CRAVE - BAD BOY ROMANCE (10 page)

CHAPTER
FIFTEEN

I realized after the first half hour
that I'd asked a terribly leading question. I’d also chosen to ask it to what
turned out to be one of the world's most neurotic, helpless, strange little men.
Every time I thought he would come up for air, perhaps even pause his litany of
imagined faults and supposed slights, I was wrong. Dead wrong.

But it wasn't as if Jonathan didn't
have a laundry list of viable complaints. He seemed genuine when he told me
about his dog running away, and I could tell as he related the story of his
cats being hit by cars one after the other on two subsequent days that the
emotions he felt were real.

In fact, as he went on and on I
couldn’t help but shake my head in awe at what he’d gone through. Over the course
of the last three years he’d had his credit card hacked, his driver’s license
lost, his wallet stolen, the transmission on his car had worn out, and more.

So much more.

And that wasn't even counting the
tragic death of his Father. But it was clear that he did his best to take it in
stride. If even half of those things happened to me, me with my self-professed
terrible life, I would have been certain that the universe was out to get me.

But not Jonathan. I wasn't sure yet
if he believed in God, but he seemed far more interested in what my Grandmother
had done for him than whatever shit he’d had to put up with before he found her
help.

But there was so much to his story!
At first I thought him simply a complainer, one of those people I tended to imagine
were squeaky wheels, the type who made more noise the more they were paid
attention to. But as he went on, as he told story after story with that sad little
smile on his face and the square set to his narrow shoulders, my heart slowly began
to break for him.

“How about something to drink?” I
asked. “I hope you don't mind me interrupting you, but I'm parched. Would you
like something?”

The sad smile turned to something
bright and cheerful. “I would, if you don't mind.”

I nodded and stood up, happy to have
a pause in Jonathon’s tale of woe. I knew in the back of my mind that the power
was on, that there would be nothing cold in the fridge. I didn't let that
bother. I needed a break and I felt that Jonathan did to. I hadn't thought of
it before, but it must be exhausting to try and catch a stranger up on years of
misfortune and bad luck.

“Tap water would be just fine,” he
said, upon seeing my hesitation. “I don't mean to be any trouble…”

“No, no,” I said quickly, hurrying to
the cabinet and grabbing two clean glasses. It was kind of him to give me an
out, and I reminded myself that there had been two miserable creatures in the
living room a moment ago, not just one.

At least I'm sure the
water works
, I
thought to myself. Even as the thought formed in my head, I worried that I'd
somehow jinx myself. I could picture myself turning the knob and nothing coming
out of the faucet, much to my embarrassment.

But it wasn't to be. Sure, the water
was a little warm, but it looked clean and when I took a sip and didn't notice
any of the chlorine bite or metallic aftertaste I'd gotten too used to in
Detroit I was happy.

I brought in both glasses when I’d
filled them, handing him one and setting mine down on the coffee table.

“Thank you very much,” he said, with a
gratitude I found touching. “You're very kind.”

“I'm just trying to put you at ease
as best I can,” I told him.

He nodded. “Marie used to let me
look,” he said sheepishly, pointing with one slender finger at the notebook that
sat beside me on the couch. “Do you mind?”

I froze, caught off guard. “Well, if
I'm honest, I wasn't really taking notes about you or anything. There wouldn't
be much to look at. I mean, it's just my sketchbook.”

He shrugged. “You seemed to be doing
something in it the whole time I was talking.”

Had I? The hour and a half he’d been
speaking was a blur, though I did seem to remember opening the notepad at some
stage and doing a doodle or two. I hadn't thought he noticed, since he was so
engrossed in the story, but clearly I'd been wrong.

“You can take a look if you like,” I
said, as curious as he was about what he'd find if he did.

“Oh no,” he said, “I don't want to
intrude, if that's not how you do things. I can understand that you have a new
process. He checked his watch. “Oh my,” he said in his best white rabbit
impersonation, “I'm late for a very important date”.

“Really?” I blurted, unable to keep
the skepticism from my voice.

He laughed a little. “No, not really.
I'm just going home to my third cat, but I know you have an appointment at
noon. And that's only a few minutes away, so…”

I frowned at this little man who knew
my schedule better than I did. “Oh really? And how do you know that?”

“People talk,” he said. “It's kind of
a big deal that you're here doing what you're doing, you know.”

I pursed my lips, wondering how far
this information had gotten and how much more damage it would do when I pulled
up stakes and went back to Detroit. I hadn't wanted to give anyone false hope.
All I'd ever wanted was to try and help a few desperate people while I was
here.

“Right,” I said, looking around the
room. Was I supposed to give him something now? Some talisman or artifact, some
voodoo enriched everyday object to keep with him and imagine its power working on
him as he slept?

He could sense how uncomfortable I
was and once again, Jonathan did me the service of bailing out. “Thank you so
much once more for seeing me,” he said. “If anything comes to you, please don't
hesitate to let me know.”

“I won't,” I said, more than a little
taken aback. For that? Were we done?

I suppose the answer was yes, because
he stood up and gave me a curt little bow before hurrying on the front door.

I sat back down. It was incredibly
bright outside the almost noon day sun blazed away. The room was warm and getting
warmer, though the lack of electricity draped me in long and pleasant shadows.

What just happened
? Jonathan had seemed happy, but it
was clear he was expecting some further outcome that I didn't quite understand.
With a sigh, I realize that if I wanted the truth of what was expected of me,
I'd probably have to bite the bullet and go ask Cade.

I didn't want to. My head was split
right down the middle when it came to the subject of the man living behind my
house. On the one hand, I seemed to be obsessed with him, littering my dreams
and my artwork with this form. On the other, he antagonized me to no end. He
pushed me when I didn't need to be pushed, and his arrogance was more than a
little overwhelming.

But I’d have to set all that aside
for now, especially if he was going to help me out.

I went to the mirror and made sure my
hair wasn't a mess. The last time I'd gone out looking for him I’d been
practically naked, but at least this time I was still wearing the dress from
yesterday. Of course, I had gone to my grandmother's funeral in that dress,
which prompted me to head down the hallway and into my room to change.

A T-shirt and white shorts. It was a
cute little outfit, and at least it would keep me cooler than most of the stuff
I’d brought. When I packed my clothes in Detroit I hadn't thought about the
heat, and I still had to figure out a way to do laundry if I was going to be
wearing any of the clothes I brought for second time this trip.

Once I was as happy as I could be with
the way I looked, I went out to the kitchen. He wasn’t there, so I continued
out the back door and down the backyard path, around to the front of Cade's
house. I was about to push open the gate and knock on the front door again when
I heard him tinkering in the garage.

I changed direction and headed for
the source of the sound.

He was in there with his back to me,
pieces of his motorcycle strewn on the tarp he’d placed on the cement floor of
the garage. He was shirtless, and the scarred and tattooed muscles of his back
glistened with sweat.

I should've said something. I
should've made some noise, or found some other way to let them know that I'd
managed to sneak up on him.

But I didn't. And once I hadn't, I
was stuck. Anything I did now would just make him wonder how long I'd been
there, how long I’d been drooling over his rock hard body.

There was something about him.
Something primal. Something animal. It made me slick with desire, and I felt
the craving for his touch blur my vision.

This was hardly the first time I was
noticing it, but that didn't change how powerful the effect was that he had on
me. I felt my nipples go hard and a flush creep up my breasts. My knees went
weak. My fingers tingled.

I had to get out of here. Out of this
garage, before he saw me. Out of the state, before my heart wouldn't let me go
home.

And of course, Cade chose just that
moment to turn around and find me watching him.

“Rachel, he said,” his voice its
usual growl. “How did your appointment go?”

“That's what I came out to talk to
you about,” I said. “Because I'm not really sure.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I bit my lip, not sure where
to start.

“Did he pay you at least? Cade asked.
“That's usually how you know how well things went…”

“Really?”
Shit
, I thought to myself,
I
guess you’re way worse at this than you thought
. “No, he didn't give me any
money. Was I supposed to ask for it?”

Cade shook his head, and I could see
the ghost of a smile pass his face. “No, and it's good that you didn't. Poor
form, and all that. Go back in there and poke around. It would be rude for him
to simply hand you an envelope full of bills. Knowing Jonathan, he stashed it
somewhere.”

“Where?” The clutter of grandma's
voodoo living room is not something I want to tackle in the gloom, especially
right now. Jessica would be here soon, and if I didn't work out what I'd done
wrong I'd do it wrong all over again.

“Look,” he said. “Turn around and
check the living room. It won't be hard to find. He's not try to hide it from
you Rachel, he's just making it less awkward to pay you. It'll be near where he
was sitting.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“But he was in the house while I was
asleep,” I told him, hoping that reminding him that he’d let in a stranger would
make some of my anger return and finding that it didn't. It was too hard to get
mad at Cade when he stood there as if carved from tanned and tattooed marble.

“I know, I know. But he'll have
decided what to pay you somewhere around the end of the session, and unless he
was wandering all over the room, it’s going to be near where he was sitting.
Now go.”

“Okay.” I started backing away but
one more question crossed my mind, and I knew that by asking it I'd buy a few
more seconds of gazing at his magnificence. “But when I find it, how do I know how
well I did? How much did Jonathan pay my Grandmother, for sessions with him?”

He shrugged. “I'm not really sure,
Rachel. It was none of my business and so I never asked. Somewhere between fifty
and sixty bucks, if I had to guess.”

“Gotcha,” I said. “Thanks,”

“Don't mention it.” I expected him to
turn back and continue tinkering on his bike, but instead he watched me go and
I felt his eyes on my body until I rounded the corner of his garage.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I hurried
back inside, eager to see what Jonathon had thought of the session. I wasn't
kidding myself, though. I had no intention of making a living out of this after
all, and I told myself that whatever amount he paid me, I'd be flattered. I'd
return it to him of course, but I'd be flattered nonetheless.

I was still worried that I'd have to
rush around before Jessica got here but as usual, Cade had been right. Jonathon
had tucked a plain white envelope into the cushions of the couch he'd been
sitting on.

I picked it up and counted the money
inside.

A hundred and twenty dollars. Twice
what Cade had guessed Grandma had ever gotten from him, and possibly too much
tax-free money for me to simply ignore. I'd been a starving artist for most of
my life, and before I'd done my best to sell out the way I'd been doing I was a
foster kid with
no
money. If I ever
had an allowance it was never more than a couple of dollars. Hell, it had only
been the last few days I could sell the crap commissioned art I'd been hawking
for more than a thousand bucks, and that was after weeks of back breaking work.

I couldn't keep it. I knew that. Hard
up as I was, accepting this money was no different than stealing. It had been
all well and good to think of myself as some street-psychiatrist when I'd been
letting Jonathon spill his guts for an hour and a half, but now that I had his
hard earned cash in my hand, I felt terrible.

Why, apparently I hadn't even been
properly paying attention to what he'd been saying! By his own admission, I'd
spent most of the time drawing in my notebook, doodling mindless things that I
didn't even remember creating.

I looked at my watch, wondering where
Jessica was. Maybe I'd been startled at first by Jonathon's odd habit of
breaking and entering, but at least he'd been prompt. And after Jessica's
enthusiasm yesterday, I found it hard to believe that she'd ditch our
appointment.

I put the envelope stuffed with money
into my purse, reminding myself that it was only mine for a little while before
going to the front window and peering out into the blistering sunlight. Even
here, three feet away from the glass I could feel the heat radiating in at me.
I touched my fingers to my forehead. They came away damp with sweat, but it
wasn't the dripping, terrible perspiration that had made me feeling like I was
drowning in the humidity only a day or two earlier. Could I really be getting
used to the weather already?

I frowned, sitting back down on the
couch, trying not to tap my feet or bounce my leg in nervous anticipation as I
bided my time. Where was she? I hadn't had a chance to let my apprehension get
to me when Jonathon had showed up, but this was different. For a start, I
didn't think there was any way I could ‘help’ her the same way I had him. She
wouldn’t sit there and list here problems for me.

No, I got the feeling she was going
to expect something a bit more proactive, and
much
more hands on.

And what on earth was taking her so
long? I didn't think I could be wrong about her interest in seeing me, not
after the emotional response she had in the changing room, but here I was, a
knot in my stomach as I wondered if I’d been stood up.

Had she had second thoughts?

I hadn't asked for any sort of
contact details from her yesterday, which seemed now like a foolish oversight.
I knew she owned the dress shop, though I didn't remember the name of it. And,
since she gifted me the dress I was still wearing, I didn't even have a receipt
to check.

Cade would know, of course. But
asking him would remind him that she wasn’t her yet, and then I’d be stuck
trying to explain to him what I wanted to do next.

Which was what, exactly?

I guess I could go down there and see
if I could speak to her. That was probably a bit of an overreaction, though.
And with my luck, we’d pass each other like two ships in the night, her knocking
on my front door, only to be unanswered and me peering into her darkened shop
window, wondering where the hell she was.

Which meant I had to sit here on my
butt, anxious pins and needles running up and down my spine while I waited for
an appointment I didn't even know if I wanted to occur. It was a ridiculous
situation, but are finding myself in more and more ridiculous situations of
late.

Thanks, Grandma…

With nothing to do and nowhere to go,
I reached out and picked up the notebook once again. May as well flip through
this and see what had been on my mind while Jonathan had been talking.

The first page was boring; nothing
more than a few ideas I’d drawn weeks ago for the cereal client. Seeing them
made me realize just how much time I was wasting in Louisiana, but there was no
way I could change that right this second.

There were still a few things to play
out here before I could go back home, and my graphic design business, if I could
even call it that, would just be one of several things that had to suffer along
the way.

I flipped hurriedly through the
notebook, and it wasn't until I was halfway through it or so that I found the
pages I'd been drawing on today.

Some artists are chameleons. They
pride themselves on being able to adapt to any style, any technique. One day
you might see their work at a museum, where they'd retouched a famous painting
and the next you'd marvel at an animation or movie poster they had a hand in as
well, never realizing the works had come from the same artist.

Being able to blend in like that was a
skill, and a very marketable one at that. Not everyone wanted something
distinctive, especially not if it was going to take away from the brand.

I'm no chameleon. For good or bad,
once you've seen a few of my pieces of art you can recognize the rest a mile
away. The pallet, the brushstrokes either real or digital, the line work; I stick
out like a sore thumb if you know what to look for.

Which is why the things I’d drawn while
listening to Jonathan scared me so badly. I could see subtle hints of myself here
and there, mere shadows of the way I usually did things. I'd only had a black
pen to work with, but somehow the spider that dominated the first page had
glistening, red eyes. I sat there and felt my breath catch in my throat.

Had I done this?
Of course you did
, I told myself. It was a stupid question, because
I was the only person in the room other than Jonathan and I knew for a fact he
hadn't left his couch. The work was too complex, far too time-consuming for me
to imagine that Cade or Jonathan or anyone else had slipped into the room and
completed it. Besides, hadn't I just admitted that I could see shadows of my
own technique in the eight legged monstrosity spread across the paper?

I turned the page, only to see a
beautiful, stark landscape of a swamp spread out beneath the setting sun. The
red sun that blazed along the horizon was reflected in the still water below,
and I put my hand to my mouth to stifle the gasp. When I did, I realized that my
thumb was aching painfully.

I looked at it is surprise, annoyed
that one of my more irritating childhood habits had reared its ugly head once
more, despite me having considered it beaten years and years ago. I'd been
chewing my nails, and one of the cuticles was angry and frayed. It had bled,
and very recently.

That explains the red,
I suppose
.

I turned the page again and
discovered something very different than the landscape and the spider I'd seen
before. This was a close-up picture of a keyhole. Seventy or eighty percent of
the page was blocked by the door the keyhole was set in, but enough was visible
of the room beyond to see a leather jacket with red writing on the back of it.
I couldn't make out who was wearing it, and from the angle I was unable to tell
if the owner shared Cade’s muscular frame.

That was the last of the pictures.
Spider, a swamp at sunset, and this keyhole scene. And none of them meant
anything to me at all, though they had clearly been done by my own hand…