Sometimes I think that’s the only thing I’ll miss when I finally get the courage to leave this empty shell of a home. That and all the glorious and emotion-filled images shut away in this room. My mother’s life work treated like a dirty secret, hidden from view.
“You feel far too hot,” I murmur, my words captured in the silken pink strands of hair that lie flat at the base of Avon’s skull. My nose rubs against the ridges of her spine, listening to the pattern of her breaths change, her attention diverting away from the work.
“Only because someone has their overheated body wrapped around me.”
“That’s not the reason.” I gently nip a tiny piece of cotton fabric into my mouth, tugging just enough for her to feel it before releasing. “More like someone’s wearing far too much clothing.”
I stretch behind me to lay the palette on the side bench, then curl my free hand around her midriff, plucking at her shirt before I slide my hand underneath. The skin retracts in shock, then calms. Retrieving the paintbrush from her fingers, I pull the top over her head, leaving it caught on her arms as I bend to press a row of kisses along her backbone.
“This isn’t the deal,” she says in warning. “Exclusive paintings in return for pleasure, remember?”
“I’m not about to jump your bones.” My voice is light, teasing enough for her to turn and catch my eye. “To be clear, I would like to and promise to later, but this is work.”
“Work?”
I lean backwards far enough to dab my brush into black, then lightly touch it to her shoulder. She gasps and jumps, but I hold her steady, waiting for a breath, then complete the line I started.
“What are you doing?”
“Painting on the world’s most beautiful canvas.”
“Oh, sure. Beautiful if you don’t mind pudgy with a side-helping of spots.”
Her tone isn’t even self-deprecating. Just like she’s reciting facts. “I don’t know what the fuck you see when you look in the mirror, but I don’t think it’s the same.” I finish one curve, then start another. Not with a picture in mind, just following the contours of her body to discover where it leads.
“What I see in the mirror is what the rest of the world sees.”
The brittle words in her soft mouth make me frown. “Then the rest of the world is crazy. I’ve been falling asleep with yourimage in my head every night and I can confirm you are best-looking girl ever, hands down.”
She gives another shake of her head, skin humming like she’s upset.
“What I see is a girl whose every emotion spills out of her.”
The line I paint from her neck along her shoulder is incredible. The moment my brush swirls to a stop, I return to the beginning, painting another, just a tiny fraction to the side. Then I go back again.
“Your eyes are so large, brimming with tears one second, creased with laughter the next. I remember watching you in English class before the party.” I reset the brush in my hand to tug her short hair. “Before the dye job. You walked out of class, and I barely heard Wilder telling me he’d arranged a party at my house because I was wondering what you’d say if I asked you out.”
Avon’s so still, she could be asleep. Then she lunges out of my grasp, spinning on her heel to face me.
“You watched me in English class and a day later didn’t recognise me sitting in your bedroom. Is that what you want me to believe?” Tears spills down her face and she swipes at them, rubbing them with her t-shirt, then trying to put it on again, the tag sticking from the seam because it’s inside-out.
“The only thing I want you to believe is that you’re beautiful because it’s true.”
But she’s collecting her bag, pulling on her jacket.
“What’re you doing? There are hours of good light left.”
“I’m going home.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ZANE
“No,”I say, moving to block her path to the door. “You’re not leaving.”
“Get out of the way.” Her shoulders hitch, breathing deteriorating like it did when she was being targeted by the bully.
“Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”
