The Artist's Provocateur

by Fine, L. J.

  "Oh, I see. White lies like, telling someone you have plans with, that you have a headache, when you really feel fine just so you can get out of leaving your house? That sort of thing?"

  "Sure," she said eyeing him warily. Obviously, this wasn't a foreign concept to him, so where was he going with this?

  "Or maybe," he squinted as though trying to remember a good one, "oh, I don't know, telling your boyfriend that you'd let him see your art just to shut him up, when you really had no intention of doing so?"

  Ah, there it was. "I wasn't lying to you or putting you off. I haven't exactly had the time to show you since I told you I would, now, have I?"

  "What's wrong with right now?"

  "Are you serious?" she laughed. "It's after 3am."

  "You got somewhere to be once daylight hits?"

  "No, but –"

  "No buts," he interrupted, playfully slapping her ass. "Except yours, getting out of this bed, to keep your promise."

  Scowling at him, she rubbed the sting on her ass. That scowl transformed into what she knew could only be described as a look of appreciation when he got out of bed and dragged his black pants up over his lean hips. He caught her staring when he turned to face her and gave her a scowl of his own.

  "I know I'm sexy as fuck, but quit staring at my ass and get up," he said nudging the bed with his knee as he fastened his belt buckle, shaking the mattress.

  She rolled her eyes as she clutched the sheet to her chest and rolled over to pluck her discarded negligee up off the floor and pull it on. "You're so modest, too."

  Tugging his t-shirt over his head, he grinned. "I never claimed to be humble, darlin', just honest."

  "Sure, sure." She grabbed a fresh pair of panties, some leggings and an oversized sweater, and headed for the bathroom. "I'll be right back. Then I'll show you my garage art."

  She could practically see the smartass comment hovering over his lips. Whether it had to do with her less-than-flattering reference to her art, or her need to change in the bathroom instead of in front of him, she didn't know. She was grateful he kept his mouth shut as she closed the bathroom door behind her. The few minutes alone in the bathroom gave her some time to gather herself.

  Once she donned her clothes, she pulled her long, just-fucked hair up into a messy bun. Running her hands over her face, she stared at her reflection for a few beats. The natural rosiness of her red-headed complexion seemed more intense and her eyes a little wild. Some of it could be attributed to the vigorous activity she'd just engaged in, but at this point, nerves caused a good bit of it, too.

  This would be the first time another human being would see her art in its entirety. Not even her family had seen it all. For as long as she could remember, she had always been an intensely private person. It wasn't that she necessarily feared rejection or criticism, more that some things she did only for herself. Things that she poured her heart and soul into for the release it gave her, not to be seen by outside eyes. Some of the emotions she'd unleashed onto the canvas over the years were ugly and raw and intense. Not all of it turned out to be beautiful reflections of the soul. Some had grit and could appear unpleasant to the casual observer, and those pieces had been created during some dark periods of her life. Rationally, she knew that most people went through seasons of darkness for their own reasons. But if she let Adam see these, then he'd see hers. Would he pry and ask questions? Would he recoil at her answers?

  Well, she thought squaring her shoulders, don't ask to see the belly of the beast if you can't handle it.

  Defiantly flinging the bathroom door open gave her a larger sense of bravado than she felt. He noticed this change in her and cocked an eyebrow as she entered the room. "Ready to go, are we?"

  "Indeed, we are," she said shoving her feet into her warm boots then leading him to the front door. "Buckle up butter cup and just remember that you asked for this."

  "Yes ma'am," he said with a smirk and a mock salute as he followed her out of the apartment.

  Chewing on her lip, she led him down the hallway, acutely aware of his presence behind her. The short trip from her apartment to her allotted garage space was usually a solo one. It felt disconcerting to be taking this walk with him. In the elevator, she hit the button for the garage, and as they descended, she played with her fingers, shifting her weight from foot to foot. The atmosphere in the small box was much changed from the last time they were in it together. He said nothing, but she could feel his eyes on her, perhaps thinking that if he started in with their usual teasing banter, she might change her mind about this. While she could appreciate that reasoning, some conversation to fill the silence might have calmed her nerves.

  More than likely, though, he was right. She'd use whatever he said to her as an excuse to turn back. Damn it, how could he win a dispute with her without even saying a word? She shot him a glare and he grinned. Somehow, he knew it, too, and that made it worse. Fucking frustrating, annoyingly sexy man.

  The elevator arrived in the garage and he followed her down the bare corridor, their footsteps echoing off the empty walls the only sound they made. When they got to her door, the keys dangled from her fingers and she took a deep breath. This was it. Moment of truth. Besides, if she chickened out now, he'd never let her hear the end of it. So, to avoid a bitch fest of epic proportions, she slid the key into the lock and opened the door.

  Light in the center of the room flickered to life with a weighted flip of a switch, bringing her secret world into view for the first time to foreign eyes. Canvases of all sizes lined the walls in neat stacks from largest to smallest, the sheer volume making the precious rows appear cluttered. But she would never be so careless with her art. Each piece was arranged with care of preservation while still easily accessible if she wanted to go down memory lane. No other room that housed her things was kept in such order. In every other aspect of her life, she believed in the Chaos Theory, but not here. In here, chaos belonged on the canvases only.

  The air beside her stirred as Adam moved farther into the room. "Holy shit, you weren't kidding when you said you had a lot of work down here."

  She tried not to hold her breath as he took a look around, but she kept catching herself storing pent up air and having to keep pushing it out on long exhales. She couldn't watch his face as he took in her art, didn't want to see his expressions and then internalize them as something they may or may not mean. Instead, she watched his body as he moved around the small room. The lithe, graceful movements of his long legs, that tight ass cupped lovingly by his black pants, the way his hands flexed at his sides before he turned to look at her. She expected to see a smirk on his face put there by catching her checking him out. For once, he seemed not to notice.

  "Can I touch?" he asked, pointing at the nearest row of canvases on the floor in front of him.

  A new wave of anxiety rushed through her. She could never have fathomed what it would be like to have another human being in this room with her or the way it would feel to have them physically want to touch the raw emotions she'd poured out into her work. Maybe she should have felt violated or exposed, but with him, none of her feelings turned that way, even though she kept waiting for it to happen. Underneath all the unease and distress of him seeing this side of her, existed a new kind of anxiousness that she might describe as eagerness. Eagerness to know this man's opinion. It startled her to realize that his opinion didn't scare her. She knew him well enough by now to know that if he thought her work was shit, he'd tell her so. But somehow, she didn't think that was what he was going to say, and it made her all the more eager to hear what he would say. Because despite the way they'd teased each other earlier, she knew that whatever words he used would be the truth.

  Of course, it would only be his truth, as all of this was subjective anyway. But right now, it was the only truth that mattered to her.

  Not trusting her voice, she nodded and then swallowed passed the lump in her throat.

  Gingerly, he began to peruse through the canvases,
peeling them back one by one to discover a watercolor, or charcoal, then oils and then another watercolor. Each one brought her back to the place she'd been when she created it as he revealed it. There were so many stories here. Thank God he didn't speak or ask her about them all or they might be here far after the sun took its place in the sky.

  He had gotten through about a third of them when he finally stopped and looked at her. She had never seen such an expression grace his features, so awestruck and earnest. "Marie, these are incredible. You are so talented, it's seriously a shame that these aren't displayed in an art gallery somewhere."

  The lack of artifice there as he spoke sent giddy tingles through her body, and it made her want to giggle. She grabbed onto the silly impulse with both hands to keep it in check, but she couldn't get the enormous grin off her face. "Really?"

  "Fuck. Yes." The deadpan look he gave her made her laugh. "Why aren't you selling these? You could make a metric shit-ton of money, baby."

  "I told you why. Painting is a kind of cathartic therapy for me, so these were never meant for public consumption. They each mark different periods in my life, different situations or phases. It would feel like selling off a piece of my soul if I ever tried to make money off them."

  "I get it." He nodded. "Still, though. It's a shame that they are all kind of piled away in here. Someday, you should get an art studio where you can display them. Even if they are just for you."

  That thought had occurred to her on more than one occasion. Maybe someday when she bought her own house, she'd dedicate a few rooms to her art. Pick her favorite pieces to hang on the walls. "Yeah, that's the plan. Eventually."

  He continued through the room, looking around and making small comments as he went until he stopped and picked up a painting from a stack. She moved behind him to see which one it was and felt her cheeks heat.

  Deep, earthy – bordering on drab – tones covered the top half of the canvas. The bare limbs of a grand hibernating tree reaching into an olive-gray sky. On the surface the tree seemed dry and lifeless, but under the soil line the deep, thriving roots told another story.

  A favorite theme of hers to paint had always been the blending of realism with the surreal. This piece was a prime example of her style beginning to emerge at the ripe old age of sixteen and held a special place in her heart for myriad reasons. The thick roots formed into elaborate, maze-like designs beneath the earth in bursts of brilliant colors. Woodland creatures skittered happily along the edge, oblivious to the desolation above. A fox and a squirrel had a tea party in the splendor of the bursting garden of flowers at the center of the maze.

  Adam propped the canvas up on top of the stack and turned to her. "Tell me about this one."

  Of all the paintings he could have asked about, it had to be this one. There had to be close to one hundred other paintings, but she supposed she shouldn't be surprised that he had been drawn to this particular one.

  Coming to his side, she ran her finger along the edge of the canvas. "I was a sophomore in high school when I painted this, only beginning to figure out my identity. I suppose it was a self-portrait of sorts."

  When she didn't continue, he gave her another deadpan look. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm not exactly an artsy-fartsy type. You're gonna have to explain a little more."

  She rolled her eyes. "Do you remember much about me from high school? I know you knew who I was, but, like, what was my identifier? To you, I mean."

  His brow furrowed. "You mean like your social status or something?"

  "Not exactly. I mean, when you thought about me before you moved in next to me here, what personality quirks came to mind?" She crossed her arms over her chest. "For example, when I thought of you, I would think of an outgoing, devil-may-care guy who enjoyed life and the company of women. Lots of women. A guy who did his own thing and wasn't apt to settle down."

  "Ah, I see what you mean." The lines in his forehead smoothed a little until the weight of whatever words he wanted to say turned his expression wary. "Don't get pissed at me or take what I'm about to say the wrong way. But other than thinking you were a quiet girl who kept to herself, I didn't really think about you much. Which, knowing what I know now, was a stupid fucking move."

  A wry smile tugged at her lips. "But that's just it, I have always been an intensely private person, so how could you have known anything about me? That is the point of this painting. The tree is like your memory of me, drab and unremarkable. But the roots are also me. The part of me that only a select group of people get to see. The people I can let my guard down around."

  "Your walls are ridiculously high, that's true. If it wasn't for the fact that you needed something from me, I doubt I could have ever gotten this close to you." His body mirrored his words as he moved into her and took her hands into his, threading their fingers. "Why is that?"

  She felt the slow slide of her lips as her smile turned wicked. "Here's where I get to throw some of your words back in your face."

  An answering smirk tilted the corner of his lips. "Which words are those?"

  "What you said to me at dinner. I suppose you're after some deep revelation into my psyche, something dark and twisted that kept me aloof from everyone. But honestly, it's nothing like that. I think some personality traits are intrinsic, and I was born with high walls. I never felt the need to share core parts of myself with anyone outside of my family or close friends that I, for one reason or another, could be at ease with. It always takes a little while to get to that place with me, a warming up period. And I never get there with a lot of people. I don't typically analyze it too much, but I like my privacy." Looking up at him, she added a bit of playfulness to her tone to lighten up the mood. "Which I hope you realize makes letting you in here to see my art a monumental step for me."

  Bringing his hands up to cup her face, he placed a gentle kiss on her lips. "I do realize that. I sort of realized that before you started telling me this story. Thank you."

  Tilting her jaw with his fingers, he deepened the kiss and she brought her hands up to tangle in his hair to pull him closer. Their breath mingled as he moved his lips a fraction from hers, and then came back to her at a new angle, lazily exploring her mouth each time he did it. Her blood just started to simmer when he pulled away and rested his forehead against hers. "I have a confession."

  That cooled her off quick as she craned her neck back to look at him. "What kind of confession?"

  "What I said at dinner. That wasn't entirely true."

  "So, you're not actually as happy with your life as you made out to be?"

  The cocky expression that moved across his features vanished almost as soon as it appeared. As if it had been a knee-jerk reaction to the type of question she asked and here, in the moment of their joint vulnerability, he had to check himself. "Honestly? Since getting closer to you, I'm not so sure anymore."

  Ouch. Taking a step back out of his embrace, she crossed her arms around her middle. Her automatic withdrawal – despite his words – apparently, was the last thing he wanted.

  "Shit. No, come back." He unwound her arms to take her hands and wrap them around to his back, but this time, her stiffness made the embrace feel anything but easy. "That didn't come out right."

  After a quick look around the room, he found the small little green area rug she'd placed in the center of the garage back when it hadn't been quite so full. Taking her hands, he led her over to it, then sat down, pulling her with him until she sat opposite him, much like they had that night at the farmhouse. Only this time he held her hands, running his fingers through hers as he spoke.

  "I'm not gonna pretend that people don't talk about everyone else's shit in this town so, I assume you know that my mother bailed on us when we were kids, right?"

  Of course, she did. As far as she could observe, none of the brothers liked to talk about it, and she was the last person to get nosey about something like that. Other than Ben, they had all seemed so well-adjusted that she took Adam's words at din
ner at face value, that he truly was happy. But obviously there was more to it than that. When she nodded, he continued.

  "None of us took it well, but we all handled the aftermath differently. Brandon threw himself into school, then eventually built the bar. Ben ghosted on us and started getting into all kinds of trouble. Tyler took his anger and aggression out on those poor bastards in the ring. For me, it was women. Lots of different women. Learning to play them and keep it fast and unattached. That's how I filled the void." To his credit, he didn't say these words with any sort of arrogance, only stated them matter-of-fact. And it was a clear truth, wasn't it? Women loved him, and he played the hand he was dealt.

  "Not long after my mom took off, Ben and I tracked her down. Found her in fucking New Orleans shacking up with some guy half her age without a care in the world. That was when I made the decision that no woman was worth that kind of pain, and I would never let one get so close to me that she could inflict it."

  She couldn't contain a wince. What he must have felt, to see his mother abandon him to live some frivolous life without him. Rage, by the sound of it, and rightfully so. Marie couldn't fathom how heartless and selfish a person had to be to leave their own children like that. To drop off the face of the earth and move on with her life, like the family she created had never existed. No wonder Adam had reacted the way he did. Given how naturally high her own walls were, if she had been in that situation, she more-than-likely would have done something similar. However, if this was how he really felt about it, it begged the question: what exactly were they doing here with each other? Why had he said he wanted more, when he had made that kind of promise to himself years ago?

  He had more to say, though. So much more to say, and what words they were.

  "Since then...well, you know what my lifestyle has been. Every once in a while, I'd get a little twinge of, I dunno, wistfulness maybe, for what it might be like to settle down. To grow old with someone. But every time that happened, I would picture my mother, sitting in that douche's lap at an outside café, eating fucking strawberries out of his hand. Whatever soft feelings I was having died quick. For the longest time, I had myself convinced that I was happy. And maybe I was, but it was just surfacey shit. What was going on deep down, I blocked out and ignored. Until that night I picked you up on the side of the road. You bristled and snarked at me the whole way to Pete's, then back to the building. I thought, here is a woman who wants nothing from me. Not sex, or financial stability, or some far-fetched, clingy romance. You got under my skin that night, and I got to be a whole new version of myself. Maybe the original, real version. So, in a way, I'm exactly like this painting of you. No one really knew me, except...you. And now I want all those things with you, Marie. I want to make you want them too."