Rush

by Samantha Towle

  I lower my bag to the floor, leaning it against the chair beside me.

  God, I’m so nervous that my insides are shaking, but I’m trying to exude calmness on the outside. I’m not sure if I’m pulling it off though.

  “Thank you for seeing me,” I tell her.

  “Oh, no problem at all.” She waves me off. “Declan was raving about your paintings, and he had me keen to see them. Only, I said to him, ‘If this girl is so good, then why the hell didn’t you tell me about her before?’” She laughs, and I do, too. “Men, eh?” she adds, and I agree.

  “Well, I’m just glad I bumped into him,” I tell Moira.

  She smiles and nods. “Come on then, let’s not waste any more time; show me these paintings of yours.”

  I swallow hard as I reach for my bag. I move it in front of me, leaning it against her desk, and open the zipper on the bag.

  Moira comes from behind the desk to stand next to me.

  “I only brought two paintings with me,” I tell her. “I don’t have a car at the moment, and they’re pretty heavy to carry.”

  I lift the first painting from the bag, and I hear her take in a sharp breath.

  Shit. She hates it.

  It’s the one of Ares and me.

  I glance up at her and start to tell her that the other painting is much different than this, if this one isn’t to her taste, but the look on her face tells me that she doesn’t actually hate it.

  “Can I?” She reaches for the painting.

  “Of course.” I hand it to her.

  She moves across the room with it, sitting it on an empty easel, and then stands back, looking at it.

  I move to stand beside her.

  “Jesus, Ari…this is good. Really good.” She glances at me. “I thought Declan was exaggerating about your talent, but…” She reaches out a hand, a finger tracing the painting without touching. “The lines here, the detail…I can feel the absolute passion in this picture.”

  I feel a lump rise in my throat. “Thank you,” I tell her.

  “I’m guessing this is from memory and not a still life?” She looks at me again, a grin in her eyes.

  “It’s from memory.”

  “It’s personal to you though, yes?”

  “Yes,” I exhale.

  “And how would you feel, showing this? I know all art is personal, but this one runs deep; I can tell,” she says, finger moving over the painting again.

  “I…it…well, I would show it, but…it belongs to someone else,” I hear myself saying. Like my heart.

  I didn’t realize it until this moment. I’d thought I could part with this painting. But I can’t. Not to her. It belongs to Ares.

  Whether he still wants it or not, it’s his to do with as he wants.

  Because he gave this back to me. It was him who gave me back the ability to paint. The inspiration I needed. And I owe him for that.

  Jesus, I miss him.

  I feel my throat thicken with tears. Christ, not here. Pull it together, Ari.

  Moira turns to face me and stares at me. “If I told you that I wanted this painting in my gallery, what would you say?”

  I swallow past the thickness. “I’d say that I would want to have my paintings in your gallery more than anything. But I can’t give you this painting.”

  “Why did you bring it today then?”

  “Because…I thought I could.”

  She’s thoughtfully staring at me. “You love the man in this painting.”

  It’s not a question. But, still, I answer, “Yes.”

  “I loved a man once, too. Total asshole. I hope your man isn’t an asshole.”

  Laughter slips past my lips. “He can be.” Not that he’s mine anymore.

  She laughs, too. “Aren’t they all at times? But it’s whether they recognize they’ve been an ass and stop being one or they don’t care and carry on regardless. Mine was the latter.”

  Mine is the former.

  She smiles brightly at me. “Okay then. Show me this other painting you’ve brought with you, and let’s see if it’s equally as good as this one.”

  Moira loved the other painting I’d brought to show her. It was a slightly abstract portrait of a beautiful woman. Totally different than the painting of Ares and me.

  The woman in the picture wasn’t inspired from anyone I’d seen. It was just straight from the heart. A recent painting from only days ago.

  The woman is alive with color, but her eyes are closed. The expression on her face is wistful, achingly sad, and the abstract portrays her feeling of utter loneliness.

  Yes, I’m fully aware of the fact that the woman in the painting represents my feelings right now.

  But that’s art. It’s a reflection of our innermost desires, wants, needs, and feelings. It’s emotional and messy. Just like life.

  And Moira loved it.

  She said she loved the contrast in my ability to paint, and she offered me a showing on the spot. And get this: she had an opening for someone to work sales on the gallery floor, and she asked if I would be interested in the job.

  I was like, “Hell yes!”

  When I walked out of the gallery, the first person I wanted to tell was Ares.

  Then, I remembered.

  I stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do.

  But I wanted to tell someone, so I called my dad and told him the good news.

  He was really happy for me. He asked me if I wanted to come home to celebrate, and I accepted.

  It’s not like I have anyone else to celebrate with.

  So, I’m in a cab on my way to my dad’s.

  But, first, I’ve got a stop to make.

  There’s something I need to do.

  I get out of the cab outside of The New York Giants headquarters and training facility after paying the driver the fare. I decide not to ask him to wait while I go inside, instead deciding I’ll call for another cab to take me to my dad’s.

  I hold the painting under my arm. It’s wrapped in bubble wrap to protect it and covered in brown paper. I went home first, after leaving the gallery, before heading here, so I could wrap it. I didn’t want it on display for everyone to see.

  It’s late in the day but still light out. I wave at Josh, the night guard, and make my way inside. Because it’s after hours, the main door is locked, so I have to input the key code to get in.

  The building is eerily silent, as it usually is at this time of night. I’d be surprised if anyone was actually here. Thank God all the lights are still on; otherwise, I’d turn around and walk straight back out.

  I’m not exactly brave.

  Case in point: the fact that I’m here to leave the painting in the locker room for Ares and not take it to his apartment.

  I walk to the locker room, my heels echoing loudly against the floor. When I reach the locker room, I push through the door. The light is still on in here, too. I step inside, letting the door close behind me.

  I walk over to Ares’s station and stand the painting on the floor, leaning it against the bench, where his cleats sit.

  I just stand here for a time, staring at his team shirts hanging there, emotion overwhelming me, remembering the exact moment I met him.

  In here. Me, half-naked, soaking wet, and bent over in this very spot.

  So much has changed since then.

  He hated me. He loved me. He didn’t trust me.

  I step forward, closer to his hanging clothes, and his scent washes over me, like the breeze on a warm summer day, making me ache for him. Eliciting memories so wonderful that, in this moment, it’s hard to remember why we aren’t together anymore.

  I hear a door bang behind me. I turn, and he’s there.

  Ares.

  Standing in front of the door to the showers. Hair wet, beads of water running down his chest. He’s still sporting stubble, which is well on its way to a beard. Eyes dark, like sleeping hasn’t been easy for him. A towel tied around his waist.

  He looks so beautiful tha
t it hurts.

  It’s been just under a week since I last saw him, and yet, right now, it feels like it’s been years.

  Longing so fierce jolts through me, making me want to go to him.

  But I can’t.

  So, I dig my toes into my shoes, staying where I am.

  “Hi,” he says softly, looking sad and unsure, all at the same time.

  “Hi.” I smile, but it feels sad on my lips. “I didn’t know anyone was here,” I tell him.

  “I stayed to do a workout. I just finished up and had a shower. Obviously,” he says with a nod down at his towel, mocking himself.

  There’s a beat of silence between us. Silence that once upon a time ago would never have been there.

  “How…have you been?” he asks quietly.

  “I’m…okay. You?”

  He lifts a shoulder. “I…” His eyes close, and he lets out a breath, so achingly somber, it makes me want to cry. His gaze comes to mine. “Full disclosure?”

  I bite my lip and nod.

  “Not good. I…miss you.”

  How I don’t cry in this moment, I’ll never know. I wrap my arms around myself. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s my fault. I’m the one who messed up and lost the best person I’ve ever met and the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

  My lips tremble, and a tear falls from the corner of my eye. I brush it away with my hand.

  This is killing me. Just like I knew it would if I saw him again.

  I don’t want to see him in pain. I love him. I hate not being with him.

  And seeing him hurting is hurting me.

  But I don’t know how to get past what happened. Him not trusting me.

  I see his eyes go behind me.

  “Is that…” He steps forward. “Is that for me?”

  I nod, biting my lip.

  He walks over, close to me, and his nearness overwhelms me. He smells like everything I’ve missed.

  “Can I…” He looks at me, gesturing to the painting.

  “Of course.”

  I watch in silence as he picks it up and carefully tears the paper from the painting. He places it on the bench next to his cleats. Then, he slides his thick finger under the tape that’s holding the bubble wrap together and removes it.

  He drops the bubble wrap where the disregarded paper sits. Then, he holds the painting up and stares at it.

  I watch him and see his throat work on a swallow.

  When he lifts his eyes to mine, the raw emotion almost brings me to my knees. Tears prick my eyes again, and I bite the inside of my cheek to stop them from falling.

  “You finished it?” he says softly.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s beautiful, Ari. Really beautiful. Thank you so much for letting me have it. For bringing it here for me.”

  “I…I said that you could have it when…and I wasn’t sure if you would still want it…but I promised, so…”

  “No, I want it.” He stares down at it again. “It’s amazing.”

  “I got a job,” I hear myself saying. “At a gallery. Working the floor. But she wants to showcase my work for me as well.”

  “Ari…that’s amazing. I’m really happy for you.” And he sounds like he genuinely is.

  “It was because of this painting that I got the showcase,” I tell him.

  I know Moira really liked my other painting, but it was this one that really caught her eye, showing her what I’m capable of.

  “I…I started painting again because of you. And I wanted to thank you for that.”

  He swallows roughly. “You don’t have to thank me. It was always inside of you, Ari. I…being with me just gave you the push to do it.”

  “You inspired me.”

  “You inspire me every single fucking day.”

  He puts the painting down, propping it against the bench, and walks close to me, making me tremble. He cups his hands around my face, tilting it back, so I’m looking up at him.

  The feel of his hands on my skin is like fire…like the fire blazing in his eyes.

  “I’m sorry I let you down. I’m sorry I let my past shit blind me. I was just so…scared you’d hurt me…like he used to, that I ignored everything I already knew about you and jumped to the worst conclusion. I hate myself for what happened to you. I hate that I wasn’t there to protect you from that motherfucker. But I never, not once in all that time, didn’t trust you. I let my old habits of expecting the worst take over, and seeing the video confirmed my worst fears. And I was wrong. So fucking wrong, and I will be forever sorry.

  “But I’m human, Ari. I made a mistake. A colossal mistake. But it wasn’t because I didn’t love you. It’s because I love you so fucking much. I can’t breathe without you. I always knew what it was like to be needed by my kid brother and sister, even my fucking dad, but I didn’t know what it was like to need someone, and I fucking need you, Ari…so much.”

  “I…” I don’t know what to say. I know what my heart wants me to say.

  I know he messed up and hurt me badly, but he knows this. He’s apologized for this. He’s hurting for his actions.

  And I’m only hurting us both by not giving him a second chance.

  Because I miss him so fucking much.

  “One chance, Ares. You screw up again, and we’re done—”

  I don’t get to finish that sentence because his mouth slams down on mine, kissing me like a man starved. And I’m equally as hungry for him.

  It’s been too long since he kissed me.

  “I won’t screw up again,” he breathes against my lips. “I swear.”

  And I believe him.

  He kisses me again. Rougher this time and with more desperation. Teeth nipping at my lips.

  My hands slide into his hair, tugging him even closer, and he comes willingly.

  I’m on fire. My whole body burning with need for him.

  Big hands slide down my back and over my ass, gripping hold of my dress. He lifts it up.

  We part, so he can pull it off over my head. Then, our lips fuse back together.

  “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says, a hand cupping my cheek, angling my head so that he can kiss me deeper. Tongue plunging into my mouth.

  I give his towel a quick pull, and it drops to the floor.

  I’m quickly divested of my bra and panties.

  Then, he lifts me off the floor, my ass in his big hands, my legs around his waist, my arms looped around his shoulders. He moves us over to the wall. My back is pressed up against the cold wall, but I can barely feel it.

  All I can feel is him.

  Ares lines his cock up with my entrance, and slowly, he pushes inside.

  When he’s buried deep inside me, he softly kisses me. “I love you,” he tells me.

  “I love you, too,” I whisper, my eyes staring into his. “But don’t ever hurt me like that again.”

  He presses his forehead to mine, eyes staring straight into mine. “Never. The only thing I plan on doing from now on is loving you.”

  And he does.

  He loves me against that wall in the locker room until both of us are coming fiercely.

  After Ares and I made up, he put me and his new painting in his truck and drove me to my dad’s.

  He came inside with me but left the painting in his truck, as we’d agreed that wasn’t a painting my dad needed to see.

  When my dad opened the door to us, Ares holding my hand tight, like he was afraid of losing me again, my dad didn’t say anything about it. Just gave me a knowing smile that told me he had been expecting it all along.

  Then, he invited us both inside.

  We ordered pizza and celebrated my new job at the gallery with sparkling orange juice.

  I’m off Diet Coke nowadays.

  After dinner, my dad got the playing cards out. That’s what we’re doing now, sitting in the dining room, playing poker, and I’m kicking both their asses.

  I’m with my two favorite men. I hav
e a new job and a gallery showing. Life couldn’t be better than it is right now.

  “Do either of you want some ice cream?” my dad asks, rising from his chair after I won the last game.

  “I’m down for ice cream,” Ares says.

  “You just ate a whole pizza,” I say.

  “It was a pizza and a half,” he informs me with a grin. “And your point is?”

  Laughing, I shake my head at him. “Pig.” Then, I ask my dad, “What do you have?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll go have a look,” he says, going to the kitchen, and I get up to follow him.

  “I’ll have whatever you’re having, babe,” Ares tells me.

  “Makes sense. Pigs will eat anything,” I tease.

  He grabs me around the waist, yanking me to him. “I’ll eat you if you keep up with the cheek, and I highly doubt you want me going down on you on your dad’s dining room table.”

  A shiver runs through me. I cup my hand around his chin, the stubble pricking my palm. “No. But you can do it to me on your dining table when you take me back to your place after here.”

  His eyes go molten. “You can bet on it.”

  I plant a chaste kiss on his lips and then pull away. He smacks my ass as I go.

  I walk into the kitchen, and my dad is looking in the freezer, his right hand on the open door. I notice his hand is cut up on the knuckles.

  “Hey, what happened here?” I say, walking over and taking hold of his hand.

  How did I not spot this before?

  Because he was holding his cards with his left hand.

  And my dad is right-handed.

  “Oh.” He pulls his hand back, eyes moving away from me. “Nothing. Just scuffed it. Can’t even remember how.”

  Huh?

  I stare at him, wondering how the heck he forgot how he had done it. If I had grazes like that on my hand, I’d be crying over it for days. And it doesn’t exactly look like an old wound.

  “Did you clean it up?” I ask him, knowing what he’s like.

  “Of course I did.”

  “Good. Well…be careful in the future.”

  Taking over from my dad, I rifle through, getting to the ice cream. He has vanilla and mint chocolate chip.

  “What do you fancy?” I ask him.

  “Mint chocolate chip.”