Love, Art, and Murder: Mystery Romance

by Kenya Wright

  I’d dampened his Spiderman shirt. A few raindrops spotted his dark blue boxers. He remained still, as if one wrong move would make me change my mind. It had happened before, we would start and I would stop us.

  Tonight, I longed for him to be inside of me and could think of nothing else.

  Whenever he touched me, my thoughts of Mom going off with some guy and my dad drunkenly trying to raise me all vanished. I needed that tonight, to get away and fly free as all the sadness sank below my floating body.

  “Are you sure, Ellie?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know if this is a good idea. You’re upset.”

  “You don’t want me?” I stopped unbuttoning the top of my pants.

  He seized my waist, and pressed his lips against mine. “I want you more than anything else.”

  “Then show me.”

  We undressed together, our hands brushing against skin as they pulled and towed away fabric. Falling onto his small bed, we kissed until our mouths puffed into swollen lips and our tongues tangled and slid wet paths between us. He kissed me everywhere and I shuddered with each flick of his tongue against forbidden places.

  “Delilah, I love you,” he whispered into my ear.

  I flinched. “What?”

  “I love you, Delilah.”

  “Why are you calling me that? Who’s Delilah?” I pushed him away and fell off the bed, but no floor met my body. I continued to fall through the air, my hair unraveled, rising high above my head.

  “Fly!” Michael yelled from far up in his bed. “You’ve got to fly if you want to save yourself!”

  “I can’t!” I screamed in horror, kicking my legs and flapping my hands to find something in the darkness to hold onto. Nothing existed but night and wind. “I can’t see! Help me!”

  “You have no light!” Michael called back.

  “Help!” Tears spilled from my eyes as I thrashed my legs in the air. “Help!”

  “Fly!”

  “I can’t.”

  “Where are your wings?”

  I woke up with a shriek, covered in sweat, gripping my pillow. A man barreled into my room and wielded a gun. I screamed again and dove to the floor.

  “Oh! I’m sorry.” He put the gun down. The whole time he moved his head from side to side and checked the room. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I heard you scream and just wanted to make sure no one was in here or upsetting you.”

  “No. I’m fine.” I shielded myself with a pillow and stood up. My gown was made of thin material. With a quick glimpse, the guard would be able to make out my nipples and possibly the dark hair between my legs. “I had a bad dream.”

  “That’s fine.” He bent down, did a quick check under the bed, opened the closet door, closed it, and backed out of the room. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

  “I’m okay. Thanks so much.” Before he could leave, I called out, “What’s your name?”

  “Mr. Castillo asked us not to spend too much time talking to you. I’d better not exchange names or anything.” He crossed through the doorway and shut the door behind him.

  I checked my phone. The screen said I had forty missed calls from Michael.

  I’m going to have to talk to him eventually.

  The dream rushed back at me as I sat down on my bed. Lots of the things in it had actually happened. I’d run to Michael’s house, just a young and confused girl, looking for someone to love her. Michael represented my salvation in school. When others picked on my ripped and dirt-smudged clothes, he complimented me on them. When most laughed at my scraggly strands cut in no particular style, he begged me to allow him to run his fingers through them. He made me feel pretty and loved. It was only natural that I’d ask him to be my first.

  Once he entered me, he’d left something inside my core that wouldn’t let go. It attached us to each other; a thick rope of chains and elaborate locks that bound us together forever.

  The first time we had sex, he did call me another name. It wasn’t Delilah. It was some other girl’s name. He did that a lot, even later in our relationship. It took me a while to realize that he actually pretended to not know my name during sex intentionally. It was all a game for him, how fast could he piss me off, how quickly would I return to beg for more.

  But the first time he called me someone else, I pretended to not hear him and dreamed that those words he whispered as he moved in and out of me dripped with honey and adoration. It wasn’t like we were in a relationship together, so I didn’t stop or call him out on it.

  But his blurting out another’s name while he took my virginity should’ve been a huge sign to run away.

  God, I wish I could run back to that girl, stop her in the rain, and turn her around.

  Once Michael got his hooks into people, he dragged them around forever. I had no idea if he ever loved me or simply enjoyed controlling me. One would hope that a person didn’t only thrive off evil and other’s pain. My mom used to say that no one was purely bad, that everyone had some good in them. I dealt with Michael for over ten years and still couldn’t be sure. What part was real? What part was him just setting up another move in his game?

  The morning after I lost my virginity, I woke up to him painting me.

  “Don’t move, Ellie.” He slid his paintbrush against the canvas in front of him. “You look like an angel with the sun shining on your skin like that, and all that beautiful hair spread out like huge wings. Don’t ever cut your hair. Promise me.”

  “Okay.”

  “Don’t ever change. Always be my angel.”

  “Okay, Michael.”

  I tried, but I was only human. Anytime he gave, he took away. When he finished the painting, he drove me home and didn’t talk to me in school or call for two weeks. I’d cried myself to sleep and walked around my school’s hallways like a zombie. Heavy bags lay under my eyes from lack of sleep. By then Mom had drove off to Vegas with her new love to get married. Dad drowned himself in a pit of depression. I’d had to change the sofa cushions from Dad pissing on himself as he slept. I had no other family or friends to talk to, and considered running away or simply taking my own life. I was a vessel of hormones, rejection, and confusion just trying my best to step along the minefield of life and not get blown away.

  The third Monday after I lost my virginity, Michael approached me with a canvas wrapped in brown paper. “Happy birthday.”

  “It’s not my birthday.” I shut my locker and walked away.

  “Why are you so mad?”

  “I’m not.”

  He captured my arm and pulled me back. “Yes, you are.”

  I stared at the ground. “What do you want, Michael?”

  “To give you your present.” He attempted to hand it to me.

  “I don’t want it.” I stepped around him and picked up my pace.

  “Fuck, Ellie. You’re really mad?” He hurried and got to my side. “Please, just look at my painting. It’s of you. I’ve been working on it nonstop. That’s why I didn’t get a chance to speak to you these past weeks.”

  I sighed. “But you did get a chance to talk to Stacey Jenkins, who bragged about how you took her to the movies and to some really nice restaurant up by Parkin’s Way.”

  “Okay. That’s only because I’d already promised to take her, way before anything happened between us—”

  “Then what about Vicky?” I pushed through the double doors and headed toward the parking lot where all the buses lined up.

  “Vicky?”

  “Vicky. The one with the dad who owns the gas station that you’re always talking about has the best watermelon candy, even though it’s the same candy sticks that are shipped to every store.”

  “Oh shit, Victoria.”

  “Bye, Michael.” I walked on the other side of a tree in order to avoid the appearance of us strolling together like a couple. I had enough people gossiping about my mom and dad. I didn’t need the rumor mill producing stories about Michael and me.

  “
Can we talk, please?”

  “No.” A line had already formed as my bus pulled up to the corner.

  “My teacher says this portrait is the best thing he’s ever seen.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Look at it.”

  I stopped and faced him. “No. I will not look at it. I’m trying to get to my bus. Life doesn’t stop for you. It keeps on going. You didn’t feel the need to talk to me after you shared the most important moment of my life, so you don’t get to come up and grab my attention whenever you want to. Go fuck yourself, Michael!”

  I mentally patted myself on the back. I’d practiced that speech over and over in my head, imagining what I would say if he ever spoke to me again.

  I did it. I told him and didn’t vomit.

  “How are you doing with saving up for a car?” He raced up and jumped in front of me. I moved to the side. He blocked me. I stepped to the other. He grabbed my waist. “How much do you have now?”

  “None of your business.”

  “How much?”

  “Not enough.”

  “I can make it that you had more than enough by graduation.”

  Back then a car meant I could load up and drive out of town. Where I was going, I never really knew. How I was getting there, with no money for gas, never crossed my mind. For me a car meant freedom, so I’d saved for two years, working the night shift at Park and Eat Diner.

  “I can make sure you have enough to get the blue Mustang you’re always looking at in the dealership near your house. I could get you the money by graduation.” He held his hand up to his chest. “I swear on everything.”

  “Graduation is in six months. How can you do that?”

  “This guy who owns the art gallery that I take classes at is offering me a huge commission if I paint more angels. I need you.”

  “Why?” I raised my eyebrows. “Why wouldn’t you just paint other girls?”

  He shrugged. I sucked my teeth. “You did. Didn’t you? You painted other girls, right?”

  “No. I would never paint anybody else.”

  I walked off. Thankfully, people were still getting on the bus. Michael caught my wrist again and stopped me. “Okay. Okay. I painted other girls. The guy didn’t like them. He only liked the one I did of you, so I painted another angel from your sophomore class picture in the yearbook. He loved it. He said there was something about you that made me move the brush just right with a need to capture the shadows and curves in such a way that it became euphoric. He said you’re my muse, that you inspire me.”

  I checked to see only a few people left to get on the bus. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Just leave me alone.”

  “He’s going to give me twenty thousand dollars to paint more paintings of you. I’ll split it with you halfway.”

  “Why split the money? What are you getting out of it?”

  “Fame. He has a lot of pull in the art world. I make him happy and I’ll start my career.”

  At seventeen, I saw ten thousand dollars as a way to take care of me for a year. “Fine. I’ll model for you, but nothing else. Don’t even think of us ever having sex again, Michael.”

  “Fine. I won’t even try.” The muscle in his jaw twitched.

  And that was how it all began. For whatever reason, the art dealer was right. When Michael painted me, he trapped all that was beautiful in the world and placed it on the canvas. His art wasn’t amazing because of my face, body, or even my hair that he loved to form into wings. His art ensnared every emotion in the viewer’s heart and twisted it over and over inside of them, until all the viewer could do was laugh or cry, celebrate his life or yearn for more.

  When he painted the last one, the dealer handed us both our part of the money and then offered us a chance at another commission. He wanted Michael and me to fly to Paris with him and live in this big artists’ retreat, so that the country could give Michael inspiration and help him create even more masterpieces with me in them. We’d happily agreed. I had no reason not to. Although Michael flirted with me, he never violated his promise. He kept his hands to himself.

  But Paris changed everything.

  Other artists offered me their business cards, gave me presents, and out and out begged me to work with them. Most said it was a matter of time before Michael’s talent would fade away. I ignored the others, stayed loyal to him, and soothed him in his darkest moments. I loved him even more by then, but wouldn’t admit it to myself. It was inevitable that we would make love under a cloudless night full of stars and drunk on red wine.

  He finished his oil series of me wrapped in the colors of Paris—blushing pinks of blooming roses that lay in front of shops, turquoise-streaked blue skies intoxicated with vanilla clouds, crimson red wines, the grays of stone streets that breathed with history and life, tan puffy croissants dripping with butter, and all the violets of love.

  Because for me, love was never this hot red color or a faint smear of burgundy.

  Love for most people mingled with the glow of rubies and scarlet silks worn by women on the corners of Paris selling their bodies for fame, fortune, or just enough money to get shelter for the night. And love was the color of cherries ripe in the spring. Most of all, love resembled all the colors of red found when one opened up a person’s chest and analyzed their heart. But for me, love was always violet, never red. Because all hearts had a tint of blue. All relationships dimmed under the assault of clouded tears and darkened memories, the black of pain and the rage of cobalt skies, signaling a storm was approaching.

  At times, Michael’s love glowed with passionate reds, but most of the time he loved me in the shades of purple so drenched with blues that when we made love, I had no idea if I cried out in pain or pleasure.

  In the dream, he asked me where my wings were.

  You cut them off. You bastard. But this time I won’t be falling like you figured. I won’t need you to throw me a rope or push over a long ladder. Because I don’t want to reach you anymore. I just want to fall and be free.

  A knock boomed at the door.

  “Yes?” I called out.

  “What’s taking you so long?” Hex giggled. “The party has started. The servers have already handed out the hors d’oeuvres and the wine is getting warm.”

  “Sorry. I decided to take a nap, since I had that long flight from California. I’m up now. I’ll be down soon.”

  “Fabulous. Don’t forget to wear that dress I bought you.”

  “Are you wearing what I bought you?” I smirked.

  “Of course, my love.” The last two words came out in a slur.

  “Are you drinking?”

  “Of course, my love.”

  “Well, save me some wine.”

  “I’ll do my best.” His footsteps changed from clear to distant.

  What would Michael say to my being here? Would he laugh at me or be angry at my disloyalty? It doesn’t matter anymore. For once in my life, the things I do from now on won’t be about him, but about me.

  I rushed off to the shower. A giddy sensation bounced around inside me. I would be having my second night of drinking and eating whatever I desired. Michael forbade me from drinking alcohol the moment we became a couple in Paris. He’d said it made skin blotchy, was bad on the liver, and muddied my breath.

  It was the first thing he’d forbidden me to do, but it sure as hell wasn’t the last.

  Chapter 10

  Alvarez

  “Go!” Grandma shoved at my stomach. It was almost comical, this tiny woman with gray curls bobbing around as she moved her head and spouted out nasty curses in Spanish. “You’ve been up here all night. The doctor said she’s fine. All the blood is cleaned up. That nice girl, Reece, got you a new nurse and guard. Go!”

  I sighed. “I just want to check on Dayanara and make sure—”

  “Go!”

  “I did leave. I took a shower like you ordered me to do when you first showed up and now I’m back.” I gestured to my black pants and white l
inen shirt.

  “But did you eat or visit your brother at his big party? Even I’ve gone down there to show my face to his friends.”

  “They don’t know me.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “I actually prefer your company over them.”

  “Then you’re more lost than I thought. Go!” She hit my chest. “Dayanara is asleep. The spirits have left her alone for tonight. Just in case they return I’m here to ward them off. No one needs you up here.”

  “Why don’t you go and I’ll take over.”

  “This is my problem.”

  “How is this your problem?”

  “Just leave and why did you get rid of Mrs. Greer?”

  “Because her and her husband allowed the door to be messed up and turned the cameras off.”

  “So what?”

  “Someone died last night, or did you forget?”

  Grandma hit my chest with a book. “Don’t talk to me like that and just because the door was damaged doesn’t mean people should get fired.”

  “I’m not going over this with you.”

  “I don’t like that you fired that nice couple.”

  “You knew they were married?”

  “Of course. I made them a nice little anniversary charm last year. Reece and I gave them a big cake.”

  “I don’t remember this.”

  “You only remember money and business mumbo jumbo. Now go and have fun at your brother’s party. They’re all having such a nice time down there. I’ll make sure Dayanara doesn’t get out.”

  “But—”

  “Oh, be quiet. I’m staying here. I have a new book.” She displayed a cover draped with two half-naked men in leather pants, cowboy hats, and layers of muscle that impressed even me. The title read, The Cowboy’s Trail.

  I frowned. “I don’t think cowboys wrangle in leather pants.”

  “I don’t read these novels for their authenticity.”

  That response served as enough motivation to get me racing away from the room. I didn’t even want to let my mind wonder why Grandma devoured male-male erotic romances. “Call me if you need—”

  “I’m not calling you. I’ll call my gods. You’re busier than them.” The door slammed behind me. My newly hired guard nodded at me as I left the high level and made my way downstairs to my room. We kept the top levels dark at night. Although the cameras throughout the house had night vision, I planned on having the lights on from now on. The tension in my shoulders built until my muscles knotted in pain.