Ethan

After the initial “let me take your coat” and “would you like something to drink” type of pleasantries were out of the way, I began the tour. I marched her through the basic parts of the loft with no real fanfare, though she was surprisingly taken with the size of my kitchen. It was a long, narrow affair, as was most of the floor plan. The entire design was dark and minimalist, with the oversized refrigerator hidden behind faux cabinets and the exposed appliances all gleaming and black, like the cabinetry and granite countertops.

Emily fawned over my stove and double oven, the size of the fridge, and commented on how much she wished her apartment had room for such amazing appliances.

Pale blue accent pieces sat atop the counters to keep things from being too dark, and a single pop of red was found in the glass centerpiece on the drop-side table. She of course commented on the flash of color, noting how my paintings had the same single crimson accents among the dark strokes.

She didn’t miss a thing, this sassy southern belle.

We lingered in the kitchen for far longer than I’d anticipated, and I loved the way she trailed her hands over the cool granite while she talked to me about her dream kitchen.

It sounded a lot like this one.

The living area and other seldom used portions of the loft were far less interesting—aside from the section of the living room where the band usually practiced—so we moved briskly through them and worked our way to the winding metal stairs that led to the studio, which took up the entire second floor. I tried to let her go up ahead of me but she gave a soft shake of her head and bade me to lead the way.

When I reached the second-floor landing, I turned and offered her my hand, ushering her into my sanctuary with more ease than I would have thought possible.

Yes, I was nervous, but not to the degree that I expected, and not for the reasons one might have thought. I wasn’t worried that I was exposing a part of myself—the most true and guarded part—to her. Not at all. What worried me above anything else was that she would see it, see me, and not care.

Or worse…be disappointed.

I’d disappointed enough people in my lifetime, far too many actually.

Please don’t let this be like that. Don’t let her look at me the way they did, the way they still do.

As she stepped into the room, her hand slipped from mine, and she gave me her back as she took everything in. There I stood, a grown-ass man with his heart in his throat, helplessly watching as she looked at every fragment of my soul spread out before her.

I almost didn’t want to know what she was thinking.

She stepped further into the room, her hand coming up as if she were about to reach out and touch one of the canvases laid out before her. Instead, she seemed to be putting her fingers to her lips, though I couldn’t be sure from where I was standing.

Didn’t people do that when they were shocked? Horrified?

I’d seen my mother do that when Sheriff Davies came to tell us about Ryan.

And it had damn sure been a bad sign that day.

I was trapped in that memory for a moment until Emily’s soft gasp drew my attention back to her. She’d moved to stand in front of the newest piece in the room, the large canvas that I’d stayed up half the night working on. Though it was nowhere near complete, the wispy outlines were all there, some having been covered over by color, others still waiting for my brush.

“This is…” She reached out and traced the outlines with her fingertips, not coming in contact with the canvas.

The awe in her voice soothed my worries in a big way, and I was able to find my voice, after a few hard swallows. “It’s you.”

And it was.

It was her as I’d found her in the darkened alleyway behind the studio, threatening shadows at her back as she tipped her head toward the cold brick, one foot drawn back as she prepared for another kick.

“You’ve been painting me?” She still hadn’t turned to look at me, and I fought to not see it as rejection.

“Yeah. I couldn’t help it. I just couldn’t get that image of you out of my head. Normally, when something sticks with me like that, the only way to let it go is to get it on canvas. So, I did.”

“I can’t believe you drew me,” she whispered, once again moving her hand up like she wanted to touch the canvas, but not daring to actually do so. “I’m trying really hard not to let my cool facade slip here, knowing that Conspicuous thought I was worth painting.” She flicked her gaze in my direction, looking somewhere between flattered and embarrassed.

“Of course you’re worth painting. You’re stunning. And that pose?” I pointed to the canvas. “It was so full of emotion, so easy to relate to…I had no choice but to capture it.”

“So, you think embarrassment is inspiring?”

I chuckled a little, despite my lingering apprehension. “Maybe. Maybe not. But the woman in the picture certainly is.”

She blushed and nodded, unable to respond to that. Clearly, compliments were hard for her. She quietly looked at the painting a moment longer before turning and making her way past it, delving ever deeper into the recesses of my soul, where no one else had been allowed to tread.

Her fingers traced the air over the piece I’d done the last time I’d returned from visiting my brother’s grave, and the one I painted the same weekend Kade and I wrote the haunting ballad we titled “The Darkness.” She paused by the one I painted after I last saw my parents, tilting her head at the angry slashes and blue undertones as if she were seeing much more than the colors presented.

When she got to the one in the far corner, I held my breath. That one was different. And her reaction told me she saw it too. Her fingertips lingered over certain portions, and she studied it much longer than the others. It was the piece Ryan had been working on before he died. I finished it—or did my best to anyway—several years ago. But no one had seen it. Ever. Not even the guys.

Not even Jared.

Eventually, she moved on from it, and I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or disappointed that she hadn’t commented on the differences in the piece.

She said nothing, no questions or observations, though I knew at least a few of the pieces had to have left her wondering. Her silence could have meant so many things, both good and bad. And still I didn’t doubt my decision, didn’t wish I could call her over and get her out before she saw too much.

I wanted her there, even if I had no idea why.

I stayed back and let her roam, watching her as she stopped to assess every canvas, every hastily drawn sketch; everything. And when she’d made her way around the entire room, when she’d seen it all, she finally turned to address me.

The expression on her face was beatific. She looked utterly enraptured by what she’d seen. With her heels clicking on the hard floor, she hurried back over to me from the far end of the room and surprised me by throwing her arms around my neck and hugging me tightly to her body. She was laughing. Laughing and crying, because I could feel the teardrops on my neck as she held on.

“Thank you so much for bringing me here. It’s the best gift I’ve ever been given.” Her breath tickled across my neck as she spoke, and I shuddered, both at the sensation and the words.

“No. Thank you, Emily.” I replied huskily.

She leaned back but didn’t let go as she sought my gaze. “Me? What for?”

“For seeing me and not being disappointed in what you saw.” I was surprised at my candor, but then again, something about this girl left me unable and uninterested in hiding anything. Not from her.

“Disappointed?” She looked genuinely appalled at the idea as she batted the last of her tears from her cheeks. “You’re incredible. Your art is the most beautiful, poignant expression of the human condition I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s raw and real. It’s…” One of her hands left me to gesture around the room before resettling around my neck. “Exquisite.”

I leaned down to touch my forehead to hers. “No, Emily. You’re what’s exquisite.”

This time, when her eyes fluttered, I didn’t leave her hanging. I pressed my lips to hers in a soft, exploratory kiss, letting her response dictate how far I went. The soft mmm sound in her throat made my head swim, and I found myself lifting her off the ground, her legs wrapping instinctively around my waist as I carried her over to the bed that was tucked away in the far corner of the room. Most nights when I was in town it was where I slept, though there was a master bedroom downstairs. I’d usually fall into bed up here somewhere near dawn, exhausted from painting. That was not the case today. I planned to be exhausted by the time the afternoon was through, though.

Our kisses deepened as her feet came to rest on the floor just beside the bed. Our mouths fused, our tongues warring as we urgently struggled to undress each other. After one of the buttons on her blouse bounced off the wall behind the bed, we paused, panting and thrumming with shared desire. I was painfully aroused, and when she slowly reached between our bodies to run her hand over the length of me through my jeans, I couldn’t help pressing harder into her touch, my hips thrusting of their own accord.

“Ethan.” She exhaled my name on an unsteady breath.

The way she looked at me made me pause, though it wasn’t easy with her massaging my cock the way she was. Something in that look, though, didn’t sit right with me. I’d seen it on more faces than I could count over the years. It was then that I realized my mistake—not in choosing Emily; no, that was the only truly right feeling I’d had in forever.

My mistake was the way I approached her, the way I hoisted her up and marched her to my bed like she was just another groupie. I’d slipped back into the rock star mentality and—in that moment—treated her like any other hookup.

I didn’t want that, not with her.

I pressed my hand over hers to still it, forcing myself to switch gears before it was too late, and I fucked this up. “Emily…” I leaned my forehead to hers, catching my breath for a moment as we held each other’s gaze. “I’m sorry. This isn’t how I wanted this to happen.”

She blinked and leaned back a little, watching my face with a trace of hurt in her eyes. “Did I do something wrong?” Her earlier boldness was gone for an instant, and I saw a vulnerability there that was even more endearing.

I smiled at her reassuringly. “Not at all. I’m the one who messed up.” She looked as though she didn’t believe me, so I rushed to explain. “I don’t want a hookup. Not with you. That’s not why I brought you here. Yes, I want you—I think you can figure that out for yourself.” I pressed into her palm again and fought the urge to groan as she pulled her hand away. “But not like this. Not like you’re some groupie who I picked up after a concert. I don’t want to treat you like you’re the same as everyone else, because you’re not.”

She furrowed her brow and appeared as confused as ever. I needed to explain this better. I lifted her hand to my lips and dropped a soft kiss to her palm before stepping back and running a hand through my shaggy hair. “I’ve never been with anyone who knew the truth about me. Shit, I haven’t slept with anyone who didn’t see me as a means to an end since I was seventeen years old. Once we had our record deal and started blazing our way up the charts, I ceased to be Ethan Chase. I was suddenly the drummer from Thrill of the Chase, and women only sought me out because of my status, not who I was.”

“That must have felt awful,” she said, tugging her blouse together and offering me a sympathetic look.

“I didn’t mind it at first. I mean, I was barely eighteen and had women throwing themselves at me everywhere I went. It was fun for a while, easy and uncomplicated.”

“I think it sounds lonely. Having all those people around and never connecting with them, never having them take a real interest in you aside from what you could give them.” She took a seat on the end of the bed and patted the spot beside her. “Is that why you kept your art a secret? So there would be some part of you they could never touch?”

There it was.

That was what made her so perfect.

I slowly took a seat beside her, grasping her hand and tangling my fingers with hers. “That’s exactly why.”

“Why did you make an exception for me?” She looked over at me from beneath her lashes, like she felt unworthy of such a gift.

“Because I knew as soon as I saw you that you were different—special—and I needed you.”

“Needed me for what?”

“To see me.” To save me.

“Why now? After all these years of being the elusive Conspicuous, why trust someone with your secret now? Was it the exhibition?”

I shook my head, offering her a quick wink. “Actually, it was the curator.”

She blushed but kept pressing. “Nice try, but I’m only the assistant curator. And there has to be more.”

I hesitated, looking over her shoulder at one of the canvases on the far wall.

“Ethan? Tell me why. You wanted me to see you, right? Well, the paintings aren’t all there is to see.” Her voice was soft, but I knew she wasn’t going to let me bullshit her—no way, not this girl. That was half of the reason I was so drawn to her. But it wasn’t going to be as easy as I originally thought, either.

“You’re right. There’s a lot more, more than I even realized setting out, and I want to give that to you—all of it—but I think I need a little time to get it all unveiled, so to speak.”

She nodded, giving my hand a squeeze as she used the other hand to gesture around the studio. “This was a lot to trust someone with, and a lot for me to take in, so I totally understand needing to take a breather between revelations.”

I brought my free hand up to cup her jaw as I twisted my body toward her. “I want you so much, Emily. It’s been killing me to slow that part down, but I know without a doubt that it’s worth it. You’re worth it.”

She rolled her head to the side and pressed her lips to my palm, giving it the slightest of flicks with her sweet, pink tongue. “You are too, Ethan.” Her breath tickled over my palm as she pulled away, a sudden smirk on her face. “Now, how about finding me a shirt to wear, since you practically shredded this one?”

I looked down and chuckled. She was right. Not only were half the buttons gone, there were also two long tears at the sides where I was struggling to work it off her while she was pressed fully against me. I gave her an apologetic look. “Sorry about that.”

She just shook her head, amused. “For a guy who has women throwing themselves at him on a daily basis, you sure did get carried away easily.”

“Not my fault you wore such an uncooperative shirt, and I promise you my control was never in jeopardy. It may have been a while for me—since before the show—but I did exactly what I intended to do. Meaning, if we’d have kept going, the rest of your clothes would have met a similar fate, and I wouldn’t have had a speck of remorse.”

Her breath hitched, and her eyes traveled the length of my body. She hadn’t missed my admission. “I’ll remember to wear clothes I’m willing to lose from now on.”

“A solid strategy,” I told her, leaning in for a slow kiss. After a lingering few moments where I was sorely tempted to push her back onto the bed and do exactly what I’d promised, I reluctantly stood and went to get her one of my shirts to wear.

I grabbed a promo tee from one of the boxes in my closet and one of my own shirts from my dresser, so she could choose.

The promo tee proudly proclaimed, “I wanna bang the drummer” on the front with the TotC logo on the back and was the brainchild of Lennox, who never had a thought that didn’t involve banging. I still couldn’t believe the publicists had gone for it, but the shirts sold like crazy. I offered it to Emily with a huge grin and was rewarded with a lot of laughter as she reached for my personal shirt instead.

Had to try.

And more importantly, I got a laugh out of her, which was kind of the point.

She had an amazing laugh.

Once she was properly—and disappointingly—covered, we lingered for hours discussing art, my work included, along with our favorite movies and music. She’d already admitted to being a fan of TotC, but didn’t dwell on our music, which was refreshing. I loved to discuss other bands and singers, other genres and eras of music. It wasn’t just the music I helped to create that spoke to my soul, not by a long shot. And it was nice to find that Emily instinctively understood that.

“Musicians create and inspire other musicians. Artists create and inspire other artists. Writers create and inspire other writers. It’s just the cycle of things.” I told her as we made our way downstairs to the kitchen for something to drink. “No musician or artist or writer ever started their career without having heard or seen or read something that spoke to their soul and ignited their own creativity.”

“So, it’s like you’re all intertwined.”

“Exactly. There are songs that I’ve listened to all my life—melodies and lyrics that will be part of me forever,” I said, pulling my sleeves up to show my tattoos. “Most of these song titles aren’t even TotC’s. They’re songs that were written and recorded by people who will never know how they influenced me, but we’re still connected. And you don’t have to make art to be part of the circle. You only have to find that connection to it and see the beauty in it.”

I handed her a glass of soda, and she nodded thoughtfully. “Then I’m most definitely part of the circle. Especially when it comes to you.”

“Yes, you certainly are.” I smiled.

You’re going to play a bigger part than you ever imagined, sweet Emily. I knew it the second I laid eyes on you.