He noticed everything.
The slight scar on my kneecap. The belly button ring I’d recklessly done on my sixteenth birthday. The way my hipbones were a little too stark for my otherwise svelte frame.
He stayed in front of me.
Which I was glad.
My back was where my secrets lay.
His body locked down as if he enlisted every muscle not to reach for me. The freezing warehouse suddenly became a furnace. Deceit couldn’t exist in the blistering awareness that things weren’t over between us.
They could never be. Not when our souls still belonged to the other.
“Gil...” My heart drummed against my ribcage. “I—”
He bit his lip, shaking his head furiously. Backing away, he rubbed his mouth as if giving himself time to get runaway desire under control. Slowly, difficultly, he shoved away all hints of need, shutting himself down.
With his body rigid, he nudged his chin at my sports bra with its highlighter peach crisscross straps. “I can’t paint you with that on.” He dropped his stare to my black G-string. “Nor that.” Swallowing back the gravel that’d appeared in his throat, he turned and yanked open a drawer on his mixing table. Another packet appeared, this one smaller than the bathrobe but just as new and untouched. “Put this on and take the bra off.”
“Here?”
He crossed his arms, a tortured lash of need vanishing beneath bleak determination. “Do you have a better place in mind?”
When I didn’t answer, he added, “You read my advert. You know what this job entails.”
“I know.”
Tension etched its way across his face. “I made a mistake asking you to come back. Maybe you made a mistake applying for—”
“Why did you change your mind? You didn’t want to do the commission before.”
He froze, every hint of him vanished behind a careful wall. “I don’t need permission to switch.”
“Was it because of the phone call?”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Search for things that don’t exist.”
“You say that as if you’re hiding things you don’t want to be found.”
“You’re right.” His face darkened as a flash of agony highlighted his gaze. “If it was up to me, you wouldn’t be here. You would be as far away from this place as possible.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s—” His lips snapped shut.
He made no effort to enlighten me.
“You’re acting as if you’ve been forced into this.” I cursed the goosebumps dancing over my skin.
He twitched as if I’d struck him. His temper slipped. “Stop it, Olin.”
“Are you in trouble?”
“Enough,” he groaned.
“But—”
“But nothing.” He vibrated with ruthless energy, grasping onto it after splintering before me. “Make your choice. Stay and do what you’re told. Or leave and never come back.”
“If I stay will you talk to me?”
“No.”
“If I go can I see you again?”
He shook his head.
I fell quiet, shooing away the tension that’d sprung from nowhere, hoping he’d be able to do the same. “I want to stay. If you refuse to talk about what we had in the past then I’m happy to begin again.”
His eyes liquefied with pain. For a moment, he struggled to reply. “What we had...it meant nothing.” He flinched as if his own words cut him like fatal swords.
“Why did you leave, Gil?” My voice hugged a whisper, my pain bleeding out without permission.
He looked away, his fists clenching. “I had a reason.”
“Tell me.”
He shook his head again, his temper returning to shield him. “No past. No history. You’re nothing more than a canvas and I’m nothing more than a painter. That’s it. That’s all there can ever be.” The way his voice mixed with merciless misery sent curiosity slashing through me. He harboured something that chewed at him. It lived behind his eyes. It thickened his every breath. It begged me to uncover it.
But...I’d already pushed too far.
I teetered on the edge of falling to my knees and begging for answers or slapping his flawless, heartless face.
I needed time to regroup. To come up with a better plan.
Striding wordlessly toward the stage, I climbed onto the small platform. Turning my back on him, I tugged the robe up and over my shoulders for privacy and, with trembling hands, removed my black G-string. Quickly, I ripped open the packet and traded my underwear for the skin coloured one he’d given me.
The plastic bag and my old G disappeared into the pocket of the robe.
I paused.
I sucked in a breath.
I searched for bravery.
This was it.
No going back.
Gritting my teeth, begging my heart to stop being such a traitorous fool, I spun around, shrugged out of the bathrobe, and tossed it to the side. Not giving myself time to second-guess, I ripped off my sports bra and let it fall.
My hands balled as my nipples pebbled from exposure and nerves. I dared look at Gil, bracing for a sneer or some condescending remark, expecting to be broken into pieces by his frost.
However, his eyes blazed as brilliant and as bright as wildfire. He stood frozen in place. Fists curled, body taut, lips pressed together as if he didn’t trust himself.
Just like before, lust sprang violently between us.
I was no longer cold.
He was no longer pretending.
In that aching, wanting moment, the truth was vibrant as it was vicious.
With a quiet grunt and monumental effort, he tore his gaze away. He stumbled toward his workstation, rubbing his face as if he didn’t have the strength for more torture.
With jerky movements, he dragged the airbrush on its rolling frame toward me, keeping his attention locked on his tools, fiddling with dials and hoses.
I stood bare and vulnerable, waiting, begging him to look at me and let go of whatever held him trapped, but he never did.
He acted as if I had the power to kill him with a single touch, doing his best to keep shields high and decorum fiercely in place.
Without a word, he placed a tray of pre-mixed colours beside the podium. Taking his time, he arranged the supplies until they were neatly rowed by my feet. When he had nothing else to occupy himself with, he sucked in a tattered breath and...looked up.
I clenched my tummy, ready for the ricochet of heat and hurt, but his jaw worked and his eyes remained cold, clinical, totally unaffected that I stood before him in just flesh-coloured knickers and bare breasts.
I breathed harder, my chest rising and falling in invitation.
But he didn’t crack. He’d buried himself deep within discipline. His gaze slipped over my hardened nipples, his tone snowy and detached. “Some painters use pasties.” He followed the curve of my breast. “I don’t as I dislike the way it wrinkles the skin and brings more attention to the area than if they were left bare. Do you have a problem with that?”
He kept his stare resolutely on my flesh, as if my body didn’t hurt him as much as my eyes.
I’d never felt so naked or so vulnerable.
Never been so confused.
I fought the urge to cover myself. “That’s fine.”
“Good.” Swallowing hard, he commanded, “Now...turn around. I need to know what I’m working with.”
Dressed in new goosebumps, I did as he asked.
Secrets or no secrets.
Job or no job.
I couldn’t hide my flaws anymore.
For a moment, there was nothing. Then, an explosive curse. “Holy shit.” His voice slipped from detached to drenched in shock. “O...”
My knees buckled. How could one little letter echo with lifetimes of love?
Tears sprang to my eyes. I gasped as he climbed the podium behind me, and a fingertip traced the torn and tatt
ered flesh of my back. “Wh-what happened?” A delicate question. A dangerous question. His voice was bare of all shields and tempers, annihilated into caring. His touch continued to trace, following the ink on top of scars. “What is this?”
I flinched as his breath skated over the lines and designs down my left side.
Staring at the floor, I murmured, “It’s a tattoo.”
“Why? Why did you not tell me?”
My heart clawed to go to him, recognising the catch in his voice as pain for not knowing. For tossing me to the side without a backward look. For casting me out where accidents had found me instead.
I wanted to tell him everything. I trembled with the pressure. The need to spill it all. The elation of being chosen to work for the London Dance Company. The joy of dancing every day and night. The horror of the moment when it was all taken away. The loneliness of not having anyone to lean on.
But...I had my pride. I had my stupid ego. I didn’t want to give him all of me. Not now, not yet. Some part of him missed me, maybe even still wanted me, but if he wasn’t brave enough to put down the barriers he’d erected, then I wasn’t either.
“I know I should’ve told you yesterday. I wasn’t honest in my interview.”
He tore his hand away, laughing brokenly. “That’s how you want to play this?”
Yes.
No.
I nodded.
Inhaling hard, he clipped, “In that case, as my canvas, I expected you to be in pristine condition.” His voice scratched with sandpaper. “How can I paint you when you’re already scribbled on?”
My chin came up. I’d chosen this path. I would defend it. “It’s not a scribble.”
“What is it?”
“Something very meaningful.” I wanted to twist and look at what he saw. Whenever someone saw my tattoo for the first time, I craved to see it from their point of view. To study it close and appreciate the talent of the artist I’d chosen.
My tattoo wasn’t a vanity thing.
It wasn’t an impulsive dare.
It was needed—to heal my broken pieces. To cover up the mess left behind.
I’d hated those scars. Hated me. Hated life itself.
Without ‘scribbling’ on myself, I doubted I’d be whole enough to go to battle with Gilbert Clark. I would’ve chosen to check out of trying and sink into my mind where I could still dance, still be happy.
His body cast shockwaves of fury and frustration behind me. He touched me again, gingerly, tenderly, tracing the filigree lines and lacework that convened into a large geometric pattern before bleeding into a realism piece of an owl. Imbedded in the owl’s feathers were as many creatures as I could name all starting with O.
For me.
Olin.
I shivered as he touched every blemish I knew well.
Would he understand? Would he see just how pathetic I was?
Back at school, I’d surrounded myself with friends. I’d looked after my fellow students because my parents didn’t look after me. I earned their gratefulness and friendships but they never patched up the holes inside me.
Until Gil had chosen me for his own.
Until he’d traded his secrets for mine and, in return, stole every piece of my heart.
It’d been a month into our tentative relationship.
A month of hurried smiles and hesitant hellos before he used the first nickname.
He’d always said my name was odd. That he didn’t know anyone else called Olin.
I’d said that was a good thing. It meant he would always remember me.
He’d said the letter O was just as unique as my name. Therefore, any animal beginning with O was just as special.
A few days later, he’d passed me my backpack after class. Whispered under his breath so the other kids couldn’t hear—a melodic rasp of secrecy. “Otter, don’t forget your bag.”
The next week, he’d called me owl by the gym, then octopus in the cafeteria.
I’d fallen in love with him after that.
Tumbled and tripped, rolled and cartwheeled, loving him more than I’d loved anybody.
Ocelot, orangutan, ostrich...
They were all there, peeking in the feathers, turning ugly scars into special uniqueness.
Gil sucked in a pained breath, a strangled grunt escaping his lips.
I twisted to look at him, studying the sudden grief painting his eyes and the regret sketching his mouth.
It was enough to make my knees turn week and my arms beg to hold him.
“You used us to cover your scars.” His voice vibrated with something I couldn’t decipher. His eyes snapped shut, a visible cloak of cruelty smothering his features. When he opened his eyes again, he was back to being a blizzard king. “How am I supposed to hide ink and scars, Olin?”
I swallowed hard.
When the accident happened, I’d forgotten who I was.
I’d been alone in the hospital and alone in rehab and alone in the months after with my dreams shattered by my feet.
I’d searched for something to make me feel worthy again—to stop the aching wasteland my chest had become.
I’d turned to Google, searching chat rooms for advice on moving on from severe accidents and tips on how to turn bad into survivable. I’d learned about the miracle of tattoos. From women with breast cancer to men with missing limbs—they all turned to the undeniable superpower of turning grotesque memories into fresh beginnings, and I’d designed the piece myself.
The day I’d scrimped up enough cash to sit the three full days in the tattooist chair was the happiest I’d been since Gil made me his. I’d found myself—my real self—as I embraced the discomfort of needles and pigment, covering the nasty red scars with something pretty.
I loved that piece more than anything.
I refused to let Gil ruin it. “I don’t know, but you can cover it somehow.”
“It marks half your back.”
“It was needed.”
He stopped touching me, stepping from the podium as if everything between us shot him with a thousand arrows. “What happened?”
It was a question free from ice. A question that demanded to know.
I didn’t give him what he wanted.
He stopped below me, his gaze tearing into mine as if he could yank out my memories, desperate to uncover the ones where he hadn’t been there.
His eyes always had the power to bend my will to his.
I’d been weak and totally his to command whenever I’d caught him staring at me as if his love couldn’t be contained.
He wasn’t allowed to look at me like that anymore.
I wasn’t his.
He wasn’t mine.
This is no us.
Yet I was trapped in him. Caged by his vexation and prisoner to so many childhood connections.
He swallowed hard as heat and history prickled between us, hissing with past need and a love that hadn’t had the chance to die. It had been torn in two. Ripped down the middle the moment he’d left, two ends unable to heal because the knots tying us together refused to let go.
“Olin, I—” He winced, his voice sorrowful velvet. “I’m sorry you went through something so painful.”
The genuine dismay on his face reminded me so much of the boy who’d loved me. The boy who’d protected me, walked me home, supported my dancing, and watched me as if I held his moon and stars.
That boy deserved an answer that wasn’t curt or cold.
That boy broke my heart all over again.
His hand shook as he swiped hair from his eyes. “You don’t have to answer. It’s—”
“It’s fine.” I shrugged with a half-smile. “There’s nothing really to tell. Oldest cliché in the book. Just a silly dancer with big dreams.”
“You were never silly.”
“I had my moments.”
He winced. “That doesn’t explain how your back is scarred to shit.”
“It does if I was dancing at all hours and didn’t have a c
ar to get to and from the theatre.”
“What happened?” He cocked his head. “Do you...can you still dance?”
Ouch.
I wasn’t successful in hiding my flinch, skirting away from the painful memories. Holding my head high and embracing my flaws, I no longer worried my scars were on display. I painted myself in the fake confidence that came from dancing in front of hundreds of people.
The stage, bright lights, and pantomime granted no room for error. That world was a dangerous place for someone with no confidence. This chilly warehouse was no different.
I was on a stage.
Gil was my spotlight.
I merely had to dance this dance until the curtain fell.
“I was overtired, overworked, underpaid, but in love with dance. You know how I was.”
He made a sound under his breath. “Addicted. You were addicted to any form of movement.”
My heart did a cabriole, ridiculously happy that he remembered.
He rolled his eyes, his voice doing its best to be dark and disinterested but his green eyes gleamed with history. “You never just walked, you—”
“Floated like a leaf in the breeze.” I smiled, a true smile tugging after guarding myself from him. “You told me that the day I cooked you—”
“Pancakes in your parents’ kitchen.”
His gaze snagged mine.
I sucked in a breath.
He swallowed a curse.
Something that shouldn’t have happened cut through our protection, cracking open the hard shells of two adults pretending to loathe one another.
“Go on.” He crossed his arms, moving away from me as if to give himself space from the overwhelming need to touch. To remember. To say a proper hello after so, so long apart. “Tell me the rest.”
I shrugged again, fighting the urge to hug my breasts, my confidence gone again. “I biked to the theatre and home all the time. That night, though, tiredness made me sluggish. A drunk driver took a corner too fast, and I didn’t get out of the way in time. She hit me. I ended up on the windshield of her Mazda Demio as she drove us through the window of a French restaurant.” I sighed as memories of hospitals and operations and being told my aspirations of dancing for a living were over.
I was lucky if I’d ever walk normally again, let alone twist or fly.
The Body Painter (Master of Trickery Book 1) Page 5