“So we can’t talk about the future,” she said. “What can we talk about?”
“The past,” he said. “Tell me about your past.”
She blew a wisp of hair out of her eyes. “Big topic. Want to break it down a little for me?”
“Tell me how you became an artist,” he suggested.
“Ah. Well, it was a challenge. Lucia sweated for years, trying to turn me into a civilized human. I was a wild animal, even though I loved her to pieces from the start. Hyperactive, hot tempered, foulmouthed. I got bad grades. I had impulse control issues. I got into fights.”
“I’m not surprised.”
She ignored that. “Lucia was determined to make me respectable. She wanted me to study something that would make me good money, turn me into a pillar of the community. She loved art, but she liked classics. She didn’t understand wild experimental art. We had a hell of a time, fighting it out.”
“And you won?” He twirled her hair around his finger.
“Not at first. I compromised. I agreed to study graphic design. I tried, I really did, but I was miserable, and my grades sucked, and I ended up losing my scholarship. Lucia was furious with me.”
“And? What did you do then?”
She shrugged. “I waitressed, I tended bar. Was a bike messenger for a while. Saved enough to reenroll in art school, one semester at a time. And I survived on art show openings for a couple of years.”
He looked puzzled. “How’s that?”
“You know those wine-and-cheese receptions at art galleries when a new exhibit opens? You can find one every night in New York, if you inform yourself. Cheese, crackers, grapes, strawberries, mini-quiches, puff pastries. If you’re too broke to buy groceries, they’re great.”
He stirred uncomfortably. “You were that desperate?”
“Oh, it wasn’t so bad. I saw a lot of art. It did me good. And then I met this gallery owner, Brian. I signed a contract with him. And he started to sell some of my stuff. My brief artistic golden age.”
He lifted his head. “Brian? He’s the filthy fuckhead ex, isn’t he?”
Vivi went very still on top of him. “Ah…what if he is?”
“Brian Wilder, right?” he said slowly. “Wilder Galleries. In Soho.”
She was shocked. “How in the holy hell do you know that?”
“It’s the age of information,” he said, innocently. “Shouldn’t be hard to find out where the prick lives.”
“You wouldn’t!” She felt panicked, as if that poisonous toxic waste from her past could contaminate this delicate, shining thing she had with Jack. “Don’t you dare! Leave him alone! Promise me!”
He stroked her back. “Shhh. Don’t worry about it.”
She hissed at him, anything but reassured. “If you mess with Brian, I’ll take you apart! I will deconstruct you and sell you for scrap!”
He pressed her ass, pulsing his cock inside her. Reminding her he was the man, no doubt. Hah. “I hear you,” he soothed. “So the fuckhead started selling your work, and then? What kind of work was it?”
“I met him during my barbed-wire and broken-beer-bottle period.”
His eyes widened. “Your what?”
“I was rebellious, at the time,” she explained. “I felt put upon because of my tragic childhood, I was mad at my birth mother for going to jail and killing herself, mad at Lucia for trying to control me, et cetera, et cetera. And I was drinking way too much espresso. I put it all into my work.”
“I see.” His voice was guarded.
“Anyway, Brian discovered me, you might say,” she went on. “Decided to clean me up, make me marketable.”
“And you got involved?” He cupped her breast in his hands.
“Yes,” she said, her voice catching breathlessly. “It was a disaster. On every level, not just a personal one.”
“What happened?” He began to rock his pelvis up against her, pressing his pubic bone against her clit in a slow, circular movement.
She pushed against his chest until she was upright, glaring down at him. “Don’t distract me,” she lectured. “You’re cheating!”
His pelvis surged, making her undulate on top of him. “Sorry. You’re so sexy. I forgot myself,” he murmured. “And then?”
“What happened was that he turned out to be an art vampire, in addition to being an evil fuckhead. All he wanted was to make me into his money-grubbing zombie slave.”
“I see,” he said.
“And…well, I couldn’t. I tried to be a zombie slave, but nothing came out. And he got really angry. And…well, you know the rest.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”
He stared up into her flushed face. The deep rocking slide of his cock inside her was impossible to resist. He held her firmly, thrusting up, stirring her around, making her gasp and bite her lip.
“I…I destroyed his office,” she said, breathlessly. “After the last time that he…well, you know. I was so angry. Freaked out. Out of my head. I think I smashed probably fifty thousand dollars’ worth of art.”
“Good.” He thrust harder, jarring a whimper from her throat. “Did he say, ‘You’ll never work in this town again,’ et cetera?”
“Yes,” she said, bleakly.
“And you believed him?”
She braced herself against his chest. “Of course I believed him! It was true! He blacklisted me, Jack! The guy has clout!”
He stopped moving, petted her hair. “Okay,” he murmured. “Sorry.”
“I thought I was finished,” she went on. “Then Rafael stepped in.”
“Who’s this Rafael, anyhow?” Jack frowned. “Another boyfriend?”
“Rafael? Good God, no. Rafael’s just my buddy, and besides, he likes boys.”
“So you drove off with Rafael, and left the whole mess behind you.”
The flat finality of his voice made tension grip her chest. “Hey. Don’t you dare blame me for—”
“I’m not blaming you,” he said quietly. “You did the right thing.”
She was dumbfounded. “You think so?”
He pulled her back down on top of him. “Yeah. I do.”
Vivi relaxed against his solid warmth. His quiet statement soothed something deep inside her. “I think you’re the only person who’s ever said that, except for Rafael,” she said. “Lucia thought I was giving up. My sisters, too. It’s hard to go against everyone’s advice.”
He stroked her back without replying, warm and comforting.
“Poor Lucia,” she murmured. “I was a heartbreak to her. I defied her in every way. From my clothes to all of my ill-fated career choices.”
“Were you one of those girls with spiked hair and safety pins?”
She snorted. “Not quite. I did have thigh-high lace-up black leather boots, though.”
“Wow,” he commented, eyes wide.
“They were the centerpiece of my wardrobe. I wore them with ripped fishnet stockings and a purple velvet miniskirt.”
“My God,” he said, with feeling. He reached down to slide his thumb tenderly into the top of her labia, circling around her clit.
“Do you still have them?” he asked.
She writhed against him, eyes shut. “Have what?”
“The boots.”
Her eyes popped open, and she started to laugh. “I don’t think so,” she said. “Maybe in a box, in Lucia’s attic. It was a long time ago.”
“Oh.” He sounded disappointed. She giggled harder. He frowned at her. “What’s so funny?”
“You,” she said. “I thought you would disapprove of my slutty boots. Brian hated them. You surprise me, that’s all.”
“Brian was a sick, evil fuckhead. Don’t compare me to him. Of course I want to see you in those boots. I’m a normal guy, okay?”
“You’re not a normal guy, Jack.”
He kissed her fiercely into silence, and lifted his head some time later, when she was dazzled with lust. “Besides. You’re a fine one to talk about normal. B
arbed wire and broken beer bottles, for God’s sake.”
“Oh, shut up,” she murmured, and kissed him back hungrily.
A moment later, she pried herself up and touched his cheek. “Jack?” she asked, tentatively. “Would you do something for me?”
He froze, eyes guarded. “If I can,” he hedged.
“I want to try something,” she said hesitantly. “I want, um…I want to roll over. And for you to, ah…hold my hands down.”
His face went blank, and he jerked up onto his elbows, rocking her back. His body was rigid. “Why, for fuck’s sake? That’s sick, Viv, after what he…why would you do that to yourself? Or me?”
“Shhh,” she soothed. “Nothing sick about it. I think that it would be okay, with you. Sexy, even. But I can’t know until I try.”
“But I’m the one who feels like dogshit if it doesn’t work out!”
“Please, don’t get mad,” she pleaded. “I just thought…I don’t want all these dead zones and ‘danger, keep out’ signs in my head. I want to feel free. And if anyone in the world could do that for me, it would be you. Believe me. I would never ask such a thing of you if I didn’t trust you.”
Even though you don’t trust me back. She held the thought at bay with difficulty.
He stared into her face for a long time, as if trying to read her mind. “You’re sure about this,” he said, carefully.
She nodded, swallowing hard, and smiled at him.
“And you won’t blame me if—”
“God, no,” she assured him. “Not in the least. I swear.”
In one swift surge, he rolled them both over, pinning her beneath his weight. He folded her legs up high, hooking them over his shoulders, and then grabbed her hands, pinning them beside her head.
He waited, staring fiercely into her face.
She gave him a tremulous smile. “I’m okay,” she whispered.
He leaned down and kissed her deeply, possessively. His tongue thrusting and twining boldly with hers. “Look into my eyes,” he said. “The entire goddamn time. Or else. Got it?”
She nodded. Speechless. Her throat was quivering, and her heart felt full, as she stared into his face, but she wasn’t panicking. No stabs of fear, no numbing black fog. Her heart pounded from excitement, not fear.
He was not gentle. She had not wanted him to be. He took her hard, his body challenging hers, and his face looked angry as he did it; eyes burning, mouth grim. Except that she knew him now. She could feel his concern for her, his tension, his need. His awareness of her.
And she was aware of him, too, on levels she’d never imagined. She sensed that the conquering hero pose excited him, and his excitement fed hers, in a confused feedback loop of emotion, sensation. No playacting. Her surrender was as real as his conquest.
She gasped for breath, jerking up to meet his hard thrusts. Staring with wide, tear-blinded eyes into his face. Struggling voluptuously against the implacable strength of his beautiful body, his steely arms, his gripping hands.
She could go there with him. She could go anyplace she wanted with him, as far as she could dream of going, and know that he would carry her back, completely safe, all in one happy, sated piece.
Afterward, they lay tangled together, limp and damp. They roused themselves at last to take a long, lazy shower, washing each other. Jack’s tireless cock rose to full salute, but Vivi laughed at him.
“Dream on, big boy,” she said. “I’m done for the night.”
He toweled her off, with his usual passionate attention to detail and herded her toward the stairs. “Food, then,” he said, resigned.
They made sandwiches in his kitchen. Devoured the rest of Margaret’s latest batch of cookies. And when they could find nothing else that was quick and easy to eat, they went back up the stairs, and into Jack’s bed, to twine their naked bodies as closely together as they could.
They talked, carefully. Tentative, groping conversations about their pasts, their histories. Circling around forbidden topics.
But she didn’t want dead zones and “danger keep out” signs in their conversations, either. Vivi sat up, pushing his hands away when he reached to pull her close again. “I have a question, Jack.”
“Ask away,” he said, his face hidden in the shadows.
“What happened after the bust?” She let her hair curtain her face.
He took her hand. “We’re having a beautiful time,” he said, his voice halting. “Don’t ruin it by asking me questions like that.”
“I’m not picking a fight,” she said gently. “I just need to know. Did you go to one of your other family members?”
He shook his head. “I couldn’t reach any of them. My mother was in India, meditating with some guru. My aunt had moved on, to some other boyfriend. They hadn’t stayed in touch.”
“So you just took off, all alone?”
“It wasn’t so bad at first. It was summer, and there was fruit and corn to steal. I ate a lot of hot dogs. Became an excellent shoplifter.”
She laughed, incredulous. “You?”
“I was unbeatable. I told you, remember? Fasting makes me crabby.”
He fell silent, then, and she reached out to stroke his shoulder. It was rigid. “And then?”
“I lasted about eight months,” he said. “I found the places where the runaways crashed. But the winter got cold. One night, I was in this flophouse in North Portland. Some guys picked a fight with me. It ended badly.” He touched the scar on his forehead. “That’s where I got this.”
She leaned down, and kissed his eyebrow, his forehead.
“That was it, for me. I found a phone. Called Margaret, collect.”
“Margaret? You mean, you knew her then?”
“Freddy knew her,” he corrected. “From when he was a kid. He’d told me about her. So I gave her a try. The operator asked if she’d take a call from Freddy Kendrick’s nephew. And she accepted the charges.”
“Wow,” she whispered. “So you went to live with her?”
“For a while,” he said. “She was good to me. I joined the military as soon as I was old enough. Didn’t want to be a burden to her.”
She ran her fingers through the sable texture of his hair, and thought about it all. “You think I’m going to be like them, right?” she said. “Like your family? Running out on you?”
He rolled over, clapping his hand over his eyes. “Oh, fuck, Viv. Don’t do this.” He sounded exhausted. “It’s so beautiful. Don’t wreck it for me. Just let it be what it is. Please.”
“But I just want you to—”
“Let me have this, okay?” He sounded angry again. “For however long as it lasts. Can’t we just stay in the moment?”
She hid from the revealing shaft of moonlight that illuminated the quilt as she considered it. There was something to be said for staying in the moment, hard though it was. She was a normal, flesh-and-blood woman. She craved the usual reassurances, promises, declarations of trust, faith. Love. She wasn’t going to get them from him. Period.
But so what? That did not mean that what he gave her instead was not precious. Or that she shouldn’t cherish it anyway.
After all. Suppose they stayed in the moment, for, say, thirty years? Forty? Fifty? Maybe when he was a grizzled old man, he would give in, laugh at himself. Finally admit that it had been love all along.
She slipped back between the sheets and into his hot embrace.
The image made her smile, but her eyes were wet.
Chapter
9
Vivi stepped back from the wall she was painting and surveyed the warm ivory tone with satisfaction. She adjusted an elegant earthenware vase on its stand with her pinkie finger, the only finger with no paint on it, and stood back to admire the effect. Classy.
Her store was shaping up. Her friends were coming in from all over the West Coast to bring her consignments. Stock was pouring in. Just that morning, Betty and Nanette had left an assortment of handblown bottles and stemware. Yesterday, Rockerick
brought leatherwork. Brigid left a pile of jewel-toned handwoven silk shawls and throws. Miraben brought teapots, vases, jugs, dishes. With her own stuff, the shop would be a gallery of wearable, usable art.
The bells over the door tinkled. Jack walked in. A smile spread over her face. His answering grin made her toes curl.
He looked around with his usual reservation. He disapproved of her decision to open the shop. Vociferously
“Looking good,” he said, grudgingly.
Well, my. Unusually positive, for him. She gazed at him, savoring the glow of sensual energy that hummed between them.
“You look incredible,” he said, leaning toward her.
Vivi pulled back. “Let me wash my hands. Paint cramps my style.”
“Hurry,” he said.
Vivi ran to the bathroom and scrubbed paint off her hands. She stripped off her T-shirt and cutoffs, threw her green dress over her head, shook her hair down. They had been lovers for weeks now, and she still got swirling flutters in her stomach when she saw him.
Jack gazed at the snowy bulk of Mount Adams when she emerged. “Great view,” he commented, as she stood on tiptoe to kiss him.
“It’s a great location,” she said. “Ten days, and I’ll be ready for my grand opening. So what brings you here, Jack? I thought you were taking those larkspurs and veronica into Portland today.”
“I did. The truck overheated on the way back. It has a broken fan belt. I left it at the shop.”
“So you’re bumming a ride home? You’re sure you can endure being seen in public in my disreputable van?”
“I’ll wear a Lone Ranger mask,” he said. “There’s a blues concert tonight, at the riverfront park. Want to go dancing?”
“Dancing? Wow! Yes!”
He cupped her head in his hand, kissed her again, and was maneuvering her toward the privacy of the little office in the back. She giggled, and pulled away. They’d gotten up to hours of juicy, delicious mischief back there on her secondhand desk, every time he came to her shop. But not today. “Don’t get any ideas,” she protested. “I have a lot to do before I can fling myself into the abyss of rampant sensuality.”
Tasting Fear Page 48