She looks at me like she'd like to see me try, pissed off thatI'mnot more pissed off, her hands clenched into fists. When she doesn't go right away, I cock my head at her, narrow my eyes, half a grin still intact on my face that I can't seem to erase.
"Come on, Ellie," she says finally, and I feel a little bad for taking the wind from her sails. Maybe I should've acted more upset. That was her goal, after all.
She scoops up Ellie's lead and is out of the room in five seconds flat.
"Have a nice walk!" I call after her.
"Yeah, have fun cleaning up,dick," she calls back, and I think Sev's right.
This is progress.
And I know that tonight, when I picture her face while I fuck my own hand, it'll be that moment when her eyes fell to my lipsthat I'll see. Not the memory of her naked on my bed or how it felt to be between her thighs. Just that one second where she let her guard down. Thatoneinstant when she wanted me back.
I can work with that.
When I turn around to grab my cigarettes, my palm connects with an empty table.
"The fuck?"
I stoop to look under it, around it.
She didn't…
I would've noticed.
Rushing to the monitors, I watch as she lights one ofmyFrench cigarettes up in full view of the camera outside. Aurora dramatically exhales a cloud of white into the night, smirking as she walks out of the frame.
32
MUSCLE MEMORY
ELIJAH
The studio feels too big when I sit down at the easel.
It's too bare. Too open. Too clean.
I should've set up in my room, but this will be quick, anyway.
I need to get her out of my head. This means nothing. It doesn't have to be perfect. It's justgetting it out. I've dreamed of painting her almost from the first moment I saw her in the rain. Her eyes. That elegant curve of her neck when her hair is standing up after I've touched her.
Her hands.
My own hands are tight fists atop my thighs as I consider the brushes and myriads of paint colors on the wood palette I've set on the table next to the easel. I swallow and reach for them, but my scars and the bend in my finger make me want to be sick, and I recoil and stand.
I pace to the front window, scrubbing my hands over my face as my stomach turns and my chest is three seconds from caving in. Dawn only broke twenty minutes ago, and the light is still soft and warm as I stand in its glow. I don't know how long I stand there, but after a while, the itching in my blood recedes, and I sigh.
"Try," I mutter to myself. "Just fucking try."
I nod and spin on my heel, speed walking back to the canvas. This time, I don't sit down, I kick the chair out of the way, grab the palette, pushing my thumb through the hole to get a good grip, then pick up a brush.
My skin is electric.
"Do it," I say through my teeth.
I don't pay attention to how the brush feels wrong in my hand. I ignore the pinching sensation between my knuckles from where things didn't heal quite right. It may affect the outcome, but I'm not trying to replicate one of the greats. I'm not painting to impress Mom. She's gone. This is for me.
No one needs to see it.
