Brush Strokes

by Dee Carney

  Fat teardrops rolled down her cheeks, but she nodded. He waited, torn on whether to stay at her side and help her or to remain behind to make certain she didn’t return. Anything she wanted from this room, he would retrieve for her. He’d spare her the agony of prying through the damage for as long as humanly possible.

  She dragged herself to the doorway, pausing when she crossed the threshold. He tensed, ready to block her line of sight if she turned to give the room one final perusal, but she kept moving into the other room. A quick visual sweep of the destruction as he went to the doorway sent another ripple of anger through Joe. Holy hell he never expected a fire to cause this much damage. Even if she managed to salvage anything in here, the stench would stay with her stuff for weeks.

  He found what remained of his shoes and picked them up with two fingers. The black sodden pile a few feet away might have been his shirt, but that he’d leave behind.

  They didn’t speak as Tanya moved from her closet, where she retrieved a faded backpack, to a dresser still standing unmarred in the corner. He kept his back to the studio, his bulk blocking the way back in. As he’d already suspected, she didn’t keep much in the way of valuables. What items she did stash into the bag went in because of their sentimental worth, he’d bet.

  Tanya brought some clothing to her face, winced after inhaling them, but stuffed them inside. She walked toward him, a shirt outstretched in her hand, a moment later. “This should fit you. I’m sorry about your stuff.”

  “Thank you.” He didn’t know what else to say.

  He pulled on the shirt, ignoring the faint burnt aroma coming from it. All of her clothes would need dry cleaning. An inventory of lost items taken and submitted to the insurance company, assuming she had one. Hell, she might not even want to consider living in this place any more.

  If her mind worked like his, she was inundated with a case of the what ifs. If a fire started on the second floor could so easily reach her downstairs apartment, what if she’d been trapped inside…what if the alarm failed to ring…what if she’d been sleeping…

  Joe shuddered to think about how bad it could have been.

  Tanya stood in the middle of what was left of her living room slash bedroom, the bag hanging from listless fingers. She looked up at him, her lips trembling. “I’m ready, I guess.”

  She looked so torn, so at a loss as to what to do next, as if putting one foot in front of the other was a command she didn’t know how to get her body to follow. Instead of pulling her into his arms in a fierce hug, he dropped his shoes to the floor and slipped them on. That accomplished though, he made his way to her side and wrapped his arm around her waist. She didn’t appear to notice when he took the backpack and slipped it on his shoulder. Tanya kept one arm across her chest, her other hand holding her trembling chin as if stopping a scream of frustration from breaking through. He gave her a brief tug and she gathered some momentum to follow his lead.

  They made it to his condo in silence. Other passengers on the train gave them wide-eyed stares, but thankfully, none commented on their stench or state of dishevelment. He watched her carefully, ready to offer himself in any way she needed him if the horror of this evening caught up to her and she went into meltdown. But not Tanya. Not his brown-skinned goddess. She stood stoic and regal and beautiful. Tears spilled down her cheeks, but she mourned in silence. Some internal pain he would hopefully never understand made her shudder on occasion, but she kept her spine erect and faced forward until they reached their stop. Even the couple of blocks they walked went by without ceremony. The moment they crossed the threshold and he flipped on the lights, however, her wall crumbled.

  Some instinct forced him to turn, to drop the bag onto the floor unheeded and enfold her in his arms. Some urgency kept him pressed against her as her legs gave way. Some sixth sense gave him the words to murmur against her hair, the kisses to sweep over her smooth skin and the ability to be her strength when she had none to spare.

  “This day is almost over,” he said, brushing her forehead with his lips. “When the sun rises tomorrow, you’ll pick up the pieces from today.”

  “Will I, Joe?” Her arms tightened around his waist.

  “You will because you have to.”

  “It’s like a bad dream. And then I wonder if I’m being histrionic over things. But then I think about all of the work, the years of getting just the right supplies, some of my photos…my memories.”

  Her voice trailed off. She’d been speaking so softly, he wasn’t certain if maybe she’d just lost steam or gathered her energy to say more. When the silence stretched on, he decided now wasn’t the time to pursue this topic. She needed rest.

  He shuffled toward the bedroom; trapped in his arms, Tanya followed suit. After only a little prodding, once there he managed to coax her into the attached bathroom. “I’ll be right out here if you need anything,” he said pointing to the living room. Damned good thing the couch slept him so well. Not like it would be the first time he took advantage of it. A large pizza, a few beers and a made-for-television movie combined with his worn, second-hand couch were better than any sleeping pill ever invented.

  He waited until he heard the gentle sounds of the shower running before retrieving her bag and placing it on the bed. The sheets were newly laundered. Fastidious by nature, no clothing was strewn about to embarrass him. He did grab a new shirt and exchange it for the one he wore. He shimmied out of the smoky jeans, folding them into a stack he would dump into the laundry basket in the bathroom later. Padding to the living room in the clean shirt and boxers, he pulled the door closed behind him.

  By the time Joe placed a comforter on the couch, he heard Tanya moving in the bedroom beyond. After shutting off the last of the lights, he settled himself in the soft embrace of the well-used furniture, the emotional drain caused by the day’s events finally catching up to him. Now that he had a minute to reflect, he knew without a doubt after about three seconds he would sleep like the dead. Closing his eyes, he wished her a silent good night. Sweet dreams, baby.

  Something—someone—soft moved next to him. His heavy eyes fluttered open.

  “Tanya?” He couldn’t see shit. How much time had passed? Minutes, maybe, but it felt like hours. His grogginess testified to the fact that his ass had been knocked out.

  “Go back to sleep,” she whispered.

  The evening flooded back in a rush and his heart pumped faster. “Is everything okay?”

  She spoke tentatively. “I don’t want to be alone. Can I sleep next to you?”

  “Of course.” Joe shimmied closer to the padded couch back. A king size bed waited about a hundred feet away from their current location, but something about snuggling with her on the couch suited him better.

  Tanya smelled like soap and heaven. Her curves molded next to his like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. He draped a loose arm over her waist, but tightened his jaw when she moved closer. The plump curves of her delectable butt, the innocent wiggle of her hips teased his cock into awakening. No matter how many times he tried to tell himself down boy, the damned thing insisted on making its presence known. If she cared though, he’d never know. Tanya’s breathing eased into a steady rhythm, the tension in her body fading as the minutes passed. At last certain she slept, he let himself drift away too. Not before one last thought stole into his mind.

  He could enjoy doing this with her for the rest of his life.

  Chapter Six

  Tanya wanted to lay curled up here forever. The comforter smelled so good, the pillow beneath her head soft and welcoming. Without opening her eyes, she recognized the unique scent of Joe. The combination of his soap and his familiar cologne wrapping around her and filling her senses until her mind flooded with memories of just him. His kisses. His touch. The way he studied her like she were the model and not he. If only she could replicate the fire in his eyes when he did that.

  Fire.

  Her eyes flew open, a well of tears forming before she could recall them. None fell as s
he blinked them back.

  No, she would not do this. She would not lay here and wallow. If she expected to move forward, tasks she didn’t have the energy for yesterday would have to be accomplished today. After a cup of coffee, she’d head back to the apartment and start the slow recovery process. No matter how painful it was to think about her stuff, what Joe said yesterday would keep her going. She and Joe were alive. Her neighbors were alive. There was a lot to be grateful for.

  Speaking of, when had he brought her back into the bed? Her fingers bunched into the comforter still tangled with her limbs. Although she distinctly remember sleeping most of the night with him on the couch, at some point he must have carried her like a stuffed burrito back into the bedroom.

  He kept things tidy in here. Real wood furniture occupied the floor space. A single, simple painting hung above the headboard. Without a doubt, she lay on his throne. The large bed took up most of the remaining space. Anyone who walked through the bedroom door knew immediately what function this room served. It was a man’s lair meant for sleeping and loving.

  She struggled to sitting and forced away some of the sleepiness. Sunlight filtered into the room at full throttle. It had to be well after nine, an unheard of awakening time for her.

  That’s when she saw the little square of paper on the unrumpled pillow beside her. Curious, she picked it up and scanned the scrawl. Even as she read his words, the message telling her he’d left coffee brewing and a bagel waiting for her, the scent of the brew drifted to her. He’d gone back to her apartment, hoping she didn’t mind if he started some of the clean up.

  She supposed it was kind of sweet. He gave her a place to sleep, a shower to use, the comfort of his body next to hers to ward off bad dreams. Now he stuck by her through the worst of it. Joe was a good guy and it shamed her that months passed and a disaster had to strike before she recognized it. Maybe the sexual tension she’d been toying with went beyond the physical. Isn’t that what he’d said yesterday? Time to stop making what was happening between them just about sex and perhaps, just perhaps, see if it went any deeper.

  By the time she got to her apartment, the coffee and bagel long since consumed, she’d changed and unchanged her mind over a dozen times. Wasn’t there some sort of ethical consideration in all of this? Kind of like doctors and patients, or maybe, priests and nuns?

  Climbing the short stairs, she snorted. The right to that argument went out the window the minute she’d given him a hand job. And somehow she seriously doubted that kind of thing went on in other workplaces. Or at least, they shouldn’t. Oh, for heaven’s sake, what the hell did she know, anyway?

  She pulled open the door to the apartment building and almost staggered back. The stench of smoke clashed against fresh air seeping inside.

  A man on the stairwell looked at her with sad eyes. “It’s better to leave it open,” he said in a thick Spanish accent. He carried two large garbage bags in his hands, his dirt-smudged face a story on its own. She nodded and looked around for something to use to prop it open. Someone’s burnt detritus, ironically a warped metal trash can, sat in the corner. She dragged it over and wedged it in tight.

  Turning around, she noticed the large black bags sitting next to her front door. Four of them. How much of her belongings had been reduced to this? Her heart hammered as she pushed against the scarred wood. Already in motion, another one of those hated bags in his hands as he made his way in her direction, Joe lifted his chin. “Good morning,” he said softly.

  The tenderness in his voice, the gentle caress of it almost made her throat seize up. A reply barely scraped past her lips. “Morning.” She looked beyond him, her mouth parting in surprise. “Oh, my God. Thank you. When did you get here to have done all this?”

  “I wish more of it could have been saved.”

  “So do I.” She shrugged, still at a loss for words.

  He’d done so much, she doubted there was much left for her to do. The larger items like her furniture remained, but anything small enough for him to carry by himself had been removed. “I’ve had your clothing taken to the dry cleaners, already.”

  “Joe…” she said shaking her head. Really, this went beyond her wildest expectations.

  “I left your undergarments in the drawer,” he added hastily. “I wasn’t trying to invade your privacy, really. Once I got started, things just kind of got moving and I’m sorry—”

  She cut him off by pressing a finger to his lips. Her gaze moved from his eyes, wide and almost-panicked, to his mouth. Lifting herself on tip-toe, she touched her lips to his. “Thank you,” she murmured. She kissed him again, but this time his mouth made demands. He devoured her hungrily, as if they’d been separated for years instead of hours.

  The back of her mind screamed that this wasn’t the time, but her body? Her skin tingled, a healthy flush zeroed in between her legs and encouraged her to go for broke.

  Maybe it was time to tell him about the conversation she’d been having with herself about them as a couple. A distant ringing broke her thoughts, though.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he grumbled, turning toward the kitchen. He stalked over, snatched the receiver up and almost shouted into the phone. “Hello?” His voice softened. “Oh. Sorry. Hold on, here she is.”

  His sheepish grin made her smile. She swatted his very cute butt as she took the phone from him. Certain to keep her own voice mellow, she tried to verbally repair any damage he might have done. “Hello?” Her spine straightened when she recognized the voice on the other end. “Mr. Killian. I needed to call you today…”

  Joe made his way into the studio to give her a little privacy. Despite the light, sensuous mood they managed to bring into existence a few minutes ago, perhaps she’d want to tell her patron about the fire without him hanging on to her every word. He’d keep alert for the change in her demeanor sure to happen, but he didn’t know what kind of man the older gentleman might be. That he gave his money generously hinted he would be sympathetic. At the end of the day however, he could decide to withdraw his support. But that really didn’t make any sense. Tanya had talent to spare. He didn’t believe it about just anyone, but she would make it big one day.

  He glanced at the empty spot her paintings previously occupied. All that work now sat in the large dumpster out back. Thank God his favorite portrait of her made it through the fire unscathed, but her future didn’t hinge on that particular painting. The ones she’d created in the last few months with him had been commissioned by Mr. Killian, who by now heard he no longer had anything to show for his money.

  She walked into the room a few minutes later. If he hadn’t seen her face, the static of stunned energy floating around her would have made him look up from his chore. He frowned and stood. “Tanya?”

  “He—”

  Her chest heaved, as if she struggled to breathe. Shit, this wasn’t good. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

  “He was calling to tell me that he got the time wrong. That the paintings needed to be there tomorrow evening because the show opens the following morning.”

  “And?” he prodded when she stopped.

  She stared back with dazed eyes. “When I told him about the fire, he was nice about it at first. He said my insurance would cover the loss of materials,” she said, blowing out a breath, “but he wasn’t so sure about the paintings themselves. That being the case…”

  He had a sinking feeling he already knew where she was headed, but prompted her anyway. “That being the case…”

  “If they aren’t able to reimburse the cost of the paintings themselves, he might have to withdraw his patronage.”

  That asshole. He disliked Mr. Killian at first sight with good reason apparently. “That doesn’t make any sense. He’s put so much behind you already. Why not make certain his investment pays out in the end?”

  “Because I can’t recoup the time that’s been lost. I offered to make up the paintings for him, but he said that wasn’t necessary.”

  “Make u
p the paintings?”

  “Sure, I could work twice as fast, twice as hard. Instead of six paintings in four months, maybe ten or twelve in that time.”

  “You would sacrifice quality for quantity?”

  She set her mouth in a straight line. Her expression grew hard and resentful. “If it meant being able to work for another year without worrying about how to pay my bills, yeah.”

  The way she glared at him, there was no way he’d touch that statement with a ten-foot pole, no matter how much he disagreed with it. If she wasn’t in such dire straits and thought through it clearly, the Tanya he knew wouldn’t consider such a sell-out. “Why didn’t he agree to that?”

  “Because it’s not a sure thing,” she replied angrily. Her voice took on a mocking quality, echoing Mr. Killian’s slight accent.

  “What happens now then?”

  “My savings will last me about two or three months. If I don’t find a patron by then—which should be easy because, you know, they grow on trees—then I’ll have to find a job. I’ve tried that before and I’m lost when I’m not being creative. I can’t sleep, I can’t focus. Art is in my blood and people who aren’t artists just can’t get that. I live simply because my art is everything. I’m lost when I’m not painting and I don’t know if I’ll survive without it. But I can’t think about the future now, can I? I get the lovely fucking task of dealing with this shit instead.” She threw her arms out, indicating the ruins surrounding them.

  Despite what she said, he did get it. He understood being so passionate about something to the exclusion of almost everything else. Thinking quickly, he asked, “Would one painting make him happy?”

  “What?”

  “If you could deliver a painting to him by tomorrow for the show, would it make him happy enough to keep his patronage, even for a short time?”