by Isabel Wroth
“Yes. Did you drop your earring in my couch on purpose?”
“Helena, you didn't,” John chided, hovering on the other side of the counter with a disapproving stare.
I still wasn't sure how Callum's father and Helena knew one another, but they had a strange friendship that seemed at odds with their chosen professions.
Cops and reporters didn't often become buddies for obvious reasons, yet John spoke to Helena like a dear friend.
Helena covered Jimmy the V’s arrest and his trial, no doubt that’s where she and John had met, but I hadn’t asked how that meeting blossomed into enough of a relationship, that twenty years after the fact, Helena had John’s phone number and called him up whenever she felt like it to chase a story.
Although, I could imagine Helena popping up at every one of John’s crime scenes when he’d been Callum’s age to hound him for the truth until she had it.
“No, I didn't, but I was hoping a meeting with you, Josephine, might shed some light on my impending demise,” Helena confessed, holding her empty glass out to Nigel.
Obligingly, my assistant topped her off and went to fetch another bottle.
“You were hoping I would see your death?” I guffawed, tilting on my stool a little to let Callum take some of my weight.
Helena shrugged, chugging her wine like it was water. I half wondered why she didn’t just grab the bottle and drink directly from the source. Lord knew I would have if I’d been in her shoes.
“I've exposed some ugly truths over the years and am no stranger to receiving death threats. To be honest, before I retired, I didn't feel like I was doing my job right if I went very long without a threat.
“I've done my best, but the truth always hurts someone, and it's not always possible to tell both sides of the story. Since my retirement, the letters slowed to a trickle.
“I still get the occasional letter from loved ones of mob bosses and dirty cops I helped expose, who are still suffering the consequences from their actions and my articles.
“The threats are always worded in such a way that I can pinpoint their origin, or rather whose dirtbag family member I pissed off.
“Over the last six months, I've received twenty envelopes with no return addresses. Inside are photos of myself going in and out of my apartment building, or in the pharmacy, or the movies.
“The person sending them draws Xs across my eyes, a red line across my throat, and writes the same message on the back of every photo: By my own hands.”
A chill went down my spine at the implication of the message and the bruises I'd painted around Helena's throat in my portrait.
The investigative maven reached up and gave her hair an unsteady pat, glancing from me to John and back before heaving a sigh and deflating a little.
“Maybe it's just an old lady's fear of her oncoming expiration date, but out of the thousands of death threats I've gotten over the years, this one ... is different.
“It's simple and to the point, without any of the usual vitriol and bile. No 'you did this so I'm going to make you pay' nor the typical vivid descriptions of my death, though I suppose the picture is worth a thousand words.”
Marcy gave an indignant huff, pointing her spatula in Helena's direction like a magic wand.
“Helena, John has told you time and again to take all those death threats to Charlie and have him do something about it!”
Unconcerned, Helena waved Marcy's reprimand aside. “If I gave every letter I'd gotten over the years to that old coot, he'd be up to his eyeballs in it and able to do a whole lotta nothing.
“I know those tabloid reporters who ripped into your life, Josephine. I know how they write, how they exaggerate peas into beach balls, and after the article in the art section of the Times about your art show, I deduced there was some truth to your psychic abilities.
“So, I reached out to John—as there was mention of Mia’s portrait—eager to see if I could somehow prompt a vision from you, and I gather from your discomfort, I did.
“You said you only paint victims of murder. How did you know painting Elliot’s picture meant he was going to die?”
Callum's hand went from lying supportively on my neck to curving around my arm, holding me steady against his side. He hadn't said a word since coming into the kitchen, following my lead.
It was bizarre to be taken seriously. To speak so openly about my curse with a stranger—a reporter—went against every single ounce of self-preservation I had. But John trusted Helena and wasn't giving me any outward signs to say I should keep my mouth shut.
After a tense moment of indecision, I answered her, “Elliot's portrait was the second premonition of death I'd had. The first was a horse. It wasn’t until years later when I understood what sort of deaths I’d been painting, that I started to believe Elliot had been murdered. At ten years old, trying to explain it to my parents made me sound crazy—”
“Your parents are assholes,” Helena told me seriously, which surprised me enough to make me snort the next sip of wine I took. “So, how does it happen? How did you see me die? Don't sugarcoat it, darling. I'm not a fan of bullshit.”
Coughing to clear the burning in my nose, I put my glass down and glanced furtively at Callum. He gave me a squeeze and a manly jerk of his chin.
“She can take it, Jo.”
With his vote of confidence, for the first time, I sat across from a victim I'd painted and told her how she would die.
“I want you to know, first, that I don't know when or where it happens, or who is responsible. I get an infuriatingly narrow view—a snapshot—of what I believe is the moment directly after death, when the murderer steps back to look at what he or she has done.
“That said, you'll be wearing a red pair of trousers with a leopard print blouse and yellow costume jewelry. I'm not an expert, but from the size and placement of the bruises, I believe it's a man who will ... strangle you.”
For a long time, Helena sat across from me in total silence, her gaze unwavering, and I fought not to squirm.
I had only tried twice to speak to a future murder victim, three times counting my attempt to try and save my brother, and none of the attempts had gone well or prevented their deaths.
I had no idea if my premonitions could be changed. If I received them for the purpose of preventing the impending death or if it was merely a view into a pre-destined future.
The two hundred and twenty-seven, now twenty-eight, paintings in my crypt were evidence to say fate had been fixed for those individuals. But again, I hadn't ever spoken face to face with a victim-to-be this way to truly know.
“The message makes sense, then,” Helena finally said, without any inflection at all. “Hypothetically, if I burn those clothes and therefore am unable to wear them during my murder, would it still happen?”
Helplessly, I shrugged. “I don't know. I've attempted three times to prevent the deaths I've painted. I even described to one woman the detail of the underwear she would have on how she would die, and the victims were found exactly the way I painted them.
“For my own selfish reasons, I would be thrilled if you did burn the outfit and went on living for many more years.
“Unfortunately, I don't have any evidence to say it will help or if the murders I paint are avoidable.
“After all this time, I don't truly understand how my curse works. There isn't a manual or a class I can take to figure out why I am the way I am, or how I paint the stuff I do without having any control at all.”
Callum's mother caught my eye to give me a gentle smile. Marcy knew how frustrated Helena and I both were, having experienced the same feelings not that long ago when she'd come to me hoping for some clue I on her daughter's whereabouts.
I hadn't been able to tell Mia's family where to find her until after her murderer, someone I knew, had come after me and made an attempt on my life.
“Well, damn. That's my favorite outfit. But forewarned is forearmed, I suppose,” Helena announced practical
ly, as though she were happy with the information I'd given her. Done discussing the subject, she moved on. “Have you finished that Marsala yet, Marcy? I’m starving.”
“SHIT ... HELL ... FUCK! Jesus, baby, you're killing me here!”
I couldn't smile with the thickness of Callum's cock stretching my lips as wide as they could go, but I was smiling in spirit.
My lover could be extremely dominant in the bedroom, and I relished every opportunity he gave me to drive him to his knees with pleasure.
I loved every inch of his body. His cock in my hands and mouth as I brought him to the brink of losing motor function was, without contest, my favorite way to please him.
I worked hard to draw out his pleasure as long as possible, to make him burn that much hotter. The way he did to me.
The power I held in these sensual moments was addicting. Making such a powerful, strong, dominant man quake with nothing more than my lips, tongue, and teeth was an aphrodisiac all on its own.
He stood over me, leaning back against the thick post of the bed, eyes glazed with need and skin glistening with a fine sheen of sweat.
His pulse pounded against my tongue as I laved the underside of his cock, working my mouth up and down as much of his shaft as I could take, paying special attention to the little knot of nerves just beneath the flared head.
Through dedicated trial and error, I knew if I swirled my tongue just the right way while applying the right amount of suction, Callum would crumble.
When his fingers tightened in my hair and he clenched the cheeks of his ass beneath my hands, I knew he was fighting to keep his orgasm from overpowering him.
As Callum's voice got huskier and deeper, his guttural praises filthier, the trembling in his thighs intensified.
I sucked harder, flattened my tongue to let him slide deeper, trailed my fingers down the back of his thighs, and softly scraped my nails against his skin.
“God ... damnit, Jo!”
I couldn't smile or laugh, but I could look up the length of my quivering lover's body and hum. Frenzy twisted his expression, and there was no mistaking what was about to happen.
He let go long enough to reach back and pull my hands from his ass, snarling at me like he was furious, but I knew the fury was born of desperation.
“Get up here, Jo. Now!”
My lips had barely slipped over the soft head of his cock before he yanked me to my feet, roughly whipped me around, and pushed me facedown on the mattress.
He pressed his big hand between my shoulders to keep me where he wanted, his feet kicking mine apart so he could test the heat between my thighs.
I moaned softly at the slick press of Callum's fingers inside me and lifted my hips, tipping my pelvis back to try and force his hand deeper, but Callum did what he wanted in his own time, no matter how desperate he was to find his own release.
“Damn, Jo. I love how wet you get while you're sucking my cock.”
I wanted to tell him I loved it too, but words failed me when he yanked his hand away and buried his cock to the hilt in one go. His shout and mine filled the room, followed by the wild slap of skin on skin.
Callum folded himself over me, his arm sliding under my chest to reach up and cup my jaw, pulling my face up and my head back so he could kiss me while he passionately did his best to fuck us both to a screaming orgasm.
Callum hated to finish before me and loved when we came apart together. To help get me there faster, Callum pushed his other hand beneath me, his long fingers spreading my labia apart to find my clit, rubbing and pinching in a rhythm guaranteed to send me into the stratosphere.
“I'm so close, baby. Your pussy is so wet, so tight around me, I'm not gonna make it out alive. Come with me, Jo. Come hard.”
Oh, I will. Between the intense stretch of my body around his shuttling shaft, the deep thrust of his cock against my cervix, the stimulation to my clit, and pressure against the front wall of my pussy, it was impossible not to implode.
It felt like every muscle in my body went lax, completely limp for one frantic beat of my heart, and then seized so hard I felt it in the ends of my hair.
Callum's growling litany of ‘Fuck yes!’ was punctuated by the nearly brutal punch of his hips, fighting through my body's stranglehold on his shaft to milk every drop of pleasure from us both.
“Damn, baby.” Callum gasped against my throat, his wrecked groan a vocalization of my own feelings. It took some time before either of us had the strength to pull apart and crawl up the bed to fall together among the pillows, but there was nothing better than snuggling into the arms Callum wrapped around me in the languid, post-coital glow.
“DAMNIT, JO! WAKE UP!”
Cold, I'm so cold. Why am I so cold?
My entire body shook, my knees ached, my skin felt like it was covered in a thin film of ice, but my left cheek was burning.
Disoriented, slightly nauseous, and unable to focus, I was dimly aware that I was moving back and forth, but couldn't explain how, or stop myself. Everything felt unbelievably far away.
I didn't have enough wine to get black-out drunk. What the hell is going on?
“Josephine Calla Beauchene, don't think I won't shake the shit out of you!” The fear-fueled rage in Callum's voice, and the painful bite of his fingers around my upper arms snapped me out of the hazy numbness. “Come back to me, baby. You promised.”
It was like my head broke past water into the air, and I was suddenly gasping for breath. My heart drummed out a rapid-fire beat that made me shake as adrenaline and fear hit my bloodstream.
My teeth clacked together as I looked around in absolute confusion, not sure of my surroundings. I was outside in the near pitch black, wearing nothing but a rain-soaked robe, caked in mud.
“Cal-Callum?”
“Fuck me, Jo. What the hell are you doing out here?”
Lightning lit up the sky and thunder rolled, making me yelp and jump in fright.
The illumination from above revealed I was at the edge of the forest, where manicured garden beds met the tree line, and I had no idea why.
“Why... I'm ... what...? I d-don't know. I'm co-cold, Callum. I'm s-so cold.”
Callum quit shaking me, opting to pick me up and rush me back across the yard and into the open mudroom door, through the kitchen, and into the first small bedroom in the staff quarters.
He didn't ask me questions until we were both standing under the steamy hot spray of the shower.
Callum inspected the dirt caked under my torn fingernails, gently washing the mud from the scrapes and cuts on my hands.
“What the fuck happened, baby? Why were you out there digging in the rain with your bare hands at two in the morning?”
Crammed into the narrow stall, my entire body still shaking with a mix of cold and fear-fueled shock, I stared up at him in disbelief as tears rolled down my cheeks, my teeth clacking and chattering like a wind-up toy.
“I don't kn-know. I remember go-going to bed, Callum. That's all I remember.”
Comprehension dawned in his expression as he realized I had no idea why I'd been out in the dark, in the rain, digging in the flower beds.
He gave a frustrated grimace before wrapping me up in a fierce hug, rocking me slightly from side to side while I cried softly, my tears and the hot water mingling against his chest.
“Okay. Its okay, Jo. I've got you; we'll figure this out. Hold onto me.”
I nodded because I couldn't do anything else. When the water cooled and my body quit shaking, Callum got me out of the shower and dried me off, wrapping me in one of the fluffy robes left behind.
I sat on the counter in the kitchen with my hands in a bowl of salty water, unable to help but think—given the circumstances—I must have had some kind of new episode.
“Does your face hurt?” Callum asked gently, his fingertips cruising over my left cheek. “You weren't answering me and wouldn't let me pull you away from the ground. I slapped you to try and get you to wake up.”
&
nbsp; The skin of my cheek did sting a little, and Callum looked torn up about having to smack me.
“It's alright. It's warm, but it doesn't hurt.”
“I'm sorry, baby. I didn't know what else to do.” Regret was prevalent in his expression when he should have been throwing his hands up and walking away from my crazy ass.
“It's okay. I'm sorry I keep putting you through this.”
He gave a heartfelt sigh and leaned in to cover my stinging cheek with tender kisses. “I think you just want me to go prematurely gray like my old man.”
I squeezed out a few more tears because Callum was still here, making fun of me, and not telling me he couldn't deal with the weirdness and stress I brought into his life.
He checked my hands, carefully drying them with paper towels before he scooped me up and carried me all the way back upstairs.
I watched him digging around in his toiletry bag until he came up with a pair of fingernail clippers and was overwhelmed with emotion when he came back and knelt at my feet.
Carefully, as though he were snipping the delicate fingernails of a newborn baby, he clipped away the torn, ragged edges of my nails and used the pick to scrape the last lingering bits of dirt from underneath.
When he finished, he pressed his lips to my abraded skin, like he could kiss away the sting.
“I love you, Callum.”
The skin around his eyes crinkled with his smile. “I love you too.” I tasted the sincerity of his words in his kiss. “Soon as the sun comes up, we'll go check out what you were trying to dig up, okay?”
“Okay,” I murmured, following his lead as he pushed me up into bed and curled himself around me much tighter.
The steady rhythm of his heartbeat under my ear started to work its magic on me, and just as I was about to drop off again, he turned his lips to my ear and growled.
“You do this to me again, Jo, I'm cuffing you to the bed.”
Gee, that sounds absolutely terrible, I thought, biting into my cheek to keep my smile to myself.
CALLUM WAS UP WITH the dawn, and after we silently dressed, we went downstairs hand in hand. We greeted his parents, who were already up and sipping coffee together in the breakfast nook, went out the back door, and followed the gravel-lined path I'd taken yesterday all the way to the edge of the woods where I'd unceremoniously ripped up the flowers.