The call ends and I lower the phone.
Seven days.
A man like Mateo Alvarez.
Vandal hurt.
A war on the horizon.
And I asked Maren to be my old lady but won’t take the club vote until Vandal is able to lift his hand with us.
I take a breath. And another.
And remember this is why I’m a fucking Outlaw.
36
MAREN
Istretch in bed, every limb as taut as I can get it, then relax in a whoosh.
I don’t move. I just lie there, blinking, as my eyes adjust to the daylight seeping in around the blinds. And that same warmth I’d felt when I was with Knox on his property, one of complete happiness, floods through me in a warm rush.
I’m loved.
In a way I’d never thought I could be.
By a man I thought wouldn’t look at me if I were the last woman on earth.
Something has splintered inside me, and I couldn’t put myself back together again, even if I wanted to.
I don’t want to be safe anymore.
I push myself up in bed. My hair’s a mess, but my limbs feel loose. And the whisper of anxiety I used to feel at the start of the day is gone.
A glance at the clock tells me I still have an hour before I have to open the shop. We’ve got some big deliveries coming in for various customers, so I need to open on time to meet them.
I roll out of bed and head to the kitchen to make coffee, but as soon as it’s bubbling, I shift to the easel and look at what I produced last night.
“It’s good,” I say, almost surprised at myself. It’s not a literal painting of Knox and me up against the tree. You wouldn’t even see two bodies if you didn’t know. But I do. I see the curves of Knox’s shoulders in the dark, sweeping strokes. And the arch of my back in some lighter, almost gold where the sun catches my skin.
There’s movement in it. Heat. It’s blues and greens and gold, like the very swamp is a living breathing thing around us.
It’s moody and expressive.
It draws you in.
I reach out my fingers and hover just shy of the canvas, scared that if I touch the paint, I’ll ruin it, somehow.
And for once, there’s no voice in my head telling me it isn’t good enough.
There’s no correction and no criticism.
Just a very real urge to accept Icanpaint.
The coffee splutters to a halt, and I jump. “You will not overthink this.”
I make a mug of coffee, then grab my phone.
