several minutes, it boiled down between two buyers, both women. One of them was an older woman, and the other?
Was Meghan.
Yes, that Meghan. I wanted to turn to the auctioneer and tell him to just take the older woman's bid and I'd pay the difference, but of course, the universe doesn't work that way.
"Going once, going twice…a Ryn Taylor private portrait session sold to Miss Meghan VanValen."
And that announcement in and of itself caused a nice stir among the audience. So much for rehabilitating my image. I was definitely killing Brayden tonight. Or at least strangling him.
Except by the time I left the stage and went back to our table where my purse was, Brayden was gone.
"Your boyfriend said the limo's waiting to take you home," one of the women we'd been sitting near told me. "I was watching your bag."
I didn't bother correcting the boyfriend part, instead smiling with a quick, "Great, thanks," and I was out of there before the small-talk-aperitif section of the party began. I'd done my duty and now I was stuck dealing with Meghan.
Tomorrow.
At least Brayden had left me the car, but not a text telling me what happened to him. I texted him a quick, Are you okay? and got a fast, Yes, sorry—talk tomorrow.
After the crap I'd pulled at my own gallery show, I had no right to be angry. If he had to leave, it couldn't be helped.
I got home quickly, without incident, my mind still wrapped up in how exactly I was going to handle spending more time with Meghan tomorrow while I unzipped my dress and shrugged out of it. The easiest way to get rid of all the makeup was to shower, especially since my cleavage and arms had been dusted with some kind of shimmer powder. So I let the hot water erase the tension that had set in hard from the moment Meghan had begun bidding on me, and tried to let some creativity creep its way in.
Tomorrow, I'd paint her. She'd be effectively baring her soul to me—did she not get that? Why would she open herself up to her perceived enemy that way?
I'd dried off and thrown a long T-shirt on when my cell buzzed. It was after midnight, which meant it could be Brayden. Or…
Lucas. I debated not answering for the briefest of seconds, but considering how long I'd been waiting to hear from him, that would be foolish.
"Hey," I said softly.
"Hey," he echoed. He sounded far away. Tired.
I was immediately concerned, and any anger I'd held toward him melted, replaced with anger at myself. Why hadn't I checked in with him? He'd literally come running last time I'd called. "Are you all right?"
"I will be." He paused. "Better now, hearing your voice."
"Are you home?"
"Almost. By tomorrow night."
"Come see me then." It was more than a request, a demand, really, but he didn't seem to mind.
"Definitely. How's work going tonight? I'm interrupting."
"No, I didn't start yet." I glanced over toward the room where the supplies were, then settled on the couch instead.
"Don't want to keep you."
"You're not," I promised.
It sounded like he was someplace quiet. I didn't hear sounds of TV or traffic. And despite the tiredness in his tone, he was also oddly alert. "Your doors and windows locked?"
"Yes."
"Alarmed?"
"Yes."
"You're not running late without me, right?"
His questions were protective, and it felt much nicer than I'd expected and not at all smothering. "No."
"Good."
I thought about telling him about Meghan, but I considered how it might hurt him. I felt that's what Meghan wanted to do, to him and to me, to drive a wedge between us…and I was determined to not be the person in Lucas's life who hurt him. "You couldn't slee
p."
"I never sleep well," he admitted. "After a while, necessity becomes habit."
"Have you always been a night person? I mean, I assume you are because you were running at three in the morning."
"Born that way," he agreed. "I've always had trouble going to sleep at a supposedly normal time. When I was school-aged, maybe eight or nine, I'd climb out onto the roof and sleep under the sky. My room was small and claustrophobic, and I was always too hot, like my skin didn't fit. I told my school counselor that once."
"I can't see that going over well."
"It didn't. I learned to keep my mouth shut and just do what I wanted. A ‘safer to ask for forgiveness than permission’ kind of thing."
"Funny, but I can't see you doing either."
"Were you ever a school counselor?" he deadpanned.
I couldn't help but laugh. Even so, I couldn't get the image of him sleeping alone on a roof at seven, eight and nine out of my mind. "Do you still sleep outside?"
"I prefer the comforts of a bed, as long as I've got a big enough room. I outgrew a lot of things."
"But you never forgot," I murmured, more to myself than him.
"Do you paint to forget?" he asked.
I painted because I couldn't remember, so technically that wasn't the same thing at all. "No. To immortalize."
"The plight of all great artists—to leave something of themselves behind," he said softly.
"I never think of myself as great." I never thought of myself in terms of my talent at all. It didn't work that way for me.
"Have you always painted?"
"Yes," I said firmly. It was always the answer in the forefront of my mind. Right or wrong, I felt it was the correct one.
"I should let you get on with your work," he said.
I didn't want the conversation to end. I had so many more questions, about his childhood, his job…but my questions would breed questions about my own childhood, and I wasn't ready for that. "Tomorrow," I reminded him.
"Tomorrow," he told me firmly.
Brayden showed at my door the next morning with breakfast and more importantly, coffee, but with no real explanation of where he'd gone to last night. Instead, he laid out the food on my kitchen island while I tucked my legs under me on one of the stools and sipped the hot, strong coffee with one shot and foamed milk and immediately forgave him.
Shelter Me: A Shelter Novel Page 6