Lace and Paint (True Colors Book 1) by Ally Sky (15)

I wake up in a shitty mood after tossing and turning all night long.

I light a cigarette and take a sip of my coffee. It’s Monday morning. He’s probably on his way to the office already. I take my laptop out of my bag, ready to spill my anger onto the screen.

The responses continue to flow in. Everyone has something to say to me. Leave him, get him. My heart clenches in terrible disappointment.

She’s right. I want him. And I’m not taking no for an answer. I’ll just knock on his fucking door until he lets me in.

Ten p.m. I knock lightly twice on the familiar white door. I don’t care if he’s sleeping. My heart is racing, I didn’t ask him if I could come, I’m here whether he likes it or not.

I hear the lock opening. My legs are shaking. He must know it’s me. Who else would come knocking on his door at this hour? The door opens. Ben stands there wearing a black tank top and sweatpants, a huge smile on his face.

“I was wondering what you were up to,” he says quietly and I try to maintain a calm expression. “I haven’t heard from you all day long.”

“I wasn’t going to give you the pleasure of saying no to me again,” I answer defensively.

“I wouldn’t have told you not to come, beautiful.” He smiles, staring at me. I swallow. “Now enough with your dramas, I want you too much.”

He opens the door wide, takes a step back, and looks at me with satisfaction.

It’s obvious I’m his, even if I’m angry and hurt, especially when he says such things to me. I walk inside and put my bag down next to the door. He closes the door behind me, grabs my hand, and pulls me to him. He puts his hand in my hair, pulls it, kissing me demandingly. My tongue is in his mouth, I just want to taste him. He kisses me and puts his hands under my ass and I lift myself up, wrapping my arms around his neck and my legs around his waist. God, he smells so good…He carries me to the kitchen and the cold marble beneath me freezes my skin as he lays me down on the black island and stands between my legs.

I pull up his tank top exposing his stomach and he takes it off, and throws it on the floor, continuing to kiss me, sucking and biting on my upper lip. His hand slides beneath my shirt and he grabs my breast, squeezing it while his other hand embraces me. With both hands, I frantically pull down his sweatpants. I just want him inside me…

He continues kissing me as he yanks down my pants and panties. He removes them and brings his hands up to my thighs. I spread my legs open, ready for him, wrapping them around his waist. He lowers his briefs and enters me powerfully.

That feeling…I’m addicted to the feeling of skin on skin.

I moan loudly and my hands dig into his short, sweet-smelling hair. He kisses me and thrusts in and out, slamming into me each time.

Don’t stop. I want you so much…

His breathing is loud and quick, and he quickens the pace more and more, in and out, penetrating me with all his might and then he comes, groaning my name loudly.

I hug him and let him rest on my chest, while his breathing gets calmer and calmer. He pulls out of me slowly, lifts his head, and looks at me.

“I missed you…” he whispers, pressing our foreheads together. My heart is pounding and I’m trying to calm my breathing. He missed me. My heart floods with joy.

“Me too…” I whisper, forgetting that yesterday I was offended, forgetting he didn’t want me to come over. Now I’m here, with him, and I never want to leave.

I lie on my stomach in Ben’s large bed as I type on the computer.

“I have to go for a run.” I turn my head, smiling, and see Ben standing there in shorts, a black tank top, and worn-out sneakers.

“I thought you ran in the morning. And you need new running shoes.” I laugh slightly.

“Whenever I get the chance. I didn’t run this morning. Are you staying?” He’s still smiling, and I hold my breath for a moment. I have no idea if he wants me to stay or if he’s dying for me to leave.

“I don’t know…” I try not to mumble. “What do you think?”

“I think I’m going onto the patio for an hour, and if you’re still here when I get back, I’ll take you with me into the shower, soap you all over, and touch you like only I know how.” His voice is low and seductive and my heart misses a beat.

“Why do you think only you know how to touch me?” My voice trembles.

“I don’t think.” He leans forward, lies on top of me, and presses his body against my back. His mouth is by my ear and his breathing sends crazy chills between my legs. “I know. And now I’m going, before I decide to skip my run and fuck you like this, on your stomach.” My jaw drops.

“As far as I’m concerned you can skip your run…” I moan, surrendering to the wet feeling between my legs. He arouses me by words alone. It’s totally crazy.

“You’ll have to restrain yourself for a bit.” He leaps up quickly and adjusts himself in his pants. I turn to look at him with desire, and see his erection tenting his shorts, threatening to burst out. “I promise to make it up to you.”

He hastily leaves the bedroom. I take a deep breath and flop down onto the pillow. God help me. A pity he didn’t stay, now I’ll have to find a distraction. I get up and decide to explore the bookshelf above his desk. I can’t stop smiling—Harry Potter books, all seven of them, worn out from hours of reading. It’s not what I would have expected from him, not that I know what to expect from this unpredictable man. I go through the rest of the books, and I notice a new guidebook, which hasn’t been used. A guidebook to India. My heart sinks.

Jenny. She must have left it behind. I pull it off the shelf and a folded piece of white paper falls out. I pick it up and without thinking, open it up. A woman’s tiny handwriting in black ink stares back at me.

I’m not supposed to read it. It’s personal. But my curiosity gets the better of me, and I begin to read the letter.

My head spins as I read those terrible words once again.

I can’t have the baby…

Oh god. She was pregnant. Jenny was pregnant. And he wanted the baby. And she had an abortion and ran off to India and left him heartbroken.

I close the book, my hand shaking, and return it to the shelf. The white note is back inside, folded carefully, and I feel nauseous. I have a terrible urge to get dressed now. I feel uncomfortable sitting naked with all these thoughts running around in my head.

I get dressed quickly and sit down at the edge of the bed. I can’t think clearly. I put my head down between my knees and run my shaking hands through my curls. I wasn’t supposed to know. I wasn’t supposed to see it. And now I’ve seen it and I know and I can’t say anything to him.

…It really hurt him...and Ben was pretty crushed afterwards…

John’s voice comes back to me from the park, echoing inside my head.

The past few months have been complicated… I can’t be a mother...

An awful pain overwhelms me, an ache for my green-eyed man. I can’t imagine what he went through, is it any wonder he’s afraid to get hurt? Is it any wonder he’s confusing me? He must be confused himself. I can’t stay here. When he comes back, he’ll take one look at my face and he’ll know something is wrong, and I don’t want to have to explain. I wasn’t supposed to see—and certainly not to read—that personal letter.

I slip my feet into my flats, pack my computer, and leave the bedroom hurriedly, before Ben returns, before he sees me running out of his house. The terrible nausea doesn’t leave me. I can’t believe it. She was pregnant.

Nothing is okay. I read the message Ben sent me on Facebook shortly after I ran from his house. I’m sitting in bed, my legs folded to my chest, and I’m trying to calm my rapidly beating heart.

What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to pretend nothing has happened?

Tormenting thoughts overwhelm me.

Ben’s not looking for anything serious… well, after what happened with Jenny…

What have I gotten myself into? I fell in love with this man without knowing a thing about him, and now I do. He doesn’t want a girlfriend and I can’t blame him. Now he won’t let anyone get close. I don’t even know if I’m the only woman he’s with, he could be with other girls and I wouldn’t even know. I can’t say anything to him. I can only love him as I do and hope my love will be enough.

In the morning, I operate on autopilot: shower, coffee, and cigarette. Phone call to Sarah. She sends me to a gallery close to Earl’s Court, not far from my house. I still haven’t answered Ben’s message from yesterday. What am I supposed to say to him? I found out the secret you never told me?

I try to put it out of my mind as I wander through the gallery, pretending to laugh with the owners, but it’s all so forced, so fake. I feel my throat closing up.

He wanted the baby. I don’t know what hurts me more—the fact he was almost a father to her baby, or that he wanted the baby and Jenny had an abortion and ran away.

I find a chair under an umbrella in one of the cafés and order a cup of strong, hot coffee. I know when it’s a good time to replace my weak coffee with something stronger and today is definitely one of those days.

I close my blog and my mobile beeps.

He’s sent me another message. Fuck! What do I do?

Why does he say those things? He says he doesn’t want anything more and that it is what it is, and then he sends me these messages, filled with longing. I can’t ignore him, but I can’t tell him what I found out.

I turn off my mobile, so he won’t start chatting with me. I still don’t know what to say to him. And I’m certainly not going to say anything through Facebook.

I’m painting. Trying to pour the mess I have in my head onto the white canvas, smudging the paint with my fingers, knowing it’ll be almost impossible to get it all off afterwards. But I don’t care. I’ve been walking around dizzy and queasy since yesterday. I don’t hear the door opening or the footsteps coming down the stairs, but someone turns down the volume of the music. I turn around, startled, and bump into a pair of green eyes. My heart drops. What is he doing here? I’ve tried running, tried avoiding him, but he won’t let me. And now he’s standing in front of me, and the smile that was there a moment ago disappears when he sees the look on my face.

“What’s going on?” I try smiling, but in vain. I bend down to close the paints, hoping this way I won’t have to look at him.

“I don’t know. What is going on?” He sounds troubled. I stand up and he stares at me.

“Nothing,” I lie with a straight face, but my heart is pounding. “I need to wash my hands.”

I slip away to the small bathroom and open the tap. The last time we were here, he found out about the marks on my wrist, and he didn’t care. And now I understand why. Because he just doesn’t care about a thing. He’s hurting too much. I scrub my hands under the cold water and see Ben standing at the entrance, leaning on the doorpost, looking worried.

“Talia,” he says quietly.

“What?”

“Who are you kidding? What’s going on?”

“I told you, nothing.” I swallow hard and turn off the tap. Ben closes the door. Now he’s in the tiny cubicle with me, standing so close.

“Romantic…” I raise an eyebrow and wipe my hands on the towel.

“Don’t start with your cynicism now,” he grumbles. “Why aren’t you speaking to me?”

Is he kidding me? I’m not speaking to him? He’s the one who hasn’t told me a thing. His last sentence makes me angry.

“What do you want from me?” I ask vehemently. Why did he come here?

My back is pressed against the sink, and he takes a step further into the tiny room, so that now he’s right beside me. Familiar feelings of temptation mix with anger, frustration, and hurt for my tormented man.

“Talk to me…” He presses his forehead against mine and his breath fans my face. I know that if I don’t say something, in one minute he’ll touch me and take me to places the way only he can. And I don’t want that. Not now. Not after what I found out.

“I know about Jenny.” The words fly out of my mouth. He straightens immediately and looks at me, alarmed.

“What do you mean, you know about Jenny?” He can’t meet my eyes.

“I know everything,” I say quietly. He takes a step back, and I take advantage of the distance to quickly open the bathroom door and slip into the basement. I go to the stereo and search for songs, looking for something to keep me busy.

“What do you think you know?” I hear Ben’s troubled voice behind me.

“I know everything. You can stop pretending.” I straighten up and look into his worried face.

“Talia, I am dead serious. What do you know?” he asks unsteadily.

“Everything. The pregnancy, the abortion, India, everything.” I don’t take my eyes off him.

“How did you find out?” He’s stunned, his face pale.

“I was looking for something to read and her letter fell out of the book.” I wonder if I should apologize for reading it.

“Fuck…” he mutters to himself. He sits down on the sofa and puts his head in his hands.

“Yes,” I answer drily. “Fuck.”

“Talia, only a few people know about it, and I want it to stay that way.” He looks at me anxiously.

“Are you kidding me?” I’m stunned.

“What?”

“Are you kidding me? First of all, I don’t talk about you to anyone. I’m certainly not going to raise the subject at supper. Furthermore, is that all you have to say? Don’t tell anyone?”

“What do you want me to say?” He’s squirming on the sofa. My man is tormented to the bottom of his soul and all I want to do is to save him. Save us.

“You’re totally fucked up,” I hiss angrily.

“Talia, what do you want from me?” He’s upset.

“I want you to talk to me.” I cross my arms purposefully. Just talk to me. What does he think will happen?

“There’s nothing to talk about.” He covers his face with his hands again, his breathing labored. How much pain can one soul handle? I want to hug him. I want him to talk to me. But his silence and his refusal to do so, especially after everything I’ve told him, hurts me just as much and make me so angry.

“Is that all you’re going to say? That there’s nothing to talk about?” My eyes narrow in frustration.

“You know the situation. Now you know about Jenny. It’s not important.”

His answer is like a damn knife in my heart.

“Not important? You really are fucked up. Is that why you don’t want a girlfriend?”

“I’m not discussing this with you.”

“Then you can get the fuck out,” I growl low, and his eyes, when he looks at me, are scared.

“Why?” he whispers in a tortured voice.

“Because there is nothing here for you.”

“Talia…” He panics. Why is he panicking? He can go find some other girl, someone who doesn’t want to know anything about him.

“Don’t Talia me! If you have no intention of talking, then get lost. I’m done being your toy.” The words shoot out of my mouth before I can stop myself.

“Is that what you think you are?” Hurt eyes stare at me. He looks tormented and confused. It only makes me flinch more. Talk to me…I won’t hurt you…I just need to know…

“That’s what you do to me.” I feel so hurt. A toy, no more no less.

“You and your victimization.” He gets up slowly and my eyes never leave him.

“So what’s it going to be?” My voice breaks.

“I’m going,” he answers painfully. His tone confuses me. For someone who only wants to have sex, he sounds pretty torn up.

“Fuck you,” I whisper, turning my back on him and walking away. I return to the smudged canvas I’ve been painting the entire afternoon. The pain in my chest intensifies and I can barely stop the tears. I hear his footsteps moving away and the door open and close. He’s gone. I collapse on the sofa and burst out crying.

He won’t talk to me, even now, even after I know. He doesn’t want to talk. I told him to leave, and he left. And now I’m alone and he has gone. And it hurts. It hurts so much.

I don’t know how long I cry. More than I want to. Eventually I sit up on the sofa.

A Facebook message beeps on my phone. I open it with shaking hands.

The tears start again. My head is spinning. His words have the power to make me or break me, and that surprises me every time anew. He’s doing it again, confusing me. He’s captured my heart, imprisoned it. And now he’s giving me the key and telling me to go free, without understanding that I’m his prisoner. He can torture me until there’s no tomorrow and I’ll keep on going back to him. This is what he can give me. He says it’s not going to change, but he doesn’t know, not really. Nobody knows what tomorrow will bring, and I’m prepared to wait—until tomorrow, until forever—for him.

His white door. A last-minute hesitation. If I knock on it now, I’m not ever going to leave. My backpack is hanging from my shoulder and I’m standing under the light in the entrance, in a knee-length purple dress and flats. My curls are gathered into a messy bun on the top of my head. My hand goes up to the white wood. And I knock.

The noise of the key, the handle goes down, and my heart falls.

It is what it is. For now. And there is no way I’m giving it up.

He’s standing there, in his black tank top and grey sweatpants, barefoot. Green eyes stare at me—bewildered and alarmed.

He opens the door in silence and lets me in. I leave my backpack next to the door and turn to him. My legs are frozen.

“Why are you here?” His voice is unsteady.

“I wanted to see you…” I answer.

“Talia…” He starts to say something, but I take a step toward him, and gently put a finger on his lips. Enough talking.

“I heard you,” I whisper, my eyes on his. “I heard and I understand—it is what it is. Now kiss me.”

He pulls me to him and, before I know what’s happening, he’s kissing me forcefully, his tongue in my mouth, devouring me. His breathing quickens, and I can feel his heart pounding. I put my arms around his neck, pulling him to me, and breathing him in.

“You’re such an idiot,” I whisper, kissing him so hard.

“I know.” He bites down on my lower lip and his hands lift my dress. He takes it off, exposing my breasts and I pull him toward me.

“You taste so good…” His tongue is doing magic in my mouth, sending waves between my legs.

I let him take me, against the wall. I let him have all of me…

Ben’s coffee is weak, just how I like it, certainly at this time of night. I take a sip, lean back, and sink into the small sofa on his patio.

“Have you finished the twins’ swing?”

“Yes, I sent it up north.” Ben takes a sip of his coffee, a lovely smile on his face.

“They must have loved it.” I’m enchanted by his smile.

“Myles’ son almost tore his school uniform on it.” He laughs. He leans back on the sofa and he looks peaceful. And amazing. My addicted heart…

“I can just imagine you in that ridiculous English primary school uniform.”

“Didn’t you have a school uniform?” he asks, intrigued.

I shrug. “Nope.”

Judging by the look on his face, he finds the idea inconceivable.

“So you could wear whatever you wanted?”

“More or less.”

He still can’t believe it. “I’d have loved to have seen that.” His smile widens, exposing perfect, white teeth.

“No, you wouldn’t.” I try to smile. There is nothing attractive about shirts that I've cut in such a way they don’t hang properly on one’s shoulders.

“Were you wild...?” he says quietly, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Yeah, it wasn’t such fun,” I protest. Not fun at all and certainly not something I’d like to share with him.

“It sounds like it would be.”

“Not really.” The embarrassment on my face must be evident. I’m not used to these kinds of conversations. I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to them. But something about this man makes me feel as though I can tell him anything. Well, almost anything. And nothing will scare him away, not when he has nothing to run from. He’s not my boyfriend.

“Did you get into lots of trouble?”

“Too much.”

“Come on,” he teases, “spill!”

“Nothing interesting. Alcohol and cigarettes. No big deal.” I take a sip of my coffee. “What kind of teenager were you?” I change the subject. It’s best not to speak about me, and certainly not about those years. It wasn’t the most glamorous time of my life.

“Me?” He’s taken aback.

“Yes.”

“The average kind, I suppose.”

I chuckle. “What is average?”

“You know, I got up to the usual teenage nonsense, but in general I was a good boy.”

Oh, come on. He doesn’t look like the good boy he’s describing.

“You never got into trouble?” I continue questioning him.

“Not really. I left the troublemaking to Jake, which was quite a successful strategy. Everyone was focused on his bad behavior.” He laughs.

“Were you a good student?”

“Most of the time. School didn’t really interest me. I was too busy thinking about money and how to make it.” He shrugs.

“I think that worked out pretty well for you.”

“I’m not complaining.” He takes a sip of his coffee, not taking his bright eyes off me. I can’t take my eyes off his lips. God, I love the taste of those lips.

“You work hard for it.” I can’t ignore the fact he looks so different tonight. I don’t know if it’s because of what I now know, or because I was so angry with him. But between his surprised reaction in the basement, and his expression now, which I can’t completely fathom, something has changed.

“I try.”

“Thanks for employing me. I really love my job.”

“So, what do you want to do when you grow up?” He runs his fingers through my hair, pushing a stray curl behind my ear.

“Are you implying I’m not grown-up now?” I tease playfully.

“Do you prefer I use little and funny again?” He grins. “Well?”

“I want to be an author,” I answer shyly. “I want to write, to make a living from it, and to know I touch people with my words.”

I want to thrill people, make them laugh and cry, and I want to inspire them. I can picture myself sitting in a café with my laptop, writing and not worrying about a thing, just me and my thoughts spilling out onto the keyboard.

“That’s amazing. How many people read your blog?”

The blog he’ll never read?

“I don’t know. I think they have a bug in their software because in the past few weeks the numbers have gone a bit crazy,” I explain to him. Stupid computers. How can I make sense of anything that happened this past week?

He listens, waiting for me to continue.

“Before I came to London the numbers were about two hundred, but in the past few days it’s changed. It’ll probably be sorted out soon.”

He frowns. “How many readers did you have when you last checked?”

“A little over two thousand.” I wave my hand dismissively. “Never mind, it doesn’t matter.” There is no way two thousand people are reading my ramblings.

“Why does it sound unreasonable to you?”

“Do you really think so many people read my blog?” I roll my eyes.

“What’s the matter with you? Why can’t you think positive things about yourself?” He sighs in frustration.

“We are not having this conversation now. It’s too late and I’m too tired,” I murmur.

“Too tired?” His tone leaves no room for doubt. I know what he’s thinking. My body reacts immediately, coming to life.

“Too tired for talking.” My smile broadens.

“So you’re not too tired?”

I get up and stretch an inviting hand to him.

“I’m never too tired for you.”