by Marni Mann
He placed me on the couch, but remained standing. I reached for him; he pushed my fingers away, and took a few steps back.
“We need to talk.”
I inched to the edge of the couch and reached for him again.
“Did you hear what I said? I want to talk to you.”
My fingers found the bottom of his shorts and gently pulled. “I don’t have any words at the moment.” All I had were thoughts, and needs. My eyes focused on the opening of his boxers, and the tiny button that separated us.
He took another step back. “Stop it, Charlie.”
He called me by my name, just like the Doctor had. Why was this happening again?
“What?” I shouted. “Are you denying me?”
“I am until you talk to me.”
It wasn’t just my hands that shook this time; my whole body quivered. My fingers clenched into fists and pushed me off the couch. I moved around him. I didn’t give a shit about what he wanted.
“Screw this,” I shouted. “I came here so I wouldn’t have to talk.”
I felt him behind me, the swish of air as he followed, then his hands were under my armpits. I felt weightless as he turned me around. My back found the wall and his fingers framed my face. The helplessness made me wet. Had I angered him enough for him to become rough now instead of wanting to talk? I hoped so.
I wanted a fucking, not a fucking lecture.
“After my conversations with Lilly,” he said, “I think I understand some of the demons you’ve been struggling with. But there’s something going on with us. I need to know what it is.”
“She has nothing to do with you, or with this.”
“But she has everything to do with you—the way you act and the way you feel. What you saw when you grew up. What you think is normal.” He tilted my head upward and stared into my eyes. “You’ve got to give me something.”
Something came over me…suddenly I wanted to do this, for him if not for me. I reached down into my gut, into my very core, and tried to pull up whatever was inside. But it was empty. I was empty.
“I don’t have anything to give,” I said.
“You’re not your mom, you know.”
But I was just like her. I didn’t know what Lilly had wanted from those men—if she’d done it for money or alcohol or comfort, or if it had really been just for sex—but they’d all dropped her as soon as they’d gotten what they wanted. I was no different; I fucked for cash at the mansion, men who left when they were finished with me. The ones I had dated before Dallas held me in arms filled with false love. They allowed me small bouts of amnesia so I could lose myself in their strokes for a few hours. Dallas had treated my pussy better than most, which was what kept me interested…kept me wanting more. Because of this, he’d been able to get past the first few layers. But maybe that was just my way of making sure he didn’t leave.
Everyone left, though. Eventually.
And now it was his turn. I knew it; I felt it. And as much as it hurt, it was the right thing. It was the way of my life. Alone again, Charlie, I thought. Always fucking alone.
“You walked away from me a few months ago because I wanted something more from you,” he said. “And as soon as you needed my help, you came running back.”
“I didn’t have anyone else to ask.”
“Now it seems like you’re only here for my dick.” He shook his head. “What do you want from me…I mean, really want?” he asked.
Nobody had ever asked me that before.
I wanted to be more than I felt I was, to be more than Lilly had been. I wanted to be better and to have what she never had. I wanted him. But when I opened my mouth to tell him that, nothing came out.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I do.”
How did the Doctor and Dallas both think they knew what I needed, what I lacked? Was I so fragile, so broken that the cracks could be seen by anyone who looked closely enough?
“I know you’re learning to trust me; you proved that to me with Lilly. And I know you love to fuck me. But Lilly never taught you how to love, and for that I am truly sorry. What you need from me is my friendship, not my cock.”
Dallas was right. He’d given Lilly her medication when I couldn’t; he’d run to my house moments after she died and he’d gone with me to scatter her ashes. He’d held my hand; I’d soaked his shirt with my tears. He was a friend, and me using his sex to stay numb was ruining that. Could I let someone in like that again? Could I even consider allowing myself to get as close to him as I had been to Emma?
I had relied on Emma so much as a kid. Since she’d died, I hadn’t had that feeling of security, of knowing I was loved and never wanting because I was needed, and I missed it. I missed her. Dallas would never be Emma, but could I feel for him a little of what I had felt for her…and did I already? He had been pushing me for a friendship since I’d broken things off a few months ago, and I was using his dick to forget.
He was right, and so was the Doctor. I was a mess.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
This was the first time he’d ever heard me say those words, and I truly meant them. The proof ran down my cheeks and slid into my open mouth. Tears were something else he had never caused before. I didn’t know if it came from me forgiving myself or from letting him in, or if it was simply an awakening to some sort of self-love. At that moment, nothing was clear.
His brows rose. “It’s OK, Charlie.”
“No, it’s not. I’m sorry…for everything,” I said. “Especially for the way I’ve treated you.”
He pulled me off the wall and into his arms, pushing my head against his chest. For the second time tonight, I was truly comforted. A warmth spread through me, but it wasn’t a tingle; this was a real emotion, and I knew it was love. But it wasn’t the kind of love that would turn Dallas into my boyfriend. It was the kind that told me how much I cared for him as a friend.
I felt like I owed him some sort of explanation, some justification for why things had gone the way they had when we were together, when I ran scared from him. It was going to hurt him, but he deserved my honesty. “I know the way it was before, the way we used to be...you felt things more deeply for me than I did for you.” More tears came. “I’m not in love with you, Dallas.”
He remained calm. “I know.”
I clung to him even tighter. “But I need you in my life.”
He sighed and kissed the top of my head. “And I need you in mine.” The gesture wasn’t sexual at all. It was consoling and assuring.
“But can you really be my friend? After all we’ve been through?”
“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “Do you think you can be mine?”
I pulled myself off his chest and stared into his eyes. I never doubted him, but the expression he gave me, the truth in those eyes, only confirmed that.
“Yes,” I told him. “I can.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Cameron’s studio was in the Back Bay, the most artsy and eclectic part of town, about five blocks from Northeastern and my old hotel. I had walked his street many times, window-shopping during my dinner breaks. I’d even dreamed of a time when my art would pay for an apartment here. There was a different feeling here than in other sections of the city; it was full of artists and designers. The vibe was like that of a boutique. It was alive at all hours, pulsing with energy and people ranging from entirely average to extremely eccentric. Today was no different. There were so many unique faces that crossed my path as I walked, all moving so fast that we only had a chance to skim eyes. I wondered if any of those eyes belonged to my clients, if some of those hands had touched my body. If their tongues had reached inside my mouth. In a city as large as Boston, brimming with so many different opportunities, we all wore masks. The element of the unknown was erotic.
I had expected the studio to be in one of the high-rises, but the street number led me to a red brick Victorian brownstone with bowing in the front, and a cozy, vintage appearance. Cam
eron’s last name was at the very top of the call box beside the door. Before I rang him, I reminded myself that I was here for art. I couldn’t let anything break my concentration…not even the details about my upcoming exhibit, which had come from Professor Freeman just this morning. I wanted more; the Professor was giving me the chance to have it. But in order to prove that I was worthy, I needed to keep my mind on Cameron’s face and the landscape I was creating behind it.
Light dazzled my vision as soon as the elevator door slid open. Jazz filled my ears, and the smell of coffee wafted into my nose. I shielded my eyes with my hand and stepped into the room. The top floor didn’t have a foyer; the elevator opened directly into his studio.
“Welcome,” he said. “Come over here and tell me what you think of this.”
My eyes scoured the large, open space until I found him on the other side of the room with his back to me. A six-foot canvas stood in front of him; he was using a painting knife, dragging clots of yellow over the purple background. Eggplant and violet and lavender bled together, dripping from the middle to the bottom of the canvas. He swirled the yellow into the various oranges and blues that had already been added. The way he dragged the knife, the depth and strength of the strokes he chose, created dimension and texture.
“It’s vibrant,” I said, “and warm…almost lustful, even. Especially your use of purple.”
“Yeah, well…you make an excellent muse.”
I wanted to be more than just his muse.
“Is that so?” I asked.
I didn’t wait for an answer. I paced over to one of the three desks and set my purse on it. Then I walked over to the windows, which took up the entire right wall of the studio. They slanted inward, similar to a greenhouse, and flooded the room with natural light. Bookshelves and racks for storing canvases covered the back wall. There were easels and tables and paint supplies scattered throughout. Figurines and vases, framed pictures and antiques, bottles resting on open surfaces. The clutter of inspiration, I thought.
“It’s a sexy view, isn’t it?” he asked from my side.
The skyline wasn’t downtown or the financial district, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t beautiful. It was as though Cameron’s brownstone sat dead-center, with the Back Bay circled around it. The windows of the apartment buildings and offices and churches glimmered in the sunlight; sparkling blues and greens reflected off of every glass facade. Each building was different in shape, the spaces between dipping and spiking like the outline of a cloud.
“Why would you ever want to leave this to paint at Northeastern?” I didn’t look at him when I spoke; I couldn’t pull my eyes away from the view. My fingers were clenched into my palms. They itched to capture it all—in sketch, in paint. In line and color.
“Like I said, that school is my home. My second home, actually. I live across the hall.”
I finally turned toward him. “You live in this building, too?”
He nodded.
I didn’t know what the cost was to live in a place like this, but it couldn’t have been cheap—to buy or to rent. Art had afforded him two places in this building, with a view like this? It wasn’t appropriate to ask, but I wanted to know if living like this was a realistic goal for me to set for myself.
“How long have you lived here?” I asked.
“I’ve been in my apartment for three years. The studio is new…the clutter only makes it look like I’ve been here for much longer.”
“No, it’s perfect.”
From what I’d heard, Cameron’s career began shortly after he graduated college, which would have been about eight years ago. But things really started progressing for him about six years ago. It had taken him some time to get here. Still, the time frame was shorter than I had anticipated. Our styles were so different, and so were our audiences, but I needed to believe I could make it here, too.
I smiled. “Thank you for inviting me here, for letting me into your space.”
And thank you for giving me hope.
I felt his eyes analyzing my profile, and my skin began to warm. My hair was unwashed and tied in a knot on top of my head. I had forgotten my Chapstick at home; my lips felt so flaky. The only makeup I wore was mascara. My cutoffs were stained with paint, and my pink bra showed through my white tank. I was as much of a mess as his studio, but that hadn’t deterred me from leaving my apartment. I’d just wanted to get out of there, to cover something with my mind and control something with my fingers. My life was starting to get slippery; my thoughts were a jumble of chaotic unravelings. First Lilly’s death, and my attempt to seduce the Doctor when we spoke about it—and the way I’d lashed out at him when he refused my advances. Then my conversation with Dallas. At least the visual images I could conjure from my emotions were manageable. My painting served me, allowed me control over something. They would never leave me, unless I lost myself.
“It’s time for you to be my muse now,” I said. My stomach tightened as I returned to the desk and removed Cameron’s portrait from the cloth wrapping, placing it on one of the empty easels.
“Where do you want me?” he asked.
I chose one of the pencils I had sharpened that morning and pointed to the windows. “How about over there?”
He headed in my direction and blocked me from the canvas. “No…no pencils. Today you’re going to paint.”
Paint?
“I didn’t bring any with me. No brushes, either.”
“Then you’ll use mine.” He hurried to the table nearby and dragged it next to the easel. “Everything you’ll need is on here.”
And it was—brushes, oils, knives, and a safety glass palette. My hands began to shake.
“I can’t use your—”
“Yes, you can. I want you to.”
As he moved toward the door, he lifted the bottom of his T-shirt and pulled it over his head. His entire back was covered in ink. The background of his tattoo mimicked his art: vibrant colors and rich shading in abstract, with a tree standing barren in front of it all. No leaves, just long, empty branches and a thick trunk that ended at his waist. He turned around and faced me. “Do you want me in the same button-down, scarf and hat as before?” The branches stretched up and crept down over his shoulders, across his chest and around each bicep. There was a clearing on his collarbone where the words It’s Always Darkest Before The Dawn were inked.
I shook my head. “Keep it all off. For now.” I would eventually need him to get dressed so I could paint the wrinkles and pleats of the button-down, but that could wait. I wanted to enjoy the sight of his body for just a little longer. I had often wondered what was hidden under the shirts he wore, how tight his muscles were, how much hair covered his caramel skin. He was broader than Dallas and probably an inch or two taller. A patch of light hair started at his navel and traveled down into the waist of his jeans.
He threw his T-shirt onto one of the tables and stood by the windows. “Is the light over here all right?”
I wasn’t ready to paint him just yet; I wasn’t sure I would even be able to paint in front of him at all. I needed to find comfort first, to touch the canvas with my brush and feel it breathe beneath me before starting something as intricate as his face.
“I’m going to start with the background as a warm up.”
“You don’t need me to pose for that,” he said. “Or do you?”
I wanted to say yes, but we both knew I didn’t need him for the landscape. “No.”
“Good. That means I get to watch you.” He drifted around the room. Every time his feet paused, his hands created a small noise from something he touched or lifted.
I tried to block him out and keep my eyes focused on the paint. I squirted out dabs of cadmium orange, scarlet, and red, and slid them in half; I mixed white into the separated dabs. The six shades would be the colors of the leaves. For the trunks and branches, I mixed red and ivory black, and added just a touch of yellow. The palette was ready, and the canvas had already been prepped from our last se
ssion, his portrait marked with pencil. I chose one of his flat brushes and rolled the handle between my hands to heat the wood.
“Take a sip of this,” he said, joining my side, setting a mug of coffee on the table.
I filled my mouth and swallowed. “Vanilla creamer?”
He nodded.
“It’s tastes just like the one I buy. Even better, actually.”
A few of his front teeth overlapped, but it didn’t take away from his smile. Some flaws were beautiful. This was one of them.
He pulled a remote from his pocket and aimed it toward the back of the room. “Let me know if the music is too loud.”
“No, it’s fine. You can make it even louder if you want.”
The brush had finally warmed from my hands, so I dipped it into the brown acrylic, wetting the end of the bristles. When it was loaded with paint, I raised it to the canvas and touched it gently to the grain.
“I just felt you relax,” he said. His breath hit my shoulder. “For some it takes coffee or music. For you, it takes nothing more than the paint itself. We have that in common.”
He cared enough to try to comfort me.
Tiny beads of sweat began to drip down my back. This wasn’t just a professional courtesy. This was him…wanting more?
I wondered how he would react if I were totally honest.
My eyes shifted in his direction and so did my brush. Just as the words, “You make me nervous,” started to flow from my mouth, the bristles flicked across his face, leaving a smudge of brown in their wake. “Oh shit.” I laid the brush down on the table and darted around him, reached for the rag. I handed it to him. “Here…I’m so sorry.”
“I guess this is what I get for standing so close to you.”
He dabbed it against his cheek, missing most of the paint.
“Let me help.” I took the cloth out of his hand, and lightly, nervously, I rubbed his skin while my mind wandered over his features. His stubble had grown out a little more since our last class, and the hair around his mouth seemed to drive my eyes to the redness and fullness of his lips. His jaw squared as it narrowed toward his chin. His icy blue eyes shone in the sunlight; his pupils practically danced within. His soft, structured beauty would look so tantalizing behind a second mask—not the one we all wore every day to conceal us from each other, but one that allowed us to become someone else entirely. Would I be able to capture all of this in a portrait? His traits were so organic; his character affected each feature, making him even more handsome. I didn’t know if my skill would be sufficient.