The Body Painter Read online

  Cross.

  Confused.

  “Tell me who did this to you.”

  He laughed coldly. “It’s nothing I don’t deserve.”

  I reached for him again, my fingertips begging to touch. “Gil...”

  “Stop. Just...fuck!” He growled with rage and backed away. His thick eyelashes framed impossible pain. A blue streak of paint mixed with the red blood on his cheek.

  Straightening his spine, any lingering sign of weakness or historical affection vanished, slipping into irritable stranger, placing a mask of snow upon his features. “I don’t know why you’re here, but you need to go. I don’t want you here. I asked you politely to leave.” His body tensed, bracing himself to be cruel. “There’s the goddamn door. Use it.”

  Gil had always been a conundrum. A loner at school. Sweet with me. Horrible to me.

  No matter how he’d treated me, I’d always tended his wounds.

  Today is no different.

  Squaring my shoulders, I said, “I can’t leave you in this state.”

  “You don’t have a choice.” Our eyes collided and tangled.

  In one stare, every gate and wall I’d built from him hurting me came tumbling down. “Gil, I...where have you been? I’ve wondered so many times—”

  “Don’t.” He tore his gaze away, struggling with the familiarity between us. The sensation of homecoming. The connection that refused to break, no matter how much time had passed.

  “I just want to understand.” I stepped closer.

  He backed up, succeeding in shutting away his emotions and staring at me with heavy disgust and belittling dislike.

  The wind that’d shot inside uninvited, swirled around my legs and up my skirt with icy fingers. I shivered, partly from the draft and partly from the frost now glittering on his face.

  “Get out.” He bared his teeth. “Now.”

  “But...I came for the interview.”

  “Interview?” His eyebrows shot skyward. “You think I’d interview you?” His laugh was a vicious thing. Forced and brittle, cruel and callous. “You’ve wasted your time. There’s nothing for you here.”

  I winced. I couldn’t help it.

  He was here.

  As long as he was here, there were a million reasons why I should stay.

  Us.

  There is no more us.

  Remember!?

  “I-I didn’t know it was you.” I swallowed. “The job opportunity. I didn’t know you—”

  “And I didn’t know it was you. Otherwise, the offer to be interviewed would never have been given. Your email address wasn’t in your name.”

  “I know. I don’t like to advertise my personal info. Wait—” I shook my head, doing my best to keep him talking. The longer he spoke, the more his anger cracked. “How did you become a body painter? I mean you were amazing at art in school, but—”

  “Stop it.” He winced, licking his lip where a split oozed and swelled. “Enough, Olin. This is over.”

  “Why do you get to decide it’s over?” I kept my attention on his hands, unable to meet his stare. “Why did you get to decide it was over seven years ago?” My question sliced my throat on its way out. Spiky and poisonous, something that I’d wanted to ask since he disappeared.

  “Stop.” He swallowed hard, washing back excuses, answers, maybe even pleas for forgiveness. Any sign of regret at breaking my heart remained hidden as his green eyes turned lethally black. “Get out. You’ve been here too long already. I want you gone, do you hear me?”

  I stepped backward, my legs obeying the bitten command.

  I’d always looked up to Gil. Always been terribly dazzled. Always been hopelessly besotted.

  He thought I hadn’t noticed him before that day in the corridor, but I had. I’d been blisteringly aware of him sitting behind me. Of the way he chewed his pencil when solving questions. Of the way his hands transformed mundane into magic.

  I should’ve known he’d choose art.

  Someone with his talent would always be recognised.

  But despite his fury, despite my desire to scurry out of his vicinity to nurse the hot wash of tears, undeniable questions swirled in my mind.

  So many years.

  Such a long eternity.

  How had we gone from teenagers to this? How had time stolen our happily ever after?

  Staring at him, catching the strain in his face and the worry lines by his eyes, I didn’t see an older, wiser version of the boy who’d made me cry. I only saw so many mistakes and a whole chest worth of heartache.

  “Gil—”

  “Don’t.” He barked. “You’re on private property. Your invitation has been revoked.” Skirting around me, he stalked toward the exit.

  “We were friends once.”

  He didn’t look at me. “Don’t fool yourself. We were never friends.”

  He was right.

  We’d been aware of each other on an instinctual level. We’d been drawn to one another in ways that exceeded our juvenile comprehension. Our bond exceeded petty arguments or stupid misunderstandings.

  There was a link.

  An awareness.

  A pain.

  “We weren’t just friends. We were more. So much more.”

  “We were nothing.” He let his damaged elbow go, spinning to face me with a hiss. His injuries leeched away his power, leaving him feral with the need to kick me out.

  I scowled. “Why can’t you accept my help? You obviously need it.”

  His nostrils flared. For a second, utmost yearning flickered. He swayed toward me, victim to the lashing, licking need between us. But then, he shook his head. He pinched his nose as if fighting the simplicity of us.

  Us.

  There is no more us.

  REMEMBER?!

  I tiptoed closer, my voice a whisper. “I just...I need to understand, Gil. I get that I no longer have a chance of employment but...” I swallowed, murmuring with strength I didn’t have, “I’m happy for you. Truly. So glad that you get to do what you love for work. I’ve seen your Total Trickery webpage. I’ve watched you online. Those YouTube videos of the hooded man painting naked canvases...I had no idea it was you.” I sighed in awe. “Your talent is incredible.”

  He flinched.

  He didn’t speak for the longest moment.

  I hoped he’d be kind, now he knew I meant no harm. Perhaps too much time had passed for us to go back to what we were, but there might be a chance for a different type of relationship.

  Friends.

  Co-workers.

  Artist and canvas.

  I was willing to accept anything if it meant I got to see him again. If I had the slimmest chance to figure out why he’d left me.

  But just like before, he chased off the truth and embraced anger instead. His voice thickened with another growl. “Doesn’t matter.” He raised his hand, pointing at the exit. “Leave.” He looked up, trapping me in emerald intensity. “Goddammit, Olin. Please leave.”

  My fingers curled into fists.

  That wasn’t fair.

  I was useless against him when he begged.

  I’d let him guide our path when we were younger; happy to let him be in control because I trusted him impeccably. I loved having the honour of being the only one he talked to. The only one permitted to be close to him, to know his secrets, to walk beside him.

  Turned out, I was no longer privileged.

  Maybe he’d replaced me.

  Maybe he truly couldn’t stand me.

  But here he was.

  Bleeding.

  Wounded.

  And no sign of a lover to tend to him.

  He needed someone to love.

  He needed someone who loved him.

  I tried one last time. “You shouldn’t be alone, Gil. Please, let me stay.”

  He balled his hands, not showing any signs of an emotional war this time. “I’m better off alone, believe me.”

  “You need medical attention.”

  “So will you if you don’t leave.”

  I sighed sadly. “Resorting to threats won’t work. Not this time.”

  His eyes flashed with history. Of the time he’d physically hurt me. Of the time his words had the power to stop my heart.

  I braced myself for a torrent of anger, but the ghost of regret softened his features. He exhaled heavily, our battle slipping into the depressing aftermath where nobody won. “I don’t want to argue with you. I can tend to my own wounds, and you no longer have an interview. You should never have come here.”

  I nodded, accepting the agonising truth. I would never win when it came to Gilbert Clark. I’d lost him long ago. “Okay, Gil.”

  His shoulders rolled as if our fight had stripped his final reserves. He didn’t thank me. I didn’t think he had the energy to do anything more than nod listlessly.

  My heels clicked loudly as I turned and headed toward the exit.

  My back prickled with basic instincts, warning me not to retreat from a hunter. Not to show him vulnerability because that might welcome an attack. But I’d already been down this road. I’d fought for his affection only to receive emotional scars as my reward.

  I didn’t want to leave.

  It felt like defeat. It left me with a bad taste of giving in far too easily.

  Surely, I should try again? I should honour the past and stay until he’d talked to me.

  But when I turned by the door and looked back, he had one hand planted over his eyes and the other balled into a fist by his side. For a moment, he looked broken. But then, his hand dropped, his eyes whipped to meet mine. They narrowed with harsh impatience. “Go. Don’t come back.”

  My heart bruised as if he’d driven his fist directly into it.

  I imprinted the image of a tortured, in
jured body painter.

  I gave him a smile laced with old and recent sadness.

  “Goodbye, Gil.” Kissing my dreams farewell of getting a job today, I crossed the threshold.

  Gil had been the boy I’d wanted to marry.

  He’d belonged to me like I’d belonged to him.

  But then he’d become a monster...and no one knew why.

  I closed the door on us.

  Us.

  There is no more us.

  I know.

  Chapter Three

  ______________________________

  Olin

  -The Present-

  MY MATHS SUCKED.

  That couldn’t be all I had.

  Can it?

  I stabbed the numbers into my phone’s calculator again, tabulating my everyday cash, my savings, and the small wad of money from my purse.

  I winced as I pressed enter, hoping for a much kinder number, only to receive the same painful one.

  Four hundred and ninety-seven pounds to my name.

  I’d been unemployed for two months and chewed through what little savings I’d had. I’d applied for everything—waitressing, café worker, Heritage Trust cleaner, secretary to some tech studio, and even considered bar-tending at a local strip club.

  After the used car yard where I’d worked closed down—sitting in the back office and typing up invoices—I’d put aside my pride and lofty ideas that I was worth more and begged for a job—any job.

  But no one had wanted me.

  Turned out, a failed dancer who’d passed school but had no accolades or recommendations to her name wasn’t in hot demand.

  Especially after the ‘accident’ two years ago.

  That had been the beginning of the end for me. The end of my dreams. The end of money. The end of pride in my career path.

  My eyes trailed to the print-out listing the requirements for a Living Canvas requested by Total Trickery.

  Must be slim, able to stand for long periods of time, and be impervious to the cold.

  Hours are negotiable, pay is minimal, clothing absolutely forbidden.

  Able to hold your bladder and tongue, refrain from opinions or suggestions, and be the perfect Living Canvas.

  Other attributes required: non-ticklish, contortionist, and obedient. Must also enjoy being studied while naked in a crowd.

  Call or email ‘YOUR SKIN, HIS CANVAS’ if interested in applying.

  Gil.

  God, even though long hours separated me from the doomed interview, I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

  I’d needed that job.

  I’d gone with such high hopes of employment, and the failure of yet another botched attempt at earning money was just the sugar on top of my already caramelized disappointment.

  If Gil had been able to tolerate me, we could’ve worked well together. I knew how intense he became when he painted. I knew what sort of dedication he’d require from his employee. Besides, I ticked off most of the wanted attributes of his advert: slim, quiet, preferred winter to summer, and was used to skimpy outfits thanks to a history in dance.

  In a word, I was an ideal candidate—minus a few things I’d have to disclose if I’d gotten the gig.

  It didn’t mean I’d seriously contemplated it as an important career move. I did strive to make something of myself, even if I was currently in a rut.

  But dreams were costly, and living didn’t come cheap.

  It was time to grow up.

  Time to get a job that paid semi-decent, squirrel some savings, and go back to school to become an adult and not this pretender.

  I sighed, slouching on my wooden chair at the scuffed-up table I’d found in a second-hand shop in downtown Birmingham.

  When I’d been sixteen, a life coach came to school and asked what we wanted to be when we grew up. I’d envisioned a life drenched in dance. A world with bright lights, beautiful music, and elegant pirouettes as a prima ballerina. I’d pictured Gil beside me. Travelling the world together, both lucky enough to make a career out of our art.

  I definitely didn’t see me single and struggling in a city that I’d left the moment I’d finished school—doing my best to succeed, all while parents didn’t care in the slightest if I ended up homeless or famous.

  They’d totally forgotten they even had a child at this point.

  My fingers trailed to the ad again.

  What happened to you, Gil?

  Who’d hurt him today?

  Why did he hate me so much?

  Rubbing at the ache in my chest, I stood and padded across my small apartment to grab the rest of the wine in the fridge. Taking a chipped coffee mug from the cupboard, I folded back into my chair and poured the rest of the alcohol into it.

  All class.

  That’s me.

  Ugh, what am I going to do?

  Rent was due next week, and I didn’t have it. My body was hungry, and I had nothing to feed it. I’d combed through all the job listings online and in every publication I could think of. I’d door knocked restaurants. I’d dropped my resume into random offices.

  I’d exhausted all my options.

  You could just leave.

  I slugged back three big mouthfuls of tart wine.

  Leave?

  And go where?

  The cost of living would be the same in any other city. I’d left London because I couldn’t afford it after losing my dancing position. I’d already run away from my problems.

  Just because Gil had upset me and made me question everything, didn’t mean I had to tuck tail and run again.

  Plus, I needed money to move.

  I needed money for everything.

  Total Trickery was owned by a boy who had completely broken me at high-school, but...it was also owned by someone I knew.

  The only job opportunity where I had an in. Wasn’t that what people said? It’s not what you know but who you know?

  My brain took the idea and bolted, throwing images of marching back to his warehouse and demanding he give me a chance. If I did, maybe, possibly, hopefully he might give me a job?

  There was no harm in trying, right?

  Are you nuts?

  He practically threw me out this afternoon. I’d done nothing to hurt him at high-school—or at least I thought I hadn’t—yet he acted as if I’d committed a mortal sin.

  Why would I have a chance of employment after he’d so eloquently proved he hadn’t forgotten our past? That he still held a grudge against something. That I was still...unwanted.

  You need money.

  I chewed the inside of my cheek. That was true. But I couldn’t see him giving me any.

  Even if he flat-out refuses to hire you again, he might know of someone who will.

  I stopped chewing, hating that my brain made logical sense.

  At this point, I was willing to hold a placard on a street corner for a job. I’d even wash cocky businessmen’s cars in a bikini if it meant the stress of a dwindling bank account went away.

  See? You’re prepared to get mostly naked. Better with the devil you know than the devil you don’t.

  I shook my head, doing my best to stop thinking.

  Gil had hurt me today.

  He’d hurt me lots of days.

  If I had any friends left, they’d all tell me to stay the hell away from him.

  But...once upon a time, there had been an us.

  Oh, my God, O. There is no us!

  I slugged back another mouthful of wine.

  I know that.

  I knew I was setting myself up for more pain than I could handle by going back. But...I’d always been drawn to people who were less fortunate than me. Always wanted to share my loneliness with other lonely souls because together, we didn’t have to be lonely.

  Healing people’s wounds—physical or emotional—was something that gave me purpose. It reminded me that I might not have someone to do the same for me but it didn’t mean I couldn’t be there for someone else.

  Gil was injured.

  He might be lonely.

  Gulping back the last of my wine, I stood.

  I’d seen him seven hours ago.

  It was late.

  I should stay home.

  I should curl up in front of the TV and enjoy it while I could still afford it.

  I shouldn’t throw on my only jacket.

  I definitely shouldn’t summon an Uber and meet it at the curb.

  It was as if I couldn’t stop myself.

  My heart hijacked my self-control, and somehow, I went from standing in my apartment to loitering outside warehouse number twenty-five.