Shelter Me: A Shelter Novel (15 page)

B
rayden
and I went out to dinner the following evening, for some bonding time. We also took in a gallery show for another up-and-coming artist, and thankfully there wasn't much press there. I felt bad for the artist, but happy for me, since the last thing I wanted was to be in the paper at the same time as Jared was.

Ann Maslow had been quiet. I wasn't ashamed to say I'd been googling her name in order to keep up on her most recent articles, and there was nothing about me in any of them.

Still, I wouldn't let my guard down. She was too smart to not trust her obvious suspicions, and I had no doubt she was digging for information.

When I got back to my apartment, Brayden came in and made us coffee. When I began to wander over to my canvases, I heard him tell me goodbye and him turning on my alarm for me before he left to go upstairs.

Several hours later, covered in paint and emotionally exhausted, I stood back and surveyed my newest work against the backdrop of some of the older ones I'd taken to studying, particularly some of the
Man in Trees
portraits that I kept out, because they made me feel like I was back in the Catskills. That brought a sense of comfort to me the nights when I needed it most.

Tonight, that sense of comfort grew cold when I realized what I was looking at. I’d set out to work on the commissioned piece—and I obviously had. But it took me several moments to figure out what was wrong. It was almost like a sense of being off balance, as if I was seasick, unable to get my sea legs.

It was nothing like what I'd set out to paint. My mind had overridden everything else but what my muse wanted. Sometimes I looked on it as a gift. Tonight, I was just frustrated.

The house I'd painted was barely recognizable—dark, run-down and frightening, like a haunted house, a place to be avoided rather than revered and worth the amount of money I'd been paid to paint it. The outside was an angry slash of blue, a deep indigo combined with a cut of red in the dark sky that looked unnatural and menacing. The beach in front of it held the angry waves of a storm in progress instead of the tranquil blue waters of the day scene. And all of it was shrouded, as if it was trying to hide from everyone…but especially from me.

The storm echoed what I felt inside as I stared hard at my creation. I looked closer at the yellow and red smudges on the sanded beach and then took a step back as if trying to erase what I'd seen.

Daffodils.

Blood.

Fuck.

Immediately, I moved the four other paintings I'd attempted of the commissioned piece. Each of them hinted at the darkness I'd drawn…each of them represented a different season, three of them set during dusk and this one, black of night.

None of them looked like a fair representation of the photo of the house I was supposed to be painting. All of them looked like puzzle pieces that didn't fit together, had no meaning for me beyond the daffodils scattered on the beach.

Daffodils had shown up in my apartment, but no blood. I had zero memory of this house. Nothing about it reminded me of anything. It didn't jolt my senses.

"None of it fits," I muttered, my frustration practically morphing my words into a growl. What surprised me was how violent I felt, as if I wanted to reach out and destroy all my paintings. Whoever was leading me to discover my past was doing a piss-poor job of it. And I told them so, in case they were listening. "You're not helping me, and I'm tired of being scared. Asshole."

No one answered, but I felt better, at least. Slightly more in control.

When the phone rang a few seconds later, I picked up Brayden's call.

"I can't sleep—are you working?"

"I'm yelling at the paintings."

"New technique?"

"Something like that." It was only then I realized that something else was wrong, because the
Man in Trees
paintings weren't in the order I'd left them in. I closed my eyes and realized that the three commissioned paintings hadn't been either, but I'd been in too much of a hurry to notice. Now, I moved to put them back where they'd been as I told Brayden, "Someone's been in here."

"Shit." I could hear him leaving his apartment and coming to me. "You're way too laid back about this."

I heard him using the key, walking in until he was staring at my newest painting, which was still front and center, the phone still at his ear. "Fuck me."

"You're not my type," I told him.

He hung up and moved closer. "Who are you and what have you done with Ryn? And what the fuck is this?"

"New painting. I'll show you it with the others in a second. But first, check all of those—there's a new order here. Whoever's breaking in is trying to tell me something."

Together, Brayden and I stared at the paintings. After many long minutes of silence, he said, "Basically, he's saying that your memories are out of order."

"I guess even my dreams are faulty." I pointed to the floor.
"
They left my
Man in Trees
pieces alone again."

Brayden gave them a hard stare and muttered something about how even psychos had taste.

"I know you don't like them, but they are my best sellers."

"Pretty equal now with the landscapes." He glanced at me. "I couldn't sleep because I got a call from Jared."

"Trying to turn him?" Brayden just stared at me. "Fine. What for?"

Brayden sighed. "He wants to use some of your paintings in the movie." I stared at him, open-mouthed. "Now you understand why I can't sleep. I'm thinking he doesn't know what I know, about anything. But he knows you'll get this message."

Finally, I managed, "What's he trying to do? To see if anyone notices them and makes a connection?"
Anyone
being Ann Maslow.

"He claims he's trying to help your profile."

"Or put me in more danger." I hugged my arms around myself and stared at the dark beach painting. "Do you think this will bring out my past?"

"It might. He might." Brayden shrugged. "But the more people who know…the more protected you are. And speaking of protected, your boyfriend and his minion are supposed to be the best at protection."

"I can call Lucas."

"I'm calling Grant. He gave me his number."

"He didn't give it to you so you could call and yell at him."

"Too fucking bad," Brayden told me, phone to his ear. Grant must've picked up right away because Brayden continued with, "Yeah, your alarms suck because someone broke into Ryn's. What? No, I'm not drunk. Asshole." He hung up. "Grant's on his way. So is Lucas. And Lucas is pissed you didn't call him."

"I was going to, until you had your hissy fit."

Brayden pointed at me. "Don't even."

* * *

L
ucas looked
fierce as he stalked around my apartment, but only after hugging me and making sure I was okay.

I was angry, but I was okay. And very glad he was there.

"Let me take you to my place," he said.

"No—I won't be pushed out. Besides, someone wants me to learn something. So I'm trying to learn."

"No one's learning shit tonight. Not with me here."

That was probably true. Things like this didn't happen when Lucas was here. There were no random flowers appearing or paintings changing order.

Behind me, I heard Brayden and Grant arguing in low voices. Grant told me that no one had broken in but Brayden immediately insisted that Grant's alarm installation was faulty. That wasn't sitting right with Lucas, but Grant was really and truly pissed.

We left Brayden and Grant to sort things out. I'd taken enough pictures of the paintings so I could study the order, but in reality, I knew staring at them wasn't going to help me. Wouldn't it have already?

It was close to four in the morning by the time we got to Lucas's. He'd stopped to pick up food from the diner around the corner, and we both ate our breakfasts in relative silence. I still couldn't bring myself to stop thinking about the commissioned painting.

"Does Brayden know who commissioned the pieces?" Lucas asked after he studied the photos I'd brought along.

"He said it's anonymous. He's got a P.O. Box to send the paintings to and the down payment was cash."

He was on his phone, talking to Grant. "Ask Brayden to give you the P.O. Box for the commissioned painting and run it." He listened for a second and said, "Let me know."

Then he held up the house pictures. "I can scan these and do an image search."

"Okay."

"But maybe you're not ready for that."

He'd read my hesitation too easily. "I want to know, Lucas, but…"

"You want to do it through your own memories," he finished.

"Yes."

He nodded. "I get that. But what if we get a town…or an owner? Just because you have a name, that's not taking away from your possible memories. Maybe that'll trigger it."

"Can I think about it?"

"Yes." He finished his coffee. "You could return the money and say fuck it to the painting."

I could, yes.
"It's not about the money. This is the first real memory trigger for me."

He shook his head. "I don't like the idea of you being manipulated."

"I don't either, but if I don't do this now, I'll always be manipulated." I paused. "Can we watch a movie? I'm not tired, but I need to get my mind off this."

Lucas agreed, and for the next two hours we were on the couch, watching an action movie that was so fast-paced I couldn't tear my eyes off the screen.

When it ended, I went to his kitchen to get more coffee. When I came back, he was still in the same place and I took a second to assess him, as if I was going to draw him.

On second thought, I doubled back, grabbed the pen and paper I'd seen on his kitchen counter and did just that, sketching quickly.

Of course, he knew what I was doing, watched me with the half-amused smirk but staying in position.

On first meeting him, he'd seemed arrogant—sure of himself to the point of cockiness. He was still arrogant, but dressed in old sweats, with bare feet and a ripped T-shirt, I saw something else…

He was prowly, for lack of a better word. And I told him so.

"Prowly?" He narrowed his eyes. "Is that a compliment?"

"It's like you're stalking. Staking your claim. You do it wherever you go."

"Really?"

"Yes," I informed him. "And you do it here, too, even though it's your place. But you do it in a different way, like you're checking what's yours. Strengthening the perimeters. Putting up walls of defenses."

He smiled a little. "Remember, Ryn, you're already inside. Plank's up. Alligators in the moat."

His feet were up on the coffee table. Masculine, beautiful feet. Elegant and graceful, just like him, but I had zero doubt of his ability to leap and lunge and tear someone's throat out.

Instead of scaring me, it made me hot. "There," I said, more to myself than him. I had my sketch. I could paint from this, and most likely from memory but a reminder never hurt.

* * *

L
ucas brought
me home late the next afternoon. We'd been inside the apartment for ten minutes when the doorman buzzed up that there was a flower delivery for me. My stomach was a bundle of nerves until Lucas opened the door and brought in the Gerbera daises.

Not
daffodils. And this bouquet was wrapped from the flower shop down the street, and there was a card.

After Lucas read it though, I began to think that I might rather the daffodils when he growled, "It's from your favorite author."

Dammit.
I stared at the flowers and mentally cursed Jared.

"So, what does he want?"

"My paintings," I explained. "He called Brayden last night. He wants to use my paintings for an apartment scene in his movie."

"He wants to use
your
paintings in
his
movie?" I could tell Lucas was tamping down his temper. "You know what this means, right?"

"He's either trying to out me or use the threat to get me to lend my paintings, which would mean I'd be outing myself," I said. "So yes, I'm trying to process what to do, or was, until I realized that someone had broken in."