Lace and Paint (True Colors Book 1) by Ally Sky (7)

I’m staring out the window. The trees are blowing in the weak and silent October wind. I’m sitting in the office, my back to the closed door. The small radio is on, playing songs; not all of them appeal to me. I don’t have too much work. This office isn’t a permanent thing, it’s just until my enlistment date arrives. I can hardly wait. So many opportunities, just around the corner.

Hundreds of girls tried out for the position I wanted and only a few were accepted. I’m one of the chosen few. I still can’t believe they chose me, I didn’t dare hope because I didn’t want to be disappointed. When the letter arrived I opened it with shaking hands and fell to the ground, clutching it close to my heart. They think I’m good enough.

I’ve got the radio playing, but I know it won’t block out the squeak of the doorknob and the heavy fall of footsteps that’ll come from behind. And it won’t block the hands that’ll slip into my shirt. It won’t block the cloying smell of aftershave and the friendly words that burn with acidity as though nothing is going on.

The doorknob emits a paralyzing screech and my entire body goes tense. My heart starts racing. The first thing I sense is the smell. The heavy male aftershave sends danger signals to every capillary in my body. And then, the slow, torturous steps and the breathing behind me.

I’m wearing a high turtleneck, the highest I could find. I’m sitting on the chair and my heart is begging, hoping that the top will be enough to stop him. To stop the terrible hands that do whatever they please to my body. He’s standing tall behind me. And I stare out the window, paralyzed. I can’t move and I can’t say a word.

I know he’s examining the obstacle I’ve put in his way.

He puts one hand on the back of my chair, behind my shoulder, and pauses a moment. His other hand lifts my top from below and reveals my stomach. He knows no limits. Nothing scares him. His hands crawl upward, exposing my stomach. He puts his freezing fingers on my breast, pulling my bra down, and grabs my exposed breast in his hand.

My stomach turns and I can’t move. Only my heart is racing. He strokes my breast gently and my nipple pebbles, completely against my will. His touch is light, yet painful, burning holes in my heart, destroying every piece of trust I’ve ever had.

And his voice is soft and calm, like it is every day at the exact same time.

“How are you today?”

My world is falling apart around me while his hand is in my bra, and he’s asking me how I am. I swallow. I’m mute, unable to make a sound. He’s not stupid. He knows he paralyzes me, makes me surrender in this chair, without an iota of physical force, destroying me.

“I hear you’re doing a great job.”

I have no idea, no idea about the work I do or about what is being said about me. In any case, he’s not even my boss so it isn’t even his business. My gaze never leaves the window, or the green treetops of the cypress trees.

Just go. Just stop asking me questions and touching me, and go.

“So, what do you say, Talia? When are we going to go for that coffee?”

Coffee. I wonder what his wife would think of that offer, with two small children at home. I imagine myself throwing the boiling coffee at him, over his hands, so they can no longer touch me, or anyone else. Ever.

“Maybe tomorrow?” His hand kneads my breast and I can’t breathe.

Why aren’t you stopping him? Tell him to stop! You’re not a little girl; you’re eighteen years old. You’re going to the army soon, to teach soldiers how to use their weapons and this man renders you mute. Where’s your strength?

“I need to get back to work. It was great seeing you again, Talia.”

My name on his lips makes me sick. He emphasizes it in a way that makes his intentions clear. It’s clear to me what he wants. At least in the office it doesn’t get any worse. At least in the office I’m semi-safe. His hand slips out, separating itself from my skin. My shirt is still pulled up.

And then the steps go away, the familiar screech of the doorknob, and the door closes quietly behind him.

I straighten my top. My heart refuses to calm down. I can’t cry.

No one would believe me. She’s desperate for attention—that’s what they’d all say. Look how far she’s prepared to go, blaming someone like him, for something like this.

Someone like him. They don’t even know him. They don’t know what he does behind closed doors.

I look away from the cypress trees, look down at the pile of papers, and start typing on the computer.

I wake up in a cold sweat and try to calm my breathing. That dream again. It’s like a knife in my stomach and heart. What’s happening to me? Why is everything surfacing now? Those damn locks on my memories. I have to do something. I have to stop dreaming.

I walk around the house, restless after a night filled with crazy dreams. Exhaustion makes me agitated, floods me with confusing and conflicting feelings. I can feel my head exploding.

The hurtful memories from the past are surfacing, reminding me about things I just want to forget. It doesn’t help that I have nothing to keep me busy, apart from thoughts about my man.

I remember my words from the night before, how reckless and flirty I was. The thought that I may have caused him to reject me scares me. He won’t be the first guy to run because I have no inhibitions. He doesn’t even know me. What he’s seen is only the tip of the iceberg, just a taste.

He doesn’t want a girlfriend. So why am I being insistent? Maybe I just enjoy the chase? I don’t even know him…

Its noon on Tuesday and I’m on the couch on the patio. With nothing else to do, I open my laptop and type in my password to my blog. I have fourteen new responses since checking it this morning.

I light up a cigarette, lean back and close my eyes. Okay, I can’t deny that Ben is handsome. But maybe there’s something else there causing me to think of him constantly? I’ve met handsome guys before. What makes him different?

He doesn’t get scared. He didn’t run from me that first night when I slammed the door in anger. It even amused him. He didn’t freak out when I told him about my bipolar disorder. When I stormed out on him at the café, he just came by the house and took me to the park. And then, in the rain, when he looked at me, I felt as though no one else existed in the whole world but us. And that same, strange feeling surfaces every time I’m with him or write to him—he makes me feel as though we’re in a bubble, a bubble that can protect me from all the shit going on outside.

Deep down inside, I know he’s not just some project. Because when I consider giving up, just letting go, I can’t breathe and my heart begs me not to do it. At least not now, not yet.

Dreadful feelings of fear and longing for Ben’s green eyes consume me and I go to the basement to paint.

It’s four in the afternoon when I force myself to stop painting and go upstairs. I need to go shopping and fill up the fridge for the rest of the week. I really have to find a job somewhere. Danny’s idea that I’ll work at the company is so unrealistic. He’s unaware of all the variables in the equation, and I know Ben won’t allow it. A small feeling of frustration creeps in. It could be so interesting. Anything besides waitressing would be great.

I return home and put everything away in the fridge and cupboard. I slice the vegetables to make a stir-fried chicken for supper. The front door opens and Danny and John enter, in good moods, just as I put the wok on the stove and heat up a little oil. They’re alone. My heart clenches with disappointment.

“What are we eating?” Danny comes up to me and kisses my hair as usual.

“Chicken and stir-fried vegetables.” I smile, trying to conceal my disappointment.

“Sounds great. We’re just going to go change out of these clothes.” He goes with John to their bedroom.

I wash my hands and quickly take my phone out of my bag.

I send the message and put my phone back in my bag.

The oil is hot and I start frying.

Danny finishes eating and takes another sip of the white Israeli wine I know he loves, which I bought today despite the cost. I’m not sure if I feel guilty about everything I’m planning behind his back, or if I just miss home, but I wanted to make him happy and knew the wine would.

“What are your plans for tomorrow?” Danny sits back.

“I think I’m going to go find a café where I can waitress. I really need to find something to do.” I’m sure my expression conveys my feelings on the matter.

“Shit, I forgot to speak to Ben about you.” He tsks at himself.

“You don’t have to, actually, please don’t.” I so don’t feel like putting Ben in that situation.

“Nonsense. I’ll call him now.” He pulls his phone out of his jeans pocket. John excuses himself and goes out to smoke, leaving us alone.

“No! Danny, you really don’t have to…” I try to dissuade him but he insists. Oh, God…

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m sure he’ll agree,” he grins. He has no idea.

“Hi, how are you?” Danny says into his phone, as I study him from the other side of the table.

My heart is racing. This could be awkward. It’s definitely unpredictable.

“Listen, I wanted to ask you something about Talia.” My heart plunges and I can imagine Ben going pale. He probably thinks I spoke to Danny about him. “I heard Jill from Interior Design has left work.”

Nice of him to remember her name. I can imagine the relief on the other side of the line, as Ben realizes I’ve kept my mouth shut as promised.

“John and I thought Talia would be perfect for the job.” Danny smiles at me and I reciprocate with a phony, nervous one. I wait for the smile to slide off his face. I feel like a fourteen-year-old. Okay, well let’s not exaggerate. Maybe a sixteen-year-old.

“Yes…you know she’s into art, she’s friendly, cordial…don’t you think?” He winks at me. I really am friendly and quick to smile. I may not be a big art expert, but I like to paint and visit galleries and exhibitions. Danny’s appeals on my behalf are good. Poor Ben, he has him by the balls.

Shit! I just hope he doesn’t think it’s my idea! I’ll have to let him know. The last thing I need is for him to think I intend harassing him at work. Although, I admit, it could be interesting and amusing.

No. The office is off-limits. If he agrees to the idea, pressured by Danny, I won’t use it to my advantage.

I really won’t.

Really?

“I know, but I thought maybe she could meet with Sarah and we can see what she thinks…Yes? You or me? Okay…” He ends the call.

“Well? What did he say?” The stress in my voice obvious.

“I’ll arrange a meeting for you with Sarah from Interior Design and she’ll contact you in a few days. Do you think you could put off your waitressing for a bit?” He smiles a huge grin, pleased with his success.

“Are you serious?” I’m in shock. I can’t believe Ben agreed to it. “What did he say?”

“Nothing. He just stated you don’t really have any experience and asked if it would be an issue.” He shrugs.

I’m not sure how I should react to that. “Do you think it might be a problem?” I’m trying to understand. Danny hasn’t told me much about the job.

“Talia, you need to start somewhere and, from what I understand, you don’t need the skills of a tedious, old art critic to do the job.” He laughs. “Speak to Sarah and we’ll see, okay?”

“Okay,” I reply, a huge grin on my face, as I get up to wash the dishes.

At nine p.m. I get up from the couch and say goodnight to Danny and John. We’ve spent the evening in front of the television watching some funny sitcom they love. I mostly enjoyed observing the two of them, so in love and rolling with laughter. I tried to ignore the little ache in my heart as I imagined myself, in love and laughing—in love with him. As much as I tried, I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

I take a shower and lie down in bed, then open my Facebook. No new messages. Apparently, I overdid it yesterday.

A new message comes in. I open it with a pounding heart.

I lie on my side, watching the green light on the chat indicating he’s online. I know he’s on the other side watching it as well, but for some reason I’m scared. The two of us are sitting on either side of the network, staring at a green light and not saying a thing.

He breaks the silence first.

With him, it’s better I pretend that it’s not as bad as it is. He likes me happy and bubbly. He doesn’t need nightmares about intrusive hands, me frozen in my chair, helpless, unable to move.

I say so. And you’ll never find out the truth.

Nothing happened? Didn’t my words shock him? Could he have figured out my intentions toward him?

It was a great day because he’s doing something great.

Seriously! Cute? What is he, a novice? I’d have expected a man with his good looks to have enough experience to know that cute isn’t a compliment.

What then? Let’s just see how ridiculous I can be.

No, I didn’t exaggerate at all…

Of course I don’t believe it. It’s called sarcasm. Hasn’t he heard of it?

He’s not serious? My heart accelerates to one hundred miles per hour.

Why is he saying all these things? Obviously, he doesn’t mean them. No one has ever said anything like that to me.

He’s not saying much. What’s he hiding?

Get a life! Oh well, I’m going to get into gear very soon. If only to save him from the obscene habit of working late into the night.

Ah. He’s playing again. I don’t buy it.

The things he doesn’t know…

I log out and stare at the screen. He called me beautiful.

No one has ever called me that before. There’s no way he could mean it. And if he does, he needs to see a doctor urgently. Once again, I have a silly smile on my face.

Now, where’s that link to the website? I think it’s about time I looked up his address—you never know when I might need it.

I fall asleep with a smile on my face, dreaming of late night surprise visits to his office when no one else is around.

Persistent rays of sunlight penetrate the curtain. I forgot to close the shutters yesterday and I’ve just woken up. It’s eight thirty. Danny and John must be leaving around now and I don’t feel like bumping into anyone. I’m just going to lie here, in my bed, with my laptop, and dream some more about seductive green eyes and charming smiles…

It’s a quarter past nine when I get out of bed and into the shower. The house is quiet. After the shower, I select a pair of grey trousers and a long-sleeved black blouse that covers up the scars and put on a pair of high-heeled black shoes.

I have to get out of the house for a bit. I put on some makeup in the bathroom, take my bag with the laptop, and go out to the café around the corner, where I sat with Ben. At least the coffee is decent.

I order a cup of weak, foam-free latte, exactly as I like it, and settle with the large mug under the shade of their umbrella. I manage to avoid the sun, which has finally emerged after days of nonstop rain.

I open my laptop, light up my first cigarette of the day, and wait for my blog to come up. I take a deep breath and try not to choke on it when I see there are thirty-one new messages waiting for me. What the hell is going on? How many people read my stupid blog? I go into my blog administration to find out exactly how many people have read it.

What? No way. There must be a mistake with the numbers. 1,632? No. There must be a software fuckup or something…

Good luck…Good luck…Dump him…You’re better than him...

I smile when I read that.

She thinks he’s into me? I carry on reading.

It’s obvious he likes something about you. He’s still around, right? Now you need to remind him what it is and make sure he doesn’t forget it.

My phone rings, startling me, I’m not expecting a call. I haven’t even had a chance to think about that last response. I take the phone out my bag and stare at the screen, but don’t recognize the number.

“Hello?” I answer hesitantly. Who could be calling me?

“Talia? Hi, this is Sarah Gibson, from Storm Buildings.” Her voice is friendly. Sarah from Storm Buildings? When did Danny find the time to talk to her?

“Hi, yes, I assume Danny has spoken to you,” I reply.

My heart is pounding. I’m not sure if it’s from excitement or fear. This woman is my chance to do something other than waitressing.

“Yes and, the truth is, I was thrilled to hear about you. I want to know when we can meet.” Meet? Already? That was quick.

“I’m available anytime,” I stammer. Anyway, I’m just sitting in a café, thinking about ways to seduce your boss.

“How about coming down to my office around two o’clock? We can have a quick meeting.”

Today?

“I’d love to!” I reply, smiling at my coffee.

“Great. Do you know where we’re located?”

“Yes.”

I know. I saved a picture of their address, which appears on Danny’s business card, on my phone.

“Excellent! Sharon knows I’m expecting you so I’ll see you at two.” She hangs up.

Sharon, Storm Buildings’ secretary, who’s trying to get the man with the green eyes. Well, I have news for her—he’s my man now.

I put my phone back into my bag and a ghost of a smile touches my lips when I consider the possibility I might bump into Ben in his office. My imagination runs wild, thinking of the images that played around in my head late last night, when no one was around...

At a quarter to two, I stand in front of a beautiful office building on Exhibition Road in South Kensington. My heart is racing like crazy as I go up in the elevator to the fifth floor and enter a huge hall. In front of me is a large, white reception desk, with Sharon sat behind it. She looks up from her computer screen and smiles at me. I smile a fake smile back at her. I don’t like her. She has plans that don’t fit in with mine.

“Talia Blum. Sarah Gibson is expecting me,” I say formally.

“Hello, Talia, I think we met in the park, right?” She smiles widely.

Yes, we met in the park, and your hand constantly stroked your boss’ muscular arm. Who happens to be the most amazing man in the world. Oh, and he’s mine.

“Yes, we met in the park,” I reply coolly. “Sarah Gibson?”

“Second office to the left.” She looks confused. Maybe she can’t understand my coolness toward her, I don’t care—as long as she stays away from Ben. I turn left into a long hallway. One of these doors must lead to his office and it’s quite possible he’s there right now.

I wonder if he even knows I’m here.

I stand in front of a small sign on a door Sarah Gibson. Interior Design and I knock twice.

“Come in!” she answers from the other side and I enter, closing the door behind me. Ms. Gibson gets up and extends her hand to me.

“Hello. I’m Talia Blum.” I smile nervously as we shake hands.

“Sarah Gibson. Pleased to meet you.” She smiles warmly, sits down, and indicates the chair in front of her desk.

I study her. She has black, shoulder-length hair, which frames her pale face. It looks as though she’s never spent a day in the sun. She’s thin, and I try to guess her age—maybe forty? She’s so heavily made up, it’s difficult to guess.

“So,” she takes a breath. “I understand Danny explained to you what the job is all about.”

“Not really.” I’m still very nervous. “I’d love to hear more details from you.”

“No problem,” she smiles. “Look, the thing is—I need someone to be my eyes and legs in the city. My ability to walk around galleries and exhibitions is limited. It takes too much time, which I don’t have. We try to establish contacts in the city so we can be up-to-date when something of interest happens. This way we hope to be the first to receive an invitation. And this is where you come into the picture. The idea is for you to go around galleries, hand out business cards, let me know what you think about the exhibitions you see, and if there’s something you think will interest me. You’ll be in the know when something important is happening. We like to send a small gift when there is an important event, you know, that sort of thing. It’s not complicated, right?” She smiles at me.

“No, not complicated.” I smile back, slightly self-conscious. “But how am I supposed to know what you’re looking for? After all, I don’t really know what your taste is.”

“Danny thought you’d be suitable, and the truth is, after seeing Ben’s latest acquisitions, it seems we have the same taste, and I was curious to meet you,” she explains and I pull a face. Acquisitions? What is she talking about?

“I’m not so sure I understand,” I mumble.

“Ben’s latest acquisitions.” She turns to her computer and starts typing. “Art in glass. He said you went to Camden Town.” She turns the computer screen toward me, and on the screen there are three familiar pictures: a red vase, a mirror surrounded by mosaic, and a lamp with rays of sunshine scattered all over it.

He bought them?

“I don’t believe it…” I mumble in shock.

He bought them. Why? And why didn’t he say anything to me?

“I thought you chose them.” My reaction surprises her.

“Something like that,” I stutter, while trying to calm the tremble in my voice.

“Danny told me you paint.” She surprises me yet again, while I’m still trying to wrap my head around what she’s just showed me.

“Yes…” I’m still mumbling. “It’s just a hobby, for fun.”

He bought them?

“Listen, I would love to sit and explain some more to you. Thing is, the girl who was here before you left suddenly, which has left us in a bit of a bind,” she complains. “We’re missing out on a lot because we’re out of touch with what’s happening out there.” She takes out a business card and gives it to me.

“This is a gallery on Brick Lane. Do you know where that is?” I nod. I love Brick Lane.

“Excellent. I need you to get there today. The exhibition there is closing this evening, and I want to know what you think about it. And most importantly, I’d like you to introduce yourself and exchange a few words with the owner of the gallery. His name is Gary.”

Today? Now?

I take the business card from her.

“How do you feel about jumping into the deep end?” She smiles again.

“Sounds fine,” I answer hesitantly. I can do this.

“Great.” She heaves a sigh of relief. “And we still haven’t discussed your salary.”

She takes some documents out of her drawer and we peruse them. A basic salary, comfortable working hours, and I won’t have to work as a waitress. Sounds perfect to me. I sign straightaway.

“Do you drive?” Her question surprises me.

“No, I mean yes, but…” I stammer.

“I see. It means driving on the other side of the road. No problem. Keep the cab receipts or whatever you use. We’ll sort it out. You don’t have to drag yourself on the tube if you don’t want to.”

I actually like the tube.

“Will you manage?” She’s checking me out.

“I think so.” I smile and she gets up to say goodbye to me. We shake hands again and I leave her office.

My thoughts are rambling through my head. He bought them. Why? When? I don’t understand. His office is only several doors away, but I can’t just knock on his door. Anyway, I need to hurry to Brick Lane. How am I supposed to concentrate now? Okay, forget about it for a moment. You’ll have enough time to find out more later.

It’s six thirty when I arrive home. John and Danny smile at me from the kitchen table.

“Where’ve you been?” Danny looks up from his plate. I’ve been so busy I forgot to tell him I was going out.

“Brick Lane. Sarah sent me to visit a gallery.” I fill him in on my visit there.

“Great! Did you have fun?”

“Yes.” I give a half smile. As soon as I managed to stop thinking about those damn pictures on Sarah’s computer.

“Do you want to eat?”

“No, I ate something on the way,” I reply. “I’m going to change my clothes.”

I sit on my bed, pull out my phone, and type a message.

I change into my black tank top and cargo pants and go down to the basement. What do I feel like listening to?

The system starts playing Meredith Brooks’ ‘Bitch’ and I open my box of colors. This job has come at the right time. My paintings are piling up along the wall of the basement and I need new canvases. I take out the yellow and orange colors. The stereo plays the same song over and over as I start to paint.

I give the paintbrushes a rest, and the canvas fills up with the engravings my fingernails make, lines of confusion and anger. Standing in front of the canvas, my body remembers what I’m trying to forget. The celebrations, the heartbreak, the highs, and the lows. God help me in the abyss...

The door to the basement opens. I assume it’s Danny, coming to ask me something, or tell me to turn the music down, or just to say good night.

“What’s the time?” I ask without turning around. I’m too preoccupied with my painting.

“Nine.” A familiar, compelling voice answers out of nowhere. I freeze and stop breathing for a moment. I don’t turn around.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, surprised by his visit to my Holy of Holies.

“I came to take my painting.” I hear his voice from the edge of the stairs. I swear he’s smiling. What’s he smiling about now?

“How are my glass pieces?” I inquire, irritated.

“Amazing, don’t you think?” He walks to the stereo and turns down the volume.

“I never asked you to do that,” I complain, my heart refusing to calm down.

“Are you mad about something?” He seems amused by my reaction.

“Why didn’t you tell me you bought them?” I angrily etch shapes on the canvas.

“I didn’t know I have to update you about every purchase I make.” I can still hear the amusement in his voice.

“You can be so annoying.” I turn to him in time to see the smile spreading over his entire face.

“Why are you angry? So? I bought them?”

“Why?”

“Because they’re an excellent find. Why do you think?”

“I have no idea.”

“Stop looking for a meaning in everything. It’s just a few pieces of glass.” He laughs. Is he laughing at me again?

“I would be careful if I were you.” I raise my dirty hands threateningly.

“A little paint never killed anyone.” He carries on mocking me.

“Come on, let’s see how brave you really are.” I challenge him, not knowing that’s exactly the invitation he’s looking for, as he strides toward me without hesitation. My heart pounds wildly, rage mixing with excitement. Before I can say a word, he’s standing in front of me in his white T-shirt and faded jeans.

“Well?” he teases, challenging me to wipe my dirty hands all over him. I lift them up but he’s quicker. He grabs my wrists, lifts them above my head, and holds them forcefully. Then he presses his body against mine and pushes me until my back sticks to the painting, sliding in wet paint.

“You didn’t expect that now, did you?” He smiles slyly, green eyes gleaming.

I’m seething with rage because of the mess, the painting that is now completely smudged, and the entire situation, which he finds amusing. I try to free my hands from his strong grip, but his leg pushes me into the painting and I can’t move. The situation infuriates me.

And damn, really turns me on.

Damn him. What’s this damned game he’s playing?

“Very funny.” I squirm, my heart almost exploding in my chest. He only tightens his hold. The smell of his aftershave is inviting and the touch of his fingers on my skin is driving me crazy.

“What’re you going to do now?” he whispers, and warmth creeps from the top of my thighs and settles into my panties.

“If this is your idea of ‘being friends’, then you are fucked up,” I hiss and catch him looking down at my cleavage. Unabashedly. My tiny tank top barely covers a thing and I know that he can see my bra.

“Hey!” I call out loudly. He raises his eyes to stare at me, and grins devilishly.

He presses his mouth against my ear and whispers, “It’s so annoying when plans fall through.”

I swallow. All I want is to close my eyes and for him to kiss me already.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” I murmur nervously. He’s not playing fair.

“What am I doing?” he whispers in my ear.

“You’ve just started World War Three.” My body strains against his, my chest heaving, and I breathe rapidly.

“Really?” He’s unfazed as he continues whispering in my ear and that goddamn feeling in my panties gets worse.

“Yes.”

“So what do you suggest I do?” He carries on with his torture.

“Either kiss me or get the hell out of here.” The words are out before I can stop them. He straightens, his face close to mine, eyes wide with surprise.

He didn’t expect that, huh?

We stand frozen for a moment, breathing in sync, and I wonder if he’s hesitating, or if he’s trying to hold himself back. But a quick movement of his pelvis pushes me into the painting behind me. He releases my hands suddenly and grabs my hair.

And kisses me.

His lips press against mine; his hands bury themselves in my curls. His tongue explores my mouth with intoxicating passion and I kiss him back, kiss him hard. He tastes amazing, just as I’d imagined. My heart races as enticing currents wash over every part of my aroused body. My hands cradle his short hair, and I don’t care how dirty they are. My tongue is inside his mouth. He tastes…

I bite his lower lip and he releases a small moan. His erection probes my pelvis, through his jeans, threatening to explode. He continues kissing me, his hands holding my head against the smudged painting. I’m floating and don’t want to wake up from this dream.

He releases my mouth slowly and looks at me, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Now look what you did…” he says, eyebrows raised.

“You started it,” I stammer, trying to settle my breathing.

“I need to get cleaned up. Luckily your brother knows how crazy you are, so it’ll be easy to blame you.” He pulls his hands out of my hair and takes a step back. My body protests as he moves away, and starts shaking slightly. I’m still leaning back against the painting, finding it difficult to breathe. He finally takes his eyes off me and goes into the small bathroom to try and remove the paint from his hands and hair.

I close my eyes and manage to release the breath I was holding. Fuck! What was that?

He didn’t just kiss me. He kissed me! And it was…addictive. And now I’m captivated.

I open my eyes as the bathroom door clicks and he comes out with his hair completely wet.

“Danny will think we took a shower here.” I try—unsuccessfully—to smile.

“Go get yourself cleaned up.” He tilts his head toward the bathroom. I go inside and wash my hands, scrubbing them meticulously with soap.

I can’t calm down.

He kissed me.

My entire back is smeared with paint and only a good wash in the shower will solve that.

Ben is standing at the entrance to the crowded bathroom, leaning on the doorpost and staring at the sink, which is filling with watery orange paint. I scrub my fingers but before I know it, he grabs my hands tightly under the water and stares intently at my wrists. Thin white lines and small circles tingle under his gaze.

Then his fingers move over them, stroking them gently and tentatively.

“What’s this?” he whispers, his eyes never leaving my scars.

“Old memories…” I whisper.

I don’t believe it. How the hell did he see them? I want to die of embarrassment.

“Did you do this?” his voice shakes. I haven’t heard his voice shake before.

“Yes. Old story,” I answer, my voice less than a whisper.

“What made you do something like that to yourself?”

“I told you I was crazy. This is just proof.” I don’t know what to say. What is there to say?

“Did you try to commit suicide?”

“No. I just wanted to feel something. It wasn’t deep, just painful.”

“Did you cut yourself with a knife?” Even though he tries not to sound shocked, his voice gives him away. Obviously he’s horrified. Who wouldn’t react that way?

“Scissors,” I answer softly. “I told you, I wasn’t trying to commit suicide.”

“And the burns?” His voice still gives away his emotions.

“Cigarettes.”

“Jesus…” he says in a hushed tone.

I pull my hands away from him, close the tap, and wipe my hands on a small towel. He presses against the doorpost, making room for me to go out.

I’m petrified, cringing with a pain I can barely contain.

How did this happen?

A minute ago he was kissing me, his tongue was in my mouth, his divine taste on my lips. But now he’s silent and shocked by what I did to myself ages ago.

“You can take your painting and run along now,” I utter shakily as I bend down to close the open box of paints. I can’t look at him, can’t meet his gaze.

“Talia…” he whispers.

“What? You got it. I’m fucked up. You can go now.”

All the carefully crafted plans and seductions in the world won’t help me after this.

“Will you stop with that word already?” His tone hardens.

“I don’t have a better word,” I try to muster what little strength I have left to say something.

“I can see you’re in a mood.”

“How observant.” I roll my eyes in frustration. What kind of a mood does he expect me to be in after he just found out another secret I was trying to hide?

“Okay. So I’m going to go now with my painting and leave you with your misery.” I hear him sigh. I still can’t look at him.

“Goodbye.”

I close the box. I see only his Adidas shoes taking a few steps toward the wall. He picks up the painting, which he so insists on taking, then goes up the stairs. I hear the door close upstairs. I sit down on the floor, hug my knees to my chest, and burst out crying.

He saw. He found out how screwed up I am. What was I thinking—that I could hide it? He’s probably filled with regret now. He probably believes me now, when I say I am crazy, yet I want him so much…

I lie in bed wearing baggy sweatshirt and sweatpants. I finally managed to stem my tears under the water in the shower. My laptop is on my knees and I’m writing.