by Landra Graf
A few more soft touches before he sharply inhaled. The opening, although brief, encouraged her to reach out with a tentative tongue. He reciprocated, and the meld began. Murph tasted like pizza, beer, and something smoky...delicious. She let herself get lost, as Murph called it. She refused to believe this moment was a bad thing, not when his arms, lips, and tongue touched some part of her that missed closeness, craved connection.
Lust rolled through her body, and she could easily picture this going further, involving the lights being lowered and both of them with fewer clothes. Reckless proved to be a very freeing emotion, one she should’ve embraced a long time ago.
She began to roam her hands between their bodies, down the hard plane of his chest, and finally cup his sizeable erection through his jeans. He moaned into her mouth and she pulled back, nipping at his lip.
Except, the hold he had on her hair and head remained, his other hand resting against her hip.
“Aggie, what...you didn’t—”
“Shh.” Leaning in, she reignited their make-out session.
She loved seeing him at a loss for words, out of breath and in shock. This, she held the key, the power to make him this way. Imagine if he came completely undone by her hand or her mouth. The prospect was heady, if she chose only one word to describe the concept playing havoc on her mind.
This time, he broke the connection and pressed a soft kiss to the tip of her nose.
“Take me to bed. Let me touch you.” The words slipped out, making her sound a bit desperate, but good sense had left the moment this whole thing happened.
The lust in his eyes drained away like a plug pulled loose from a full bathtub. He let go of her hair, of her, and took a few steps backward until he came in contact with a wall. “We should slow this down. Take a minute.”
Her eyes went wide and she clapped a hand over her mouth. The feelings, the wants, the him and her naked somewhere still existed. In her mind, a crystal-clear need, but he objected. After everything they shared in the last few hours, she couldn’t stay. Not one more minute. Strong women got the hell out when a man rejected them, no excuses or pity looks needed.
She feared looking at him, feared she’d see the same gaze her father had given her when he left. The same look of pity Jordan cast at her from his doorway...the look that said, I’m sorry but you’re not enough.
Murph stretched out an arm. “No...wait, Aggie. I’m not saying we have to stop.”
No way would she listen. She started humming, turned, grabbed her shoes off the floor, and launched into a sprint for the door. “I’ll see you later, Murph. Thanks for dinner.”
To hammer the point home, she slowed long enough to slam his front door behind her, before pounding up the staircase. Once secure in her apartment with the door locked, she curled up on her bed, a shivering, crying mess.
Chapter Eight
Aggie avoided Murph all weekend. He didn’t try to talk to her or knock on her door. No, it seemed the kiss they’d shared need not be repeated. At least, that was what she told herself. Lips on lips, it had been one of the best kisses she’d ever had and it turned from tentative touches to all-consuming within seconds. Tongues had joined the fray and then some roaming hands—okay, her roaming hands. The recollection of the muscles along his stomach, his rib cage, and his package taunted her in dreams.
He’d been as absorbed in her, too, and then...no word came to mind in the last forty-eight hours to describe what the hell occurred. All because she’d asked him to take her to bed, he became completely unresponsive and wanted to stop. Where the hell her impulsive urge and words had come from, she still had no clue.
Way to throw yourself at him. Women let the men do the throwing. Yep, she’d hurled herself, and it had scared him. Scared, because during her endless analyzing and replays, she never recalled disgust or disinterest, but she’d taken it as rejection. Hell, she stayed away because of her freak-out and her ridiculous behavior. In school and college, she’d played sexual relationships close to the belt. Never partying too hard, playing designated driver, and sticking to one boyfriend who happily got rid of her V-card. Then when he ditched her, as those around her often did, she’d steered clear of men.
Meeting Jordan had been a random chance and never would’ve happened if she chose to go home instead of out with a coworker to celebrate an impending marriage. She’d been happy and a little tipsy. Jordan escorted her home, kept her safe. Two dates later, she’d decided to trust him with her body, and he’d made it worth her while until she became boring.
That thought stuck her with her the most, being boring. Murph inspired anything but boring. With him, she let loose, which freed her. A strong woman could make her own choices and sleep with a man who she wouldn’t be in a relationship with. Her mother wouldn’t tell her not to do that. Creating excitement or a mood for seduction, not a common experience for her, but trying new things...she’d already done that by moving and everything.
As she parked behind their apartment building, she tried to think of other ways to get things between her and Murph back to less awkward and into more comfortable territory, maybe dinner. She could pull off dinner since she always bought more food than she needed. Maybe some pesto with the chicken breast, a little lemon pasta, and a bottle of wine.
By the time she reached the front door, her mind was made up to invite Murph to dinner tomorrow night, then she heard the music—heavy metal, hard rock vibrating through the floorboards of the porch. Opening the front door, the sound blasted out, echoing through the foyer as she stepped in, slamming the door shut behind her.
The sound made no impact, and she couldn’t believe Murph would deliberately do something like this. If it continued, someone was likely to call the cops. Punching the security code, she locked the front door and dropped her work bag against the wall.
She banged on his front door. No answer came, even after she beat on the wood with both fists. Ready to give up, she decided to try the doorknob. So far, she’d learned Murph never liked to lock up or simply forgot. One of the reasons he suffered a break-in, no doubt. At the same time, she couldn’t blame him for people busting up his things. No one deserved property damage, especially to their own creative work. The knob turned with ease, and she gave a push. The force of the music hit hardest at the entry point.
Instead of trying to find her landlord, she decided to stop the wailing male voice upset with his breakup. She located the sound system in the living room and thankfully found the power button. With the music turned off, she called out, “Murph, where are you?”
He wasn’t in the living room, nor the kitchen. She tiptoed down the hallway, trying to shed the feeling of being a trespasser in his private space. The first room appeared to be a spare one. In here, she found a workout bench, a heavy boxing bag and stand, painting supplies, canvases, and a mini refrigerator—all around a general mess, which fit the artist part of him. The holes in the walls on the left side of the room disturbed her a bit, and she wondered if this room got his bad moods. Dread found a spot in her belly and started to grow.
The bathroom came up on her left, also open and empty. The space was small with only a toilet, single sink, and standing shower, but surprisingly neat. The exact opposite of the painting room. Finally, she reached the bedroom, and when she saw him collapsed on the floor, she ran over, anguish trying to grab every part of her.
She pressed a hand to his forehead, rapidly trying to think through the possibilities and keep herself calm. “You don’t have a fever. Are you awake?”
Leaning in close, she smelled booze. He reeked of it.
“What the hell did you drink?” She shook him by the shoulders, near panic. “How much did you drink?”
His eyelids fluttered and then cracked open.
“How many, Murphy?”
“Two.”
She sighed, thankful to get a response from him at all. The next thing to consider—calling an ambulance. “Two of what?”
“Bottles.”
“Bourbonbons.” As horrible as it was, her landlord sounded precious and adorable slurring his words. “I drunks ’em.” He struggled to put up two fingers.
“How do you feel?”
“Betterish. Aggie, you er lovesly.” He smiled and then gave a grunt.
The hand he’d used to show her two fingers now came and caressed her cheek in a lazy, loose stroke. While he fondled her cheek, she took his pulse and monitored his breathing. Being a perfectionist came with the perks of minoring in nursing and getting an RN. She’d long decided medical basics should have been required courses for dealing with people’s eating habits.
His breathing checked out normal and his skin wasn’t blue or pale. As far as she could tell, he didn’t have alcohol poisoning, but her conscience wouldn’t allow her to leave him on the floor.
“Am I really lovely?” She shouldn’t have asked that, but part of her wanted to know his thoughts without his normal checkpoints in place.
“You’re uh-mazing.”
Tucking her feet underneath her, she put both arms under his armpits. “Thank you for the kind words. I’m going to help you up now, but you’ve got to help me.”
He nodded in agreement.
“On the count of three. One, two, three.” She lifted, he pushed, and somehow, she got him to a standing position. Then they were both falling onto his bed. Thankfully, the mattress proved very forgiving.
Aggie stood and pulled Murph’s shoes off, and then also considered removing more of his clothes. Instead, she opted to get him comfortable and retrieve a trashcan near the bedroom door to place by the bed. He snored lightly, falling into a deep sleep, and only then did she take note of his room.
A large, brown La-Z-Boy recliner in the corner with the matching walnut-colored dresser, end tables, and bed. An old woven rug lay at the end of the bed, a basket for dirty clothes, and the brown flannel sheets. A closet in the corner held hanging clothes.
Different paintings adorned the walls, mainly landscapes, and then she gasped. To the right of the bed was a painting of her. At least, it looked a lot like her, the old her. She was smiling, wearing makeup and an outfit she never wore anymore because Jordan didn’t think yellow was her color. How this image of her ended up on his wall, she didn’t know. In a way, it made her feel special. She stood out in his mind. Like the Cupid’s Café letter said, she truly had an admirer.
Murph grunted and rolled over onto his back. Not willing to risk leaving him alone, because people died from choking on vomit or a sudden chill, the best bet involved staying here and checking on him through the night. Not really hungry, she snagged a bottle of water from the refrigerator.
After locking his apartment door and shutting off the lights, she curled up on the La-Z-Boy, grabbing a blanket from the end of Murph’s bed. Wrapping the fleece around her, she set the alarm on her phone to wake her up in two hours. Enough time to let some of the alcohol get out of his system, and she tried to ignore the fact of how sitting in the chair proved more comfortable than any night during the last two weeks in her new apartment.
“Night, Aggie.” His voice was a whisper and a comfort in the already dark room.
“Night, Murphy.”
#
The first thing Murph noticed when he woke was his mouth, all dry and disgusting like it was stuffed with cotton balls. Then the lingering taste of bourbon, out-all-night-puke bourbon. The second thing was Aggie, sleeping peacefully on his La-Z-Boy. The footrest propped up and her body stretched out, comfortable and at peace.
He wondered how she got there and couldn’t remember much, though he did remember his argument with Patrick. The idiot kept bringing up Aggie and the paintings. No, he didn’t have written permission to use her likeness, but as an artist, he’d always believed when inspiration struck, a painter needed to embrace it. Damn the consequences of the muse or model. While he still avoided asking for signed permission beyond their verbal agreements, the conversation loomed over him like spotlights in a display case.
Patrick resorted to threatening to tell Aggie himself and getting the paper signed on his own. After Murph asked for the rest of the week, Patrick agreed grudgingly and then hung up on him.
That was when it got bad. Oh, he went crashing hard and fast into a bottle of bourbon, which disappeared within two hours. Shot after shot, down the hatch, and he tried to paint his feelings, which produced the opposite effect. Instead, he cried, worried, and nearly destroyed every painting of Aggie he’d already started on.
The only thing to stop him was the wall in his spare bedroom. He’d taped his hands and pounded into the damn thing as if his life depended on it. If she said no to the painting, moved out, or worse...she’d think he qualified for the looney farm. Facing her, ruining what little they’d already shared, helped create the litany of holes. It’d been a long time since he’d acted in such a violent way. Maybe he was getting worse.
Murphy looked at her again, the slow rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. He wanted to touch her, impulsively anchor his fingers in her hair like the other night. The idea flooded his body with all sorts of arousal, and his skin felt hot. Oh, he’d been such an idiot to stop things.
The second bottle of bourbon he’d downed to help him sleep. He’d been running manic for a while, and the episode yesterday was a mixed one. Mixed ones were bad and could get him back in the hospital if he wasn’t careful.
Knowing the signs, he could ride this current mania for days, weeks. Another mixed swing filled with physical violence could easily happen again, making him not safe for Aggie. He possessed no good luck at all. The energy, the desire, the need for release still swirled in him. A hungry, angry beast.
When he left the bed for the bathroom, he heard her stir. A slow, soft moan trailed out behind him. He relieved himself, washed his hands and face, and brushed his teeth. God, they need it.
When he walked back into the room, Aggie had put the foot prop in its resting position and sat on the edge of the recliner. “How are you feeling?”
“Rested, but my head’s really fuzzy. I may need some aspirin.”
She shook her head. “Unbelievable. You really drank two bottles.”
“Not my finest moment.” But one of my worst. “Yesterday equaled a crappy day.”
“I’ll say. How about I get you the aspirin, and you lie down?” She stood and made her way toward him at the door.
“You don’t have to do anything. Maybe it’s better if you go.” He needed to protect her from himself.
“A friend would take care of you. I’m a friend. Let me help.”
“Okay,” he said, stepping aside to let her pass. You asshole. As she walked out of the room, he followed her progress into the kitchen before he lay on the bed. He covered his face with his hands, struggling to find the right words to tell her about the paintings or ask her for permission, to warn her that he’d hurt her unintentionally. But it was like he’d been offered a chance, karma granting him the opportunity, proven by the fact she was here...in his place, his room. Selfishly, he wanted her to be the solution.
Oh, fuck. She’d been in here and seen his paintings, and most likely the one of her.
“Here you are, a bottle of water and two aspirin.” Aggie’s voice sounded chipper and happy, though how she could be excited about anything to do with him was a mystery. The whole thing made him want to groan. “What’s wrong?”
And obviously, he’d groaned out loud. “Nothing.”
He sat up and took the water and pills from her outstretched hands. After downing the pain relievers, he set the water on the nightstand, still searching for words, but perfect ones proved elusive. Instead, he settled for the obvious. “No, what’s wrong is why you are here and taking care of me. You shouldn’t have to pick me up off the floor in a drunken stupor or whatever you had to do. You certainly didn’t have to stay, and it’s safer if you keep away.”
Aggie propped both
hands on her hips and frowned. “Wow, you’re a cranky hungover person. First off, I took care of you because, again, I’m a friend. Second, you told me you drank two bottles of bourbon. I found no evidence of the bottles, though it’s not like I looked hard enough, but you consumed a cocktail for alcohol poisoning, so I stayed to make sure you stayed alive. Appreciate the thank you for keeping you breathing.”
Now he was a bigger ass. “Thank you. I appreciate the help.”
“Not so hard to say thanks?”
The look on her face, all stern and concentrated focus, made him chuckle. “No, and I need a good dose of humble pie.”
“Good. Now we can talk about other things, like where this painting of me on the wall is from.” She sat back in the recliner and he perched himself on the edge of his bed facing her.
“I painted it over a year ago.”
“I like it.”
He grinned. “You do?”
“Yes, it’s a great likeness of me back then. I was starting to do better, opening up and things. Can’t say I’m the same person now, but it’s a nice painting.”
“Imagine a whole exhibit of pictures like this one.”
Aggie waved her hands in the air. “A whole room of paintings of me...horribly embarrassing. No one wants to see so much of Agatha Kakos. This body isn’t meant for public display.”
“That’s not what I meant.” That’s exactly what I meant. “I mean, paintings in the same texture and style, tempera.”
“Oh, those will be wonderful. I like it. It’s got this old, classic quality to it. Not like mixed media art. I enjoy classics.”
Murph knew he’d fry in hell for what he was going to do next, but he needed her agreement. “A little confession, the displayed painting at Patrick’s gallery is similar to the one of you on the wall, but it’s a close-up portrait.”
“Really?” Her eyebrows tucked downward and a worried crease formed on her forehead. He’d kiss it away if she let him. “Let me guess, this is the same painting that got people interested in your work?”
