“Yeah, me too.” Bizarre how life worked and intertwined. I placed my hand on the door handle. However, a question niggled at the back of my mind. “I didn’t know you guys were such good friends to work together. I thought you were practically enemies, actually.”
Because of me.
Justin lounged against the roller, crossing his arms with a chuckle. “Yeah, he was pissed that we dated. But that’s in the past. And we don’t technically work together. I check in on him now and again. We bumped into each other a year ago and kinda stayed in touch.”
“That’s nice.”
“Strange really, seeing as you’re right. We didn’t talk much at school. He’s talented, though. And that’s what I respect. Even if he is a prick most of the time.”
My heart squeezed, remembering a younger Gil.
He’d never been a prick to me.
Until he was.
“You’ve seen his YouTube channel?” Justin asked, his eyes lingering on me.
I exhaled in a rush. “Yes. I researched him after I saw the ad. I didn’t know it was him though, thanks to the hood.”
“Bet you wouldn’t have come for the interview if you’d known.” His gaze travelled to the office where Gil had disappeared into.
“Oh, I don’t know. I’m a sucker for pain.”
And I’ve been searching for him ever since he vanished.
Justin laughed gently. “You certainly riled him up tonight.”
“Seems just my presence has that power these days.” Awkwardness fell, signalling an end to our weird conversation. “Anyway...I better be—”
“Going. Sure. Sorry.” He opened the exit for me. “Guess I’ll see ya ’round, O.”
“I guess.” I smiled again and stepped into the chilly darkness.
“Wait!” The loud bark wrenched my head around as Gil jogged from his office. His phone remained clutched in his fist, but the call had ended.
“What’s up?” Justin asked.
Gil ignored him, not stopping until he was within touching distance to me. Stress lines decorated his face. A heaviness that wasn’t there before lurked in the depths of his eyes, and a barely restrained violence etched his jaw.
He looked defeated.
He looked dangerous.
Instinct ordered me to back away, but I held my ground.
He breathed hard, the bruise on his jaw and cut lip demanding care as he held up his hand, a silent request for me to stay. “Be here. Tomorrow. Nine a.m. sharp.”
I blinked. “What?”
“You heard me. I’ve changed my mind. I’ll do the commission, but I’m running out of time. Be here first thing. I don’t know when we’ll be done. Depends if I like my concept or not and how long it takes to paint you.”
“So...you’re giving me the job?”
“You’ve got work for the next couple of days.” He gritted his teeth as if he already struggled with the idea. “We’ll discuss any repeats after.”
“Not exactly reliable employment.”
“Take it or leave it.” He crossed his arms gingerly, pain flashed across his features.
My stomach rumbled embarrassingly, reminding me that no money equalled no food, and my heartache was worthless.
For a second, I deliberated disclosing the parts of me that might make me a less than ideal canvas. But this job wasn’t given freely; I would keep my secrets until tomorrow.
Holding out my hand for him to shake, I said softly, “I’ll take it.”
For the longest second, Gil just stared at my hand. He didn’t uncross his arms, making nerves thread their way down my spine. He looked trapped between fear and want.
Justin cleared his throat; Gil rushed to capture my offered palm.
The moment his touch met mine, it was as if seven years had vanished and we were hidden behind the school gym, tucked together in the dusk, our bodies aching, our limbs shaking, our hearts gasping to be brave.
I bit my lip as Gil stiffened, squeezing my fingers until they throbbed. He clutched me as if he wanted to brand me. As if he tasted the past and buckled beneath the memories.
Memories of what we’d once shared.
The openness.
The hope.
The beginning of something so much bigger than us.
Us.
There had once been an incredible us.
A blistering connection between a privileged girl and a poor boy who weren’t from the same existence.
That same power—the force of forever and belonging—burned with a ferocity that turned my insides to ash and heart to flame.
Full-blown star-crossed temptation.
His fingers switched from squeezing to quaking.
I froze as desire bled from my palm and wrapped tendrils around his wrist, binding him to me, wishing I could keep him this time.
His skin was cold.
Icy as a ghost.
Yet he hadn’t always been that way.
There’d been a time when his skin had been as warm as the sunshine in the park where we’d sneak after school. Where his touch sent wings of joy through me instead of clouds of dread.
The sensation of unfinished business and complicated truths made pain manifest.
I couldn’t bear it.
I tore my hand from his, shoving it deep into my jacket pocket. He must’ve felt the same agonising bolt as he ripped his fingers away, wiped them on his jeans, and raked them through his unruly hair.
Justin’s eyes bored into me, then into Gil; his forehead furrowed as if he could taste whatever we’d conjured.
Awkwardness settled.
A strange kind of embarrassment and fear.
“Tomorrow.” Gil nodded curtly, gave Justin a sour look, then turned and stalked back into the shadows.
The shadows that had claimed him for their own.
Chapter Four
______________________________
Olin
-The Present-
“YOU’RE LATE.”
I closed the door to Gil’s warehouse, searching for where his voice had come from. Around the trestle tables and paint splatters, over the props and cupboards.
The moment I found him, my sleepless night and tangled heart punched me in the chest. My hands turned cold, my breath became shallow, my entire body switched to high alert.
He stood beside a table full of equipment and paint, all prepared for a long day creating art. His body was stiff and unyielding, like a king accepting homage or a prisoner braced for punishment.
“I’m not late. It’s precisely nine a.m.”
He kept his eyes unreadable as I moved toward him, my messenger bag with my packed cucumber sandwich and apple juice swinging against my black leggings.
I’d worn dance-clothes again. Lightweight and easy to remove with a sports bra underneath—not that I’d be allowed to keep the bra.
I’d seen how body painters worked. Skin was the canvas, not fabric.
He backed away as I went to him, his eyes skating over me. “That’s why you’re late. I wanted to start work at nine.”
I didn’t let his coldness hurt me. The rush of what’d happened between us last night gave me courage. I’d learned how to cope after he’d abandoned me when we were younger. It’d been a lesson I didn’t want to learn—the hardest lesson—but I’d mastered it regardless. The strength it took to survive his indifferent, uncaring face was built brick by brick.
That skill turned steely in its determination not to let him push me away a second time.
I arched my chin. “Well, you should’ve asked me to arrive earlier so we had time to prep.”
He bristled as I shrugged off my bag and placed it on his table of tricks before slipping off my jacket. The warehouse wasn’t exactly chilly, but it wasn’t warm either. The advert had been honest about not being affected by the cold being a requirement.
He swallowed hard, jerking his gaze from my chest. “I suggest you don’t answer back to your boss, especially seeing as you’ve been employe
d for less than two minutes.”
“Yes, about that.” I ran my fingers over the tops of rainbow paint bottles, pleased that he seemed affected by me. “Do you need me to sign a contract?”
“No.” He turned to an air gun, fiddling with dials and checking narrow hoses. His jeans looked like he’d already been painting with splotches and splashes of colour. His grey T-shirt had the same graffiti appearance—obviously his uniform when working.
“What about payment?” I asked as bravely as I dared.
“You’ll get cash at the end.”
“But what about taxes?”
“What about them?”
“Um, death and taxes? The two terrors you can always rely on.”
“You’re saying you’re flush with coin and happy to give some away?”
I shook my head. “I’m saying, I have no choice.”
Just like I have no choice how I feel about you.
He gave me a weighty look. A look that spoke of history and hardships but remained professional and distant. “Cash in hand. That’s the deal.”
“Ah, so it’s you who doesn’t want to pay taxes.” I smiled, doing my best to earn a reaction.
He scowled. “I pay my way.” A flicker of regret before he clipped callously, “But you’re temporary, and I can’t be assed with the paperwork.”
Ouch.
It seemed he was better at this game than me.
My energy deflated, accepting today wasn’t going to be easy.
It’s probably going to be the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
I nodded. “Cash works.”
“Course cash works.” He dropped his voice like he used to while discussing his shitty living situation when he was a kid. “Least cash will pay your rent.”
My heart hiccupped.
He was a master at making me want to hate him, but beneath that stony façade was a gentle, giving soul.
I know it.
I know he can’t have changed so much.
I didn’t know if my prior history with Gil was a blessing or a curse. If we’d been complete strangers, I would’ve chalked his attitude up to being a surly boss with temper issues. But because he’d shared his secrets with me, because he’d trusted me over anyone, because he’d let me see him vulnerable and sweet, I knew homelessness was a very real threat to the younger Gil and most likely tainted the older one’s outlook as well.
He might be a famous body painter, but apart from the tools of his trade, he had no luxury within his warehouse. No expensive art or designer furniture. The space was barren and untended.
Yet another by-product of living in a condemned building with a father into illegal practices? Or a personal choice by staying sterile and alone?
My shoulders rounded, weighed down by questions I couldn’t ask.
He sighed heavily.
I caught his eye and suffered a racing heart.
His lips twisted in the smallest of smiles. A smile I barely caught before it was smothered beneath grim frostbite.
Could he read me as well as he could read me in our youth? Could he see my struggle not to demand answers and the very real threat of launching myself into his arms and kissing him?
If he could read me, he didn’t show it.
And I definitely couldn’t read him anymore.
He sighed again as if he second-guessed everything about us.
Us.
Could there still be...us?
“Come. I’ll show you where the bathroom is. I need to work.”
I crossed my arms over my pink top and followed him. His long legs chewed up the distance far quicker than my shorter ones.
His back rippled beneath the paint-splattered grey T-shirt. His body tense and untouchable. Even though I would treat this arrangement with professionalism and the appropriate employee submission to her boss, I couldn’t stop my insides waking up from its self-imposed hibernation.
I’d had other boyfriends since Justin. I’d been with one guy for a year before my accident. I’d had a couple of flings, doing my best to patch up a ruined heart, but Gilbert Clark had always been the one who got away.
The boy I’d never forgotten.
God, please stop.
Stop making me hurt.
Slowing to a halt, Gil waved at a small room next to his office. “In there. Don’t be long.” He wiped his mouth, dropping his gaze to the floor. “Strip, put on a bathrobe, and return.”
Not waiting around, he stalked back to his workstation before I could agree.
I watched him.
I missed him.
Get a grip.
Tearing my eyes away, I entered the bathroom and found a much larger space than I’d anticipated. The shower held streaks of paint from others washing off Gil’s artwork. The double vanity held an array of cotton swabs and towelettes to do the same. To erase hours’ worth of detail and perfectionism.
After watching his YouTube videos, it seemed wrong that this was the place where his creations went to die. A miserable death for so many outstanding pieces.
One of my favourites he’d done—black-hooded and face-obscured—had been on two women pressed together into one, their arms folded in such a way that their human forms became a hummingbird.
Thanks to Gil’s technique with metallic and shadow, their skin transformed into iridescent feathers, shimmering with precision.
How did he stand it?
How did he spend so long making something come to life only to take a few photos then flush it down the drain?
My reflection mocked me as I moved toward the vanity and grabbed my shoulder-length dark blonde hair. Twisting it into a rope, I made a bun at the base of my neck and secured it with an elastic from around my wrist.
Once my hair was tamed, I searched the walls for a bathrobe.
No hooks. No robes.
Where is it?
My eyes danced around the white-tiled space until they came to rest on a pile of plastic-wrapped garments in the corner. I’d expected a bathrobe—as in singular. Something hanging on the bathroom door.
I should’ve guessed Gil had multiple canvases to paint. Therefore, he’d need multiple bathrobes. Judging by the pile of them, he ordered in bulk.
Sighing heavily, hurting all over again, I grabbed the top package, ripped open the plastic, and shook out a mothball smelling garment.
I stripped from my leggings and top, leaving my black G-string and sports bra on.
Slipping into the robe, I gave my reflection a shrug, then headed back out to the warehouse where scents of fresh paint, thinner, and citrus danced in the air. The smell grew stronger as I moved toward Gil.
He had his back to me as he mixed something, his head tilted to study what his hands were doing. His left arm looked no different than his right today, even though a bruise still marked his jaw.
Stopping by his side, I asked gently, “Who hurt you yesterday?”
He stiffened. “No one.”
“It was someone.”
Placing the paint bottles onto the mixing table, he turned to face me. For the first time, he studied me. Truly studied me.
And I wanted to run back to the bathroom and slip into three more robes for protection. His harsh eyes stripped me as if he had full access to my depressing, unaspiring life. As if he could see my mistakes, my hiccups, my failures.
Deep in his gaze lurked remnants of the boy I’d loved. A silent apology. A wish for more. That damn connection that refused to be ignored.
But he cleared his throat and shoved such softness away. Cupping his jaw, he cocked his head and moved around me with meticulous slowness.
Somehow, I knew he’d abandoned the realm of humanity and became as brutal and as beautiful as a weapon. A weapon that slashed with paint, murdered with colour, and no longer saw me as a person.
I was just a blank canvas.
A colourless piece of paper, ready for his art. “Take off the robe.”
I shivered.
My muscles seized. My belly fl
opped. I struggled with prim propriety and the curse of starving lust.
His presence seemed to magnify. His citrusy scent drugged me.
He groaned under his breath when I didn’t obey, sounding as confused and as hungry as I felt. Clearing his throat, he grumbled in a strictly controlled voice. “Off, Olin.”
Commands a lover would make.
Instructions delivered with hail.
I shivered again from the use of my name.
It drenched me in memories of adolescent moments. Of simpler times. Of excruciating times. Where a crush had the power to erase the world and forsake all others. Where affection had the magic to make you believe in fairy-tales.
He cursed something I didn’t catch. Marching away, he dragged both hands through his hair while glowering at the ceiling. For a moment, it looked as if he’d rather throw himself off a cliff than return to me, but then his hands fell from his hair, his back straightened, he retraced his steps to stop beside me.
His voice was brittle with tightly reined temper. “Look, if you’ve gone shy, then leave. It’s best you go. I don’t know what I was thinking, asking you to come back.” His green gaze shot to the door, his shoulders tensing. “I...this was a mistake. You need to—”
“No.” Taking a deep breath, I undid the belt and wriggled out of the comfy warmth. “I want to stay.” Letting the robe hang off my wrists, it cascaded down the back of my thighs.
My stomach quivered as Gil’s eyes stayed resolutely on mine.
He didn’t look.
Didn’t devour.
We stood at an impasse.
Me desperate for him to want me.
Him desperate to show no signs of caring.
His jaw clenched as he arched an eyebrow, settling his features into cool indifference.
I wasn’t half-naked before him for the very first time. I was merely a piece of parchment stretched on a wooden frame.
“You really should have left.” His voice became tumbling rocks, heavy and threatening.
“I need the money.”
“Some things are worth more than money.” His veneer cracked a little. His jaw twitched. Bracing himself, he dropped his gaze from my eyes to my chin, to my collarbone, breasts, belly, thighs, and toes.
The Body Painter (Master of Trickery Book 1) Page 4