The Body Painter (Master of Trickery Book 1) Page 7

  She knew me, kind of.

  I rubbed the back of my nape, cursing the length and wishing I’d trimmed my hair last week instead of running errands for my old man and his whores.

  “Not sure.” She gave me a pained smile. “Why would you care what I have to say?”

  I deliberately smirked, acting as cool and calm as I could. “Why wouldn’t I care?”

  “’Cause you don’t know me.”

  “I know you.”

  “Yeah, but you’re not my friend.”

  “Not yet.”

  What the hell, Clark?

  The funny thing was, friend was too basic a word.

  Friend was nothing compared to what I wanted from her.

  She froze. “You...you want to be my friend?” The lack of confidence in her tone made my eyes narrow. Where had her brave, bubbly fearlessness gone? Why, in this lonely, empty corridor, did she look at me as if I’d offered her the greatest gift after having nothing but empty promises?

  Her obvious hunger made my stomach knot tighter and sharp, painful things stab into my chest.

  In just a few short seconds, we’d gone from strangers to something more. “Depends if you’d be friends with the outcast.” I shrugged, well aware of my scruffiness, my moodiness, everything that I was and could never be.

  “You’re not an outcast. I’m sure you could have many fri—”

  “It’s by choice.” I cut her off. “I don’t like people.”

  “But...you just said—”

  “You’re the one exception.”

  “Oh.” She blushed a deep pleased pink. “Well...I mean...I’m honoured. But...um, why would you want to be friends with me? We’re not exactly similar.” Her eyelashes fluttered. “What do we have in common? You’re older than me and—”

  “I’m older than everyone in class.”

  “Why is that?” She tilted her head inquisitively. “You’re studying the same things we are. I’ve always wondered.”

  You have?

  How long have you wondered?

  How long had she noticed me?

  I kept my voice as level as I could. “Held back.”

  “By who?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  Silence fell.

  She licked her bottom lip as if deliberating my trustworthiness. “You seem to prefer your own company, you sure you want to hang out with me?”

  I raked a hand through my hair. “I think so.”

  Her head shot up, her forehead creasing into a frown. “You think so?”

  I coughed, aware I’d just insulted her but not sure how to fix it. “Like you said, we’re from totally different worlds. We might not get on at all. In which case, friendship isn’t something that will work.”

  “What sort of world do you come from?”

  Hell.

  I come from Hell.

  I smiled, but I was afraid it came out more like a scowl. “Those sorts of questions are for friends only.”

  “And I’m not your friend...yet.”

  Smart, kind, beautiful...good. I didn’t stand a chance. Not a goddamn chance. “Exactly.”

  Silence slipped in again. Nerves at getting into trouble dragged my eyes to the closed door a few metres away. If Ms Tallup found us loitering out here, God knew what she’d do. “Look, we, eh...should probably—”

  “I was messaging my dad.” Olin rubbed her sneaker into the floor. “And it wasn’t urgent. I just like to pretend it is.”

  I froze, aware that this was privileged information. Somehow, I’d been permitted to learn a secret I doubted any of her other friends knew. “I-I don’t understand.”

  Her eyes met mine, sad and resigned. “He sent me a text this morning saying he and Mum are heading away for the weekend. Again.” She rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. “He didn’t tell me where. Didn’t ask if I wanted to go too. His message didn’t need a response, but...I like to make believe it did. I fool myself that he’s asked about my day, enquired what I want for dinner—basically that he’s a parent who cares that his kid will get home safely from school, even if he won’t be there.”

  Ice crept through my veins. “You’re saying you’re alone most of the time?”

  She looked away. She laughed softly, amazement on her face. “I don’t know what I’m saying. Why did I tell you that? I’ve never told anyone.” Her gaze met mine, bewildered and a little lost. “Want to know something else? I’m not as young as the other students. I mean, in age I am, but mentally...I feel ancient. You might be two years older, but most nights, I cook my own meals and get myself to bed.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “Oh my God, why can’t I shut up around you? I don’t even know you.”

  I didn’t reply for the longest moment, struggling with the urge to drag her close. To erase her loneliness.

  But that would be too much, too fast.

  She wasn’t invincible like I’d believed. She wasn’t endlessly brave and selfless. She was hurting.

  Just like me.

  And that could never be permitted.

  “You can tell me things,” I said softly. “I won’t betray your trust.”

  She studied me. Carefully. Intensely. Her hair slipped over her shoulder as she tilted her head. “I believe you.” A blush decorated her cheekbones again. “Ditto. I mean...you can tell me things too. I’m trustworthy.”

  “I know you are.”

  We stared at each other.

  Both aware something had happened.

  Something special.

  Something strong and scary and not entirely explainable.

  We were different.

  But similar.

  And she’d just become mine in this dingy, depressing corridor all because she was brave enough to share a secret with me.

  I wanted to touch her. I’d never wanted anything more.

  But I didn’t.

  Because there would be time for that.

  And I wouldn’t do a damn thing to jeopardise this one perfect, brilliant thing in my life. “Sharing a secret makes us friends...Olin.”

  Her name.

  Fuck, it kicked my heart and tainted my lips.

  She sucked in a breath as I stopped achingly close to her. So close I could pick out the green and brown swirls of her hazel eyes and smell the sweetness of her hair. “I suppose I owe you now.” My voice thickened with gravel.

  I did my best to pull back.

  To rip my eyes from hers and smother the hunger in my tone, but her body softened, welcomed, and a current of power, stronger than electricity, more dangerous than lightning crackled from her heart to mine.

  She blinked, her cheeks flushing. “Owe me? Owe me what?”

  My eyes hooded. “A secret. I owe you a secret.”

  And a kiss.

  And someone who cares if you’re home at night.

  And someone to protect you after you’ve protected everyone else.

  “Oh.” She looked at my chest, then back to my eyes. “You don’t have to.”

  “I want to. You’re special.”

  “I am?”

  “You are.” My fingers burned to touch. To tuck aside the strands of hair dangling by her jaw and trace the sharpness of her cheekbone. To pull her into me. To tell her how rare she was. To ask how she’d stayed so good in a world drenched in darkness.

  But I kept my hands to myself even as my voice betrayed me. “I like you, Olin. That’s my secret. And that’s a pretty big deal for me to admit.”

  I could’ve given other secrets, but I wasn’t ready. Not yet. My other secrets were the kind that would scare off a girl like Olin.

  And I didn’t want to scare her off.

  Ever.

  She locked in place, a catch in her voice that undid me. “You like me?”

  I stepped back so I didn’t do something reckless like kiss her.

  “You like me like me, or just like me?”

  I chuckled. “There’s a difference?”

  “Of course.” Her heart-shaped f
ace etched with seriousness. “Definitely. I need to know exactly how you feel—”

  The classroom door swung open, interrupting our moment as Ms Tallup stuck her head into business that didn’t belong to her—just as she always did. “What on earth is going on? Get back in here. Both of you. Immediately.”

  My heart bucked for all new reasons, filling with resentment.

  Olin jumped with guilt. “Yes, Ms Tallup.”

  She ducked under the teacher’s arm and dashed into the room.

  I schooled my face into a mask of insolence and waited until Ms Tallup dropped her barricade before swaggering into the student-filled space.

  My façade was back.

  My temper hiding the truth.

  Olin was the only one allowed to know how fragile I was beneath the barbwire I used to keep everyone at bay.

  I didn’t know why she was different.

  But she was.

  And I’m keeping her.

  Olin kept her eyes on her math workbook as I passed by, but her gentle whisper met my ears, timid and slightly shocked, but resonating with honesty. “I like you too, Gilbert Clark.”

  No one else heard her in the babble of commotion.

  No one else knew just how much she’d changed my life.

  My legs turned shaky, plummeting me into my hard seat.

  My heart pounded.

  My palms sweated.

  And a grateful smile remained hidden beneath a frown.

  Chapter Six

  ______________________________

  Olin

  -The Present-

  WHO KNEW TIME had the power to drive me insane?

  Two hours Gil had been within touching distance.

  Actually, that isn’t true.

  For two hours, he’d been closer than touching. Kissing distance really.

  Yet he hadn’t said a word to me.

  Not a single syllable.

  It was as if conversation was banished so he could forget it was me he painted, make-believing I was a faceless, nameless model instead.

  I got why he’d want to ignore the pain I caused him.

  But it didn’t mean I was immune from the pain he caused me.

  Time slowed and ensured I was vibrantly aware of everything.

  His masculine smell of citrus and paint. The weight of his shallow, controlled breathing. The way his eyes flashed and noticed every blemish and smudge on my skin, diligently brushing over my imperfections with his talent.

  The impenetrable quietness that had fallen the moment Gil sprayed the first lash of paint only grew thicker.

  If I wobbled, I earned a growl. If I twitched, I earned a pinch.

  I wasn’t permitted to move a fraction without reprimand.

  And not being allowed to move only made the urge unbearable.

  I grew claustrophobic in the middle of his chilly warehouse with just him for company.

  It cost everything to stay still and obey.

  Not that Gilbert cared how I was coping. The intensity I’d witnessed taking him over when he was younger was even more potent now. His art replaced everything. His concentration was his master, making him a slave to colour.

  I might’ve been jilted by the way he no longer saw me as Olin.

  I might’ve been offended by the impertinent way he dismissed me, even while we stood so achingly close.

  But because I knew him. Because I knew the savagery of his talent, I didn’t mind that his eyes stayed focused on a design I couldn’t see. I didn’t shy away when his cool fingers traced my inner thigh, branding me with a wake of fire. I didn’t complain when the soft lickings of his brush ensured I ached with things I had no right to feel.

  I might have flaws but I had courage, and I hid every tingling, tangling, clenching reaction from his methodical painting.

  I was the perfect human canvas.

  Silent.

  Abiding

  Aloof.

  I bit my lip as he ducked close. His messy hair that followed no law flopped over his forehead in strands of glossy dark. He stayed crouched by my lower belly, his breath heating my flesh, his brushstrokes cursing me.

  With a low, displeased grunt, he straightened and tossed the fine bristled brush on his worktable. He swiped at the roguish strands of hair on his forehead, leaving a streak of mottled colour behind.

  “What is it?” I asked quietly, knowing to keep my tone soft around a creative person so deep in their craft. I’d been the same way when I’d practiced new chorography. Noise sounded different when you were in the tight embrace of your calling. A voice was a shotgun. A demand a cannon.

  Gil raked both hands through his hair, uncaring about the smears he left behind. He ignored me, hastily mixing new pigments with a feverish intensity that erupted goosebumps beneath the paint on my skin, disrupting the smoothness of his lines.

  The longer I stood in his empty warehouse, the more I remembered our childhood. How his smile imprinted itself on my heart for always. How his laugh had been so hard earned—his true laugh and not the cynical, detached one he gave in class. I also remembered what it was like to tend to his injuries that he did his best to keep secret.

  He’d been beaten up last night. By who, I didn’t know. But seeing him with a split lip and blackened eye wasn’t new.

  He’d come to school with a few colourful shiners. I’d wiped away blood from his chin. I’d slipped him painkillers for his ribs.

  I’d seen enough of the results of his home life to understand without him telling me: abuse rained under the roof where he slept.

  But...he did tell me.

  One day, when he’d gotten to school late with a bowed head of contrition and a hiss of agony as he slid into his seat, I’d known something was wrong. Something worse than normal.

  After the bell rang and we’d walked far enough from school not to be seen holding hands, I’d gripped his comforting palm with both of mine and tugged him up my street.

  For the first time in my life, I was glad my parents weren’t home. Because that night, I led Gil into my house and refused to let him leave. I ran the bath for his aching muscles. I waited with a fresh towel for when he finished. I stared at his naked chest rivering with warm bubbles and gasped at the horror of what he’d lived.

  Bruises upon bruises.

  Smudges and splodges, scars and slices. His body was a portrait of violence, and when tears came to my eyes and I’d walked into his shaking embrace, all I’d wanted to do was tell him I loved him. To take him to bed. To lie with him. Hug him. Kiss him. Give him what he’d given me: a friend. A person who cared. A person who could become our new family because the current ones we had had failed us.

  Stop it!

  I couldn’t relive such things.

  Couldn’t welcome such sadness.

  The memory of the boy who’d stolen my heart made me soften toward the man who was winter itself. I returned to the present with its slightly chilly warehouse, mostly pretty paintwork, and eternally arctic overseer. “What design are you working on?” I looked down at my naked breasts, unable to see past my arm wedged between them to the picture slowly coming to life on my stomach and hips.

  “Nothing.” Gil finished mixing whatever shade he required and climbed onto the podium beside me. “Stay still.” His lips thinned with demand, but I smiled gently.

  “Okay, Gil.”

  He stiffened at his name, reminding me all over again that there were so many unresolved things between us.

  He’d made my school life a sanctuary, then jammed it full of misery. He’d twisted me up in ways I still hadn’t unravelled.

  Sighing, I slipped back into the strained silence as Gil forgot about me and returned to his art. For the next hour, he focused on my legs. I hissed a couple of times as his air gun tickled between my toes and hid my sudden gasp when his brush traced between my legs like a lover’s caress.

  I stared at him, my pulse gushing so fast it deafened me. I waited for another stroke, another whip of colour, but he care
fully worked on the outside of my hip instead; his jaw locked and motions jerky.

  Twisting a little, I did my best to rid the complicated desire he’d left me with. His fingertips instantly latched around my semi-painted hip. “Did I say you could move?”

  He didn’t look up, and I was glad. Glad because I couldn’t stop the truth burning that his fingers were corrosive, sinking through my flesh, slicing through nerves, until he’d reached into my very body and held bone. My heart struck a match, burning itself, sending blood-red smoke to lick around my ribs.

  What is going on with me?

  Gil made me weak and violent. He made me want to cup his cheeks and demand answers all while slapping his currently cool face and screaming at him for leaving me.

  Gritting my teeth hard enough to ache, I jerked my head up and focused away.

  I didn’t follow his tangled hair as he continued to brush, shadow and light. I didn’t care that he studied my body in a way that was illegal for most bosses yet perfectly acceptable in this studio.

  He hadn’t mentioned my tattoo or scars again since manhandling me into a pose against his black painted wall. He’d removed the offending ink by keeping my back hidden and directed one arm to twist around my waist while the other was placed between my breasts, framing my assets while my fingers locked tight around my nape for purchase.

  There’d been no battling lust or buckling beneath desire when he’d touched me.

  He’d successfully locked that part of himself away, leaving me at his mercy.

  I moved to scratch my nose. The grumbling growl emitting from Gil as he mixed paint at my feet was enough for me to hastily resume the position.

  Three hours was an eternity with no conversation when bodies constantly brushed against each other. My muscles turned stiff and achy. My patience quickly overshadowed by hunger.

  When a muscle twitched involuntarily, I didn’t make a peep. When I trembled, Gil merely steadied me and kept on painting.

  Our dealings with each other were as sharp and silent as knives.

  Gil’s fingers brushed over my lower torso, teasing with the only piece of clothing covering me. He delicately drew a line of vibrant turquoise right along the ridge of my underwear. The brush tickled and made me suck in a breath, but worse, it made my belly clench and nerve endings spring into starving life.