Obsessive Compulsion

by CE Kilgore

  She’s waiting for me, facing the door with her back straight as a rod. Her head, though, is slightly lowered, and that alone makes me want to vomit. I’ve ruined this for her. Her debut. Her first time. I’ve taken something so precious and irreplaceable away from her. “Charlie… I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault,” she whispers, her voice broken. “I pushed. Victoria warned me. There are rules and I didn’t listen. I thought I could… I thought it would okay. I’m sorry, Ian.”

  My voice is gone as her apology runs a lance through my heart and pins me against the bench. Her hand reaches for the door knob. My hand twitches to reach for her. She turns it, walks out of the room and leaves me alone with my vices.

  Charlie

  More blue…

  No, more green, maybe? No, definitely more blue, but that’s not the right blue.

  I sigh and lean away from the canvas, watercolor brush in hand. I’ve been arguing with myself for ten minutes, the water on the canvas slowly evaporating and taking away my opportunity to make well-blended mixes of color. Maybe I should’ve gone with the oil pastels.

  It’s Ian. I know it’s Ian. Well, his eye, at least. It’s taking up most of the white paper, skewed at an angle and only half filled in with color.

  An earthy brown line cradles the right-bottom side of the iris, bleeding upwards into the jade green before meeting touches of denim blue. My mind is fighting with my memory, wanting to darken that blue as I move to the other side of the black, round pupil done in India ink. With a deep inhale, I let go of my attempt to control and pass my brush into the indigo then onto the paper.

  I start from the left top this time, bleeding down. It’s too dark for Ian’s eye. I know it is. I’m just too tired to fight what my brain is telling me to paint.

  I’m exhausted. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally.

  Mercy, I messed up good last night. All I had to do was meet the members and follow a few rules. Observe, learn and give Emma and Brandon’s lifestyle choice a chance. Instead, I turned into Tornado Charlie, like my mamma always said, and blew a shit-storm into Brandon’s club.

  Poor Ian. Why did I ever think it was a good idea to try and play with him like that?

  You know why, Charlotte.

  My brush slips and a streak of the darker blue bleeds into the denim blue. Rushing with a curse, I dab the area with wet cloth, watching as it melds and fades into a unified gradient. I let out a relieved sigh then sit back and look at it again.

  At least you can fix your mistake this time, Charlotte. Let Ian go before you make another one you can’t take back.

  Fuck off. Ian isn’t Neil. I don’t want to fix him.

  Do I?

  No. Ian doesn’t need fixing. I just want to see him loosen up a bit, to smile more, and I want to be the cause of it. I want to hear that snort of his. I want…

  Red.

  My hand reaches for the tray of orange and red pallets. Picking up a fresh, larger camel-hair brush, I dip it into a clean glass of water then into the red. I hesitate then grab some orange. With a stroke, I paint a wide flame into the upper left corner of the canvas, rounding its way to the lower right. I repeat the motion, over and over. Layer upon layer.

  I grab a new, coarser horse-tail brush. Dry-bristled strokes of color that look like strands of hair gradually fill in where the white of the eye would be. Darker and darker the further down the right side of the canvas I go. Then I meld in brown and yellow. Sand and wheat.

  Wet and then dry again. Sand into fire. Broad strokes up, back into the flame along the left side.

  The movements of my hand are controlled by a long forgotten place in my brain that’s still connected to my heart. Over the years, with the mess I made of Emma’s life, over and over, I had let that connection dwindle. Then, after Neil… After he…

  I thought that connection died completely. When Emma came back into my life, it reignited, but I’d become too technical. What I painted was good, but it was lifeless.

  Now, that connection is alive. Electrified. Consuming. For the first time in years, I feel like myself again.

  My hand shakes as I drop the brush to the floor with a clacking vibration I can feel from my toes all the way up to my scalp. Taking the blue again, I fill in the eye. Darker, lighter, mixing and melding.

  Standing from my stool, I take two cautious steps back and stare at the watercolor-covered paper. The sunlight filters into my studio, shimmers over the paper, causing my soul to weep.

  It’s us. Not his eye. Not mine. Ours.

  A crack in my heart appears, echoing a feeling I don’t want, and I reach for the glass of water. Clenching my eyes shut so I don’t have to see what my brittle heart wants me to do, I fling the water at the canvas to destroy what I’ve created.

  A loud gasp. Water splatters against the tile. A throat clears.

  My eyes snap open. “Ian?”

  “Good afternoon,” he clenches out from a twitching jaw, his chest heaving in tight breaths. My shocked eyes dart over him, trying to make my brain agree that Ian Rider is actually standing in my studio. He’s here, holding a… café mocha? He’s here and he’s… wet?

  Oh, shit. My shaking hand sets down the glass as he sets the café mocha down next to my brushes. I look at his white dress shirt, soaked and streaked with orange-stained water. With a race to grab paper towels, the wet tiles send me flailing for traction. He catches me and eases me back on my feet. Closing my eyes again, I slow my breathing and focus.

  “Sorry,” I offer pathetically as I hand him a roll of paper towels. At least I splurged on the expensive, absorbent kind.

  “Thank you,” his lips tick into a smile as he presses several sheets against his chest.

  “It’s going to stain,” I state the obvious. At least he’s wearing black slacks, though they’re visibly soaked across the groin. Catching myself staring at that, I refocus on his face. “What are you doing here?”

  He glances up at me, a wad of orange-stained paper towels in his hand, then he glances over his shoulder and lets out of slow breath. He snorts. “Preserving art, apparently.”

  My eyes widen as I lean left to look at the painting. It’s been untouched by my tantrum, saved from Tornado Charlie by Ian’s casual Dockers. Casting my eyes to the side, I shuffle to avoid slipping again and grab my purse. “I’ll pay for your clothes.”

  “Not necessary. I’m the one intruding into your studio.”

  Putting my purse down, I turn to find him on his knees, cleaning the water from the floor. I rush back over. “You don’t have to do that. Here, let me.”

  “It’s alright,” he whispers, stopping as my hand brushes his. We both freeze for a moment. Uncertain air hangs between us. “Why were you going to ruin it?”

  I stand abruptly, my spine locked straight. “It’s my art. I can do what I want with it.”

  It’s a dumb, defensive answer that causes Ian to stand. “I’ll buy it from you.”

  His suggestion dumbfounds me, then I realize that he must see it – the truth of what I’ve painted. Our souls in watercolor. I feel exposed, and my defensive stance increases. “Why’re you here? How’d you even know where I’d be?”

  He lets out a sigh, tossing the wet paper towels into the garbage. “Emma told me where to look, and I’m here to apologize for last night.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” I cross my arms and look away, flustered that my best friend and Ian had obviously been talking about what happened. “Thought I made that clear last night. I already squared up with Brandon about it, and I’m cancelling my club membership.”

  “I know,” he pauses, maybe hoping I’ll look back at him. Might as well just keep on disappointing people. At least I’m competent at it. I stare at the floor and he continues. “I explained what happened. What really happened.”

  I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, thinking the silent treatment might work on him, but he just keeps talking. Stubborn.

  “Brandon wants you back next Fr
iday for proper introduction and training, if you’re willing. What happened last night was not your fault. Not at all. I was the senior member. I know the rules. Hell, I helped write them!”

  His uncharacteristic loss of temper finally brings my eyes back up to his. He looks like he’s in pain and I don’t want to be the cause of more. “I crossed a line that I knew was there. I pushed that line because it’s what I always do, Ian.”

  The green hue of his irises darkens and he takes a step towards me. “And I need that line to be pushed. I wanted you to cross that line, to push me. You just weren’t ready. It was wrong of me to keep it going, to encourage you, but I did. I thought I… Dammit. I thought I could just hold on for once, for you.”

  Sunlight dances across the sandy brown strands of his hair as he lowers his eyes. “I’m not right in the head, Charlie.”

  This man is so genuinely beautiful. His honesty makes me smile inside as Saul’s words come back to me again. “None of us are exactly screwed on straight.”

  His gaze snaps back up and examines me for a long time. “I want another chance with you, with this.”

  “What exactly is this, Ian?” I’m grasping for understanding, wanting more. Wanting dangerous things, like what I’ve just put on canvas. “I’ve had flings, one night stands and even friends with benefits, but this? Do we just act casual on Monday while I’m painting signs at Shoe Village, and then we try again with rope and leather on Friday? Are we like, BDSM buddies or something?”

  He snorts again, making me shiver. “BDSM buddies. I like that, but no.”

  Recovering from my body’s annoyingly wanton reaction, I hold up both hands, lost. “Then what?”

  “Does this need a label?” he asks, and it’s a damn good question.

  I close my eyes and breathe in. My studio smells like paint and caffeinated chocolate, with subtle hints of lemon solvent and the slab of clay I have sweating on a nearby shelf. This is my sanctuary, and I admit I’m a little angry at Emma for telling Ian about it.

  I wasn’t ready to face him yet and relive what happened last night, even though it was all I dreamed about during a hard-won sleep early this morning. Though, in my dream, he didn’t stop me. He let me draw lines on his lean muscles and taste any part of his body I wanted. I made him twitch and moan with the slightest touch before I rode him into shared ecstasy on that bench, all while he remained bound by black rope and blindfolded.

  “Please don’t move,” he whispers.

  I freeze, his strange request snatching my fantasies away. I start to open my eyes, curious and expecting a spider on my shoulder, or something equally wicked.

  “Keep your eyes closed, please,” he requests, now closer.

  Closing my eyes again, I can feel his body heat as he leans in, aware that his presence is causing subtle shifts in the lighting behind my eyelids. My lips part to ask what’s wrong, but my voice never leaves my throat. A soft warmth presses against my mouth and I smile into his kiss. It lasts only a second, but I can’t deny what it does to me. It makes me happy and leaves me wanting more of him.

  “I’m complicated,” he continues to whisper, close enough that I can feel his breath on my moist lips.

  Now I can smell peppermint mixed in with the coffee and clay. It makes my nose twitch because those scents work well together and I immediately associate all of them with Ian. He snorts that little, singular laugh of his and I smile wider.

  “Alright, I’m way more than complicated,” he admits. With my eyes closed, I can pick up the subtle inflections of his Texas accent hidden behind the formal tone he masks it with.

  “I don’t know where this may go,” he continues, “if anywhere at all, and I can’t guarantee it won’t just go in a circle. I can certainly guarantee you that I will have to backtrack and try again more than a few times. I don’t want to label it or fill it with expectations I can’t meet, because I don’t want to let you or myself down. I want to try it, though, because I like you. I really like you.”

  Before I can respond, he kisses me again. Short and sweet. Then again, and again. I stop counting at twelve. Some of them are mere pecks, some are lingering and some include the wet tease of his tongue. I think he’s trying different methods, trying to get it just right so that his OCD can be satisfied. I try to be patient and give him all the chances he needs.

  Ian is a good man. He deserves patience. He deserves chances.

  My lips are a bit puckered and swollen by the time he speaks again. “Thank you, Charlie.”

  The sunlight brightens, filling the studio and my foolish heart with promise. Ian goes deathly quiet. I hear a shuffle then the distant slam of the stairwell door. My eyes open to stare at my empty easel. The clever bastard took the watercolor.

  I sit down on my stool, continuing to smile, allowing the sunlight in.

  Ian

  I don’t dislike or like Mondays. I’ve always been rather neutral on the subject. Saul loves them because he gets to pester Victoria at the office. Kyle hates them because it reminds him he just spent another wasted weekend in the bed of some random girl who isn’t Sarah. Brandon hates getting up in the morning, but Emma’s been helping him with that.

  I guess Mondays are neutral for me because I don’t ever really stop working. If I’m not doing stuff for Brandon’s real estate company, I’m doing stuff for his club. If I’m not doing that, I’m doing inspections for the city. And if I get even a moment to myself, which I avoid for reasons that should have become obvious by now, it usually doesn’t last. One of my friends seems to always be in the middle of something they need help with.

  Not that I mind. I like being kept busy, and they know that. I like feeling that I’m useful to the family that adopted me in college with very few questions asked. Sure, it means putting up with Kyle’s crankiness, Victoria’s whip, Saul’s constant floundering and Brandon’s demanding nature, but I wouldn’t trade my family for anything. Especially now that it includes Emma and Charlie.

  It’s why I’m sporting a Brandon-worthy, goofy-ass grin on a Monday, holding a café mocha in one hand and coffee in the other.

  While standing outside Charlie’s apartment.

  At seven in the morning.

  No warning phone call, no text, no invitation. Nothing. I just got it in my head, last night at around midnight, that I was going to do this, and haven’t been able to let it go (or sleep) since. So, here I am, wide-eyed, sleep-deprived and twitchy, hoping this doesn’t appear as creepy to her as I think it might be.

  I also haven’t spoken to her since I kissed her lips raw and stole her painting on Saturday. I can still taste her, though, and see her in the sunlight when I close my eyes. Feel depressed when I open my eyes and she’s not there. Twitch like an addict going through withdrawal.

  Charlie withdrawal. Yeah, I’ve got it, so very bad.

  She let me kiss her twenty-four times on Saturday. I tried to stop at sixteen, my standard stop-count, but it didn’t feel right, so I went on to seventeen. Saturday is a six, and I prefer multiples of four or six, so I kept going, my brain absolutely refusing to stop on an ugly, dysfunctional prime number like seventeen. Finally, I hit the penultimate number for my brain, four-times-six, twenty-four, and it was perfect.

  Her lips were plump, probably swollen from my attention, and soft. The angle of her chin was just so, and her mouth was slightly parted. My tongue ventured to greet hers. She kissed back then rewarded me with the sweetest smile wrapped up in sunlight, strands of her fiery hair delicately framing a serene face.

  That serenity had washed over me and carried me into a place I seldom reach. Peaceful, anxiety-free bliss.

  And then I stole her painting. Not one of my most suave maneuvers, not that I’ve had many of those to begin with, but she didn’t call my cell demanding it back, either. I hope she understands why I took it. I had to have it. The moment I saw it, I knew.

  I stood there in her studio doorway, watching her paint it, mesmerized by the way she transformed a blank piece of wa
tercolor canvas into something so… I don’t have words suitable. It’s more than beautiful. That painting is alive - two souls brought out into the open, captured by brush strokes and tinted water.

  When she raised the glass of water and her intention became clear, I blanked out. I don’t remember how I got from the doorway to stand in front of her, blocking the destructive water from reaching the canvas. I didn’t count steps, watch for cracks or track sunbeams. One second I was leaning on the doorframe, watching her paint, and the next I was covered in really cold, orange-colored water.

  She never did answer my question on why she was going to destroy the painting. Her defensive avoidance and redirection of the conversation leads me to believe there’s a deep story there. Despite my fear of landing, I want to jump off her ledge and find out just how deep it goes.

  “Ian?”

  Charlie’s confused voice derails my thoughts then the sight of her wind-blown red hair derails everything else. I manage to hold out the café mocha to her with a mostly steady hand. She’s wearing all denim, from jeans to jean jacket and even her shirt is a soft blue. I’m kind of glad she’s over her lime-avocado phase. This new color pallet she’s wearing highlights her eyes and the coppery shine in her hair. It balances my world, if even for just a much needed second.

  She pulls her jacket closed against the Dallas December wind and takes the caffeinated hot chocolate. “Are you my new enabler?”

  At least she doesn’t mention the painting.

  “Or is this an apology bribe for sneaking off with my painting?” she adds.

  Dammit. “I’ll give it back if you promise not to give it a bath.”

  Her bright red eyebrows shift upwards as she holds the coffee cup to her nose. She smirks at me behind the rim. “Maybe you better hold on to it, then. My mamma didn’t call me Tornado Charlie for nothin’.”

  Tornado Charlie? Seriously? Of course I snort at that.

  Fuck, I hate my stupid laugh. Her smile widens at the sound, though. What’s up with that? “Alright, but you’ll have to come by my place and sign it.”