Shelter Me: A Shelter Novel (8 page)

"Have you always painted?"

"Yes," I said firmly. It was always the answer in the forefront of my mind. Right or wrong, I felt it was the correct one.

"I should let you get on with your work," he said.

I didn't want the conversation to end. I had so many more questions, about his childhood, his job…but my questions would breed questions about my own childhood, and I wasn't ready for that. "Tomorrow," I reminded him.

"Tomorrow," he told me firmly.

* * *

B
rayden showed
at my door the next morning with breakfast and more importantly, coffee, but with no real explanation of where he'd gone to last night. Instead, he laid out the food on my kitchen island while I tucked my legs under me on one of the stools and sipped the hot, strong coffee with one shot and foamed milk and immediately forgave him.

"Lucas called last night," I started. Brayden's brows rose. "I didn't tell him about the auction."

"It was getting tense with the bidding when I left," he offered.

"You didn't see who won?"

He gave a rueful smile. "Meghan already called the gallery with a time and place. That's why I'm here—to caffeinate you and deliver you to her within the hour."

I took back my feelings of forgiveness immediately. "I should never have agreed to this auction," I moaned, feeling very sorry for myself.

"Definitely not," Brayden agreed.

"You're the idiot who made me to do it."

"Since when did you start listening to me?"

"I should've known it was a trap. Maybe she'll agree to a gag."

"Kinky."

I threw my napkin at him and wondered if Meghan would've had the balls to bid if Lucas had been there? And if Lucas knew, would he stop the portrait session? Pay Meghan off so I could get out of it?

No, I had to deal with this myself, mainly because that last thought annoyed me. I didn't want Lucas to run my entire life. Granted, it made things easier, but I refused to get used to it. He could be gone in a flash. He'd already disappeared for weeks, and I was still annoyed that I'd allowed myself to care.

"Where am I meeting her highness?" I asked.

"At my suggestion, at the gallery, in the back room. It's safer for you to be around other people, like my assistant."

I agreed, then paused. "Wait, did she suggest the back room?"

Brayden frowned slightly. "Actually, she did."

I groaned. "Suppose she wants a nude?"

"She wouldn't," he scoffed.

* * *

S
he did
—a "partial, tasteful nude," Meghan emphasized through her perfectly nude pouted lips, then shrugged out of her dress in one lithe move, calculatedly naked underneath. Casually, she bent down to pick up the material, smoothing it out over the back of the nearest chair before kicking off her heels and settling onto the upholstered bench without a hint of self-consciousness.

She didn't have a reason to be. I couldn't find a flaw and trust me, I wanted to. But today, I was being paid to be the artist with a cool, critical eye. I appraised her the way I imagined Ann Maslow did a perfect piece of artwork.

From an objective point of view, she was beautiful. Technically, at least, which to me always translated as cold, even though I tried to be objective. Part of it was because I couldn't stand her, but I'd be damned if I let that screw up my artwork. That was all I needed, to have her show off work that wasn't my best.

No, I was going to really see her, no matter if it killed me.

I studied her for a while.

Perfection in and of itself could be really boring. Part jealous bitch and part truth-teller. I needed to find an odd angle, a shadow, an imperfection….something to focus on or else this portrait would look boring as fuck.

Perfect didn't translate well to the canvas, and the canvas would hold my name.

Her legs were curled partially under her, breasts bared unselfconsciously, long neck graceful in the morning sunshine. Brayden's assistant, Suki, had placed the bench by the window with the most light pouring down on it earlier before giving me a glance that was all apology.

"Is this position okay?" Meghan asked finally, fishing for a spoken compliment, even though I know I'd given her enough with my facial expression.

Brayden always told me to never play poker…at least not for money. "Strip poker's probably okay," he'd joked.

"The bench placement is fine. Not sure of your position just yet."
Where are your flaws, Meghan? Show them to me. Come out, come out wherever you are…

Meghan sighed, unappreciative of the work she couldn't yet see. She was already antsy. "You're not surprised I bid."

"Not really. Maybe a little."

She sighed. "This was probably a mistake."

Really? Or was this persona a calculated move? "We'll make it work."

Her eyes locked on mine. "Why would you do that?"

I tilted my head and stared at her. She wouldn't be my BFF. Maybe she'd hate the portrait, but I wouldn't. I was going to create something that would reveal her, something I would always be proud of.

I made art. Sometimes it revealed the ugly side of life, but the art itself was never inherently ugly.

But I didn't tell her any of that. Instead, I skimmed over her question and said, "The pose isn't working. It's been done a thousand times. Let's try for different."

She narrowed her eyes at me, unsure of whether or not she could trust me. "What are you thinking?"

"Something less perfect," I said honestly. "You might have to get dirty. Literally."

Surprisingly, she didn't object. For the next ten minutes, she sat and waited for me to give the next directions, which included me "painting" her, with Suki's help, with a mixture of brown paint watered down just enough to look like dirt. We moved the bench and threw down a drop cloth.

It was far less Playboy bunny than her first pose and somehow way more seductive—at least I thought so, and I was pretty sure most red-blooded males who liked women would agree. This was dirty-sexy-hot, and Meghan actually seemed to enjoy it. Even her smile was wicked but not practiced…there was something of a teenage rebellion-freedom thing happening and I cranked up some classic rock as I sketched and lost track of time.

"Lucas is a very complicated man. I don't think in all those years I ever even scratched the surface," Meghan started, out of the blue, and I was trapped. I just wanted to paint and finish, but I wasn't even close to being done, and if I walked now, I'd have to start all over again.

I glanced up at her, acknowledging that I'd let her talk, then went back to shading my initial sketch. Her skin was even more gorgeous in the morning light, almost luminous, especially since her look today was very natural.

"He needed me so badly at one point. I helped him through a difficult period. I was there for him, and after he used me to heal, he was gone."

I wanted to tell her that Lucas wasn't healed at all, but I bit my tongue.

"He makes you think he'll be there. That he's never felt like this. He makes you fall for him and then he backs off like you're trying to trap him."

"You can't keep someone who doesn't want to stay," I said finally, and with a great deal of caution. "And why would you want that? You don't deserve that—you deserve someone who'll be there wholeheartedly." She looked surprised that I'd spoken at all, but I wasn't done. "I had nothing to do with coming between you and Lucas."

"I know that. I'm not stupid."

"No, you're stuck." I motioned. "Leg forward please."

She did as I asked and I painted in blissful silence for several hours. In my mind, I labeled her painting
Fierceness and Fear
because those two emotions fought for dominance in her expression. In the end, I'd shadowed half her face and changed that expression slightly, as if she wore two masks at once. She stared out at a point over my shoulder, tears threatening but never falling, looking beautiful in her vulnerability.

I didn't kid myself about this fragile truce—if anything, she'd hate me more after this, especially after she saw the painting. This whole commissioning would do the opposite of what she'd intended. I'd know her far too well, and she'd hate me for it…if she didn't already.

I
'd stayed
at the gallery late, finishing up the final touches on Meghan's painting. Brayden's assistant texted a picture of the finished piece to Meghan and assured her that it would be delivered in the morning to allow the paint to dry further. Meghan had been agreeable to that and I was definitely mentally exhausted and totally fucked up from the entire experience. Maybe Meghan
had
known what she was doing. Maybe I
was
the stupid one. Add to that, I'd learned from my doorman that Turner had tried to pay me a visit earlier that day and I'd been spinning by the time I'd reached my door.

The bright spot—and what had allowed me to fall into a deep sleep almost immediately upon letting myself into to my apartment—had been discovering that, while some of the flowers from the night of my show were starting to turn and others were blooming strong, there were no new additions. No daffodils.

Now, my sleep was unmercifully interrupted. I grabbed for my ringing cell phone, reaching blindly for it in the soft couch cushions I'd sunk into and could only manage to answer with "Yeah?"

"I woke you."

"Yes." Even so, Lucas’s voice was definitely not unwelcome. I blinked and glanced over at the clock on the cable box, noted it was close to eleven and realized just as fast that I was suddenly starving. "I hope you're calling to offer dinner."

Lucas's laugh was easy. "If that's what you want. You up for going out?"

I sat up and tried to shake off the remnants of sleep. "What's serving now, beyond a diner?"

"Ryn, you have no idea. Pick you up in twenty." He hung up and I got myself showered and dressed. I wore an easy, spaghetti strap maxi-dress, figuring that I didn't need to do more than dress comfortably for a midnight supper. Even so, I threw on a moto jacket and a cute fringe bag and put on a light dusting of the shimmer makeup that made my eyes look huge. My hair hung straight and heavy down my back and I slid on my favorite Yeezy Boosts Brayden had scored for me. Outfit complete—I actually looked like I belonged in this city, even thought I still felt discombobulated. I had emotions going on that I didn't know what to do with, no convenient box to stuff them into.

I had a strong feeling Lucas would bear the brunt of them. I also had a feeling he would deal with it just fine, and I wasn't sure if that scared me more or less than anything.

* * *

A
s promised
, Lucas was walking through the lobby when I came off the elevator. As soon as I saw him, that hard yank of attraction between us hadn't dulled but in fact had gotten sharper. As I balanced on the edge of that blade, the heat of the danger raced through me.

We'd stopped inches from each other and stared. It'd been weeks since I'd seen him but somehow it felt longer, and I felt disconnected, despite our conversation last night.

"I was coming up to get you," he said finally.

"I know—but I need to eat." And really, I couldn't have fully blamed him for what would've happened if he'd shown at my door. I wanted to kiss him right now and take him back upstairs—the attraction crackled between us like static electricity. It was almost painful.

"Come on." He motioned but didn't touch me, like he knew that wouldn't get us out the door any faster, or at all. I followed him, the rumbling hunger in my stomach warring with the stirring between my legs.

I can have both
, I reasoned.
Just not at the same time.

Instead of climbing into a car, we walked along the city blocks. The night was perfect, crisp with the promise of more warmth to come tomorrow. And then Lucas casually put a hand on my lower back and steered me into a restaurant that appeared to be closed. And I supposed it was, to the general public.

There were about ten people there already. "So they're still open?"

"No, this is a private dinner for the chef and some friends." Lucas explained. "Usually, chefs will have their late night meals with other chefs."

"That makes sense. I can't imagine they'd have a lot of time to eat during the dinner rush," I said as one of the men broke from the group and came toward us, calling out, "Lucas—long time no see."

Lucas shook his hand, but then the man pulled him in for a hug. "Ryn, this is Mario. He's the owner and chef."

Mario shook my hand. "Welcome. Plenty of food."

"Thanks," I managed as the others from the group nodded in my direction. I recognized one of them as the man who'd been standing in the doorway of the gallery that first morning I'd met Lucas. He was dark-haired. Handsome in a very rough-strewn way. He looked like trouble all around and the scar that ran just off-center down the front of his neck was there as if to prove it true to those who didn't normally trust their instincts.

Still, he nodded in my direction but his eyes immediately shot questions toward Lucas. Lucas ignored them in favor of looking at me and saying, "You're not in the mood for people. Or maybe I'm not."

I didn't argue. Two antisocial, hungry people getting cooked a private meal was a perfect way to put the day’s happenings behind me.

But with him right across the table, somehow the distance was multiplying.

How I'd felt so close to him when he was miles away and yet so distant now when he was actually touching me was something I struggled with…until I realized that this was the way he wanted it. "So, that guy with the dark hair and the blue shirt—"

"Grant."

"Is he your bodyguard?"

Lucas snorted. "We'll go with that. He'll love hearing that." It made me feel stupid and that must've shown on my face because Lucas was quick to add, "He's a good guy."

"Dangerous," I murmured.

"That too."

"Where were you?" I asked finally.

"Work."

"As? A traveling salesman? Because I can't picture you going door to door with encyclopedias, but unless you've got family money, you've got to do something to fund your apartment." I wanted to shut up, but I couldn't.

He sat back, looking resigned, like he'd expected this. "Security. With Grant. We're partners."

I hesitated. "You mean like…alarms?"

"We provide security measures for large companies." He poured me more wine while I let that sink in. "What else is on your mind?"

He was very in tune with me. I didn't think I liked it. "I just…you didn't commission me to paint for you, did you?"

"No."

"Would you tell me?"

He glanced up at me as he ate and nodded, and I didn't believe him, although not necessarily about the commissioned painting.

I pushed away, no longer interested in food or conversation. Paranoia began to overtake me.

What if Lucas made Meghan buy the session?

What if this was all a set-up and Lucas was a part of my past? Why couldn't I shake that feeling…and why wouldn't I remember him? "I need to get out of here."

He stood. "Let's go."

But I was already beginning my walk out of the restaurant, telling him, "I can get myself home."

He caught up to me fast. "I'm sure you can, but I'm not letting that happen," he said firmly. I didn't argue. The sooner I could get away from him and think clearly, the better. I'd been picking at him through dinner and I was pissed at myself and him. And I still wanted him, even though I pulled away physically as he attempted to tug me closer. "What the hell, Ryn? Come on, we had a good talk last night, didn't we?"

"So what? I should trust you implicitly now?"

"Enough to tell me what the fuck's going on in your head right now, yeah." He looked angry and confused. Pretty much exactly how I felt.

"Like you don't know," I shot back.

"I don't, so why don't you fucking tell me," he ground out.
His face was a dark thunderstorm, a glower that made me take a step back…even though I somehow knew the anger wasn't directed at me.

Still, I didn't notice them, not until it was too late, but Lucas had. Looking back, I realized his body language had him fighting on two fronts for several minutes before he turned to the purely physical.

There were three of them, none of them as tall as Lucas but they were broad, muscle-bound and although they didn't show any weapons, they acted like they carried them. Lucas stood in front of me and one of the men smiled.

"Cute, protecting her. Give us your cash and we'll think about letting you have sloppy seconds."

I realized we were partially hidden down an alley, and that it was very dark and deserted. I could scream, but Lucas was so still and I wanted to follow his lead.

I also wanted to control my temper, which started to flare as another man made suggestive motions with his hands and tongue, pointing at me. Lucas nodded, reached into his back pocket with one hand as if about to concede and hand over his wallet, but instead of grabbing his cash, the hand pushed me back into the corner as he went forward at them.

I'm prickly with sensation as goose bumps rise on my skin. Blood rushes, pounding a beat between my ears until it's all I hear. The scene in front of me plays out, wordless. Soundless. Silent slow motion.

And there's nothing but a palpable danger vibrating through me. My skin crawls, throat tightens. I've backed up to the bricks which scrape along my jacket, almost catching me to the surface.

It's like I'm watching something with another layer over it, an overexposed negative of one thing superimposed over another.

In front of me, Lucas is fighting three men.

But in my overexposed memory, I'm fighting someone—
something
else, even though Lucas isn't letting any of these men near me.

A sob racks through me but I stifle it. I need to be strong.

Activity resumes at its normal volume. The gauzy curtain lifts to reveal real life and I see and hear the fight happening inches from me. The sounds of bodies scraping against concrete and fists making contact with flesh and bone overwhelm my already fragile senses.

I look down and realize that, at some point, I've pulled the knife out of my bag to protect myself in case they came near me, but Lucas was fighting like he could take all of them.

And he could. Because he did. There were curses. Bottles breaking. Blood. A violent, impressive blur that left one man limping away from the scene as fast as he could and the other two on the ground. Lucas took one of their wallets in hand, pocketed the man's ID, making sure both of them saw what he was doing.

And still, I'm ready to fight. I'm dizzy. Sweating. My brain is a jumbled mess of chaotic images flashing in front of me like a slideshow and I'm desperately trying to pick it all apart.

One man groaned and one didn't move. Lucas kicked the groaning one, then bent down and whispered something in his ear. Then he took the knife from my hand, folded it and put it away, all without seeming surprised at my having it.

Only then did he turn to me and say, "Let's go."

I'm safe.
He's saved me again, the heat from his body reassuring in its proximity. And then he walked me away. As we walked quickly, I heard sirens. We went down a couple of alleys and made it to the next cross street, far enough away to not be noticed. Lucas didn't look very much like he'd been in a fight and the way we were wrapped around each other made it appear we were just another couple out late and enjoying each other's company.

I couldn't help but be impressed by Lucas's dead calm show of temper, his silent, impressive fury. The violence didn't bother me, but it had triggered me as always. Sometimes it brought me back to the past event that I remembered and sometimes it flashed ever so briefly to one I couldn't quite pull into focus. Still, it had me trembling with leftover adrenaline that raced through me, even though I hadn't been the one to fight.

* * *

W
e got back
to my apartment quickly, and without talking. He ushered me inside and I turned off the alarm and immediately went to get ice. He was flexing his hand, which was cut and slightly swollen, but apart from that and a light bruise on his cheek, he was none the worse for wear.

He put his hand down on the counter and I put the towel-wrapped ice on the top of his hand gently.