Break Me Beautifully

by Nora Flite

  "Okay." Placing my brush down on my tray of paints, I join him and take the coffee. "Smells great," I say, inhaling the bitter scent and steam. Sipping carefully so I don't burn my tongue, I reach for the bag. "What did you buy?"

  His hand slaps down on the table. I jerk backwards on impulse, scowling at his smug grin. "It's a secret."

  "I'm too hungry for games, Marshall."

  "Close your eyes, then."

  "This again?" I ask, closing my eyes with a light laugh. "You're obsessed with keeping me in the dark."

  He doesn't say anything for a long minute. "I guess I am," he says thoughtfully. "Try to guess what this is."

  "How? Give me a hint."

  "Use your senses, Leona."

  I make a face, ready to tell him this is silly, then the sugar and vanilla tickles my nose. There's cinnamon, too, and I inhale with a groan. "Wow, that smells delicious."

  "You can eat it, if you guess right."

  "Marshall."

  "Try it. Just try."

  Tensing my forehead, I focus on the task. My stomach rumbles in the silence. He chuckles, but I ignore him. I know this smell. It's on the tip of my tongue, the string of memory stretching in a coiled line, darting around clips of my childhood where I crept through the halls, through the kitchen, looking for snacks to hide away with in the rose garden. My mother was strict on what we ate. Treats were for guests, sugar off limits except for special occasions. There was a wonderful cook who would arrive every Sunday to bake treats for my parents to use as bait for their expanding list of networks.

  She was a large woman with strong, smooth hands, eyes like the bottom of a lake, rosy cheeks, and a quick wit if you gave her a chance. I was the only one who did. My reward, for playing her word games, was a perfectly cooked...

  "Cinnamon sugar doughnut," I blurt, opening my eyes.

  Marshall's shock radiates off of him. In his fingers, pinched in a paper triangle, is a beautifully fresh doughnut. "How did you know?" he asks.

  I can't mute my grin. I don't try to. "It's a secret," I tease, throwing the words back in his face. Snatching the doughnut, I bite into it with my eyes rolling. "Ohh mffyyy gaawwd," I mumble around my mouthful. Chewing, I say, "Try some."

  He's gazing at my mouth. "If you insist." His hand encircles my wrist, holding me steady while he takes a bite of the sweet treat, his teeth clicking, lips gentle as they almost brush my skin. There's liquid desire in his dilated pupils. I tremble, forgetting to chew, standing there like an idiot with my mouth still full. "It's delicious," he whispers.

  Fuck, how does he make eating so sensual?

  Marshall smirks at me, letting go of my wrist, his thumb brushing sugar from my cheek. "Maybe you should swallow now."

  Gulping the doughnut, I wash it down with my coffee. "How did you know I love these?"

  "I didn't. It was just a guess."

  "A good one," I say suspiciously. I can't help but doubt him. Even if he's spilled some of his mysteries to me, there are others that slip in to fill the gaps.

  How did he discover my Instagram account?

  Who was that woman he spoke to in the mall?

  There are many things to wonder about Marshall Klintock. "Did you grab breakfast for yourself?" I ask.

  "I ate it on the way."

  "Oh. Well, now I feel weird eating alone."

  "Don't," he laughs. "I have coffee." He drinks it to make a point. Taking his cue, I finish the doughnut in luxurious mouthfuls. Sunlight illuminates the room, catching on specks of dust and turning them into bright stars. Marshall sits in the chair with his ankle resting on his other knee, his eyes on my paintings. We don't talk, and it's nice. Really nice. There was a time where any silence between us brought anxiety into my blood. When did that change?

  He gestures at the canvas I'm working on. "That's very beautiful. The green and blues make the reds really pop."

  I smile helplessly. "Thanks. I hope the theme of my show is clear."

  Gazing over the art, he puts his coffee to his lips, holding it there like he's deep in thought. I'm itching to know what's going on in his gorgeous head. Does he love my work, does he hate it? Does he get it?

  The canvases are arranged on various easels, some of them propped right on the floor against the walls. Each of them is a watercolor depicting beautiful girls growing from the ground, encountering fantastical beasts, then melting into their bodies as the ground turns into black ghosts and skeletal faces. It borders on fantasy-horror, darker than my normal work, but it feels right.

  "Life and death," he whispers under his breath. "Right?"

  I nod eagerly, thrilling with genuine pride. "Are they enough, do you think?"

  "Enough?"

  "To ..." I wave my hand, searching for the words, "...impress Bradford? No, to impress anyone who comes to the show. God, what if no one comes? What happens if I complete all of this and nothing gets sold or even seen?" Panic swarms my heart. How had I not considered this until now?

  "It'll sell," he says seriously.

  "How do you know?"

  "I just know." His eyes darken, then he stands, abandoning his coffee on the table. Walking towards my paintings, he folds his arms tight, studying them one by one. "Every artist feels the way you do. You wouldn't be an artist if you weren't scared of the idea your work will go unnoticed. Being forgotten, a ghost, that's as real a fear as there is."

  A tiny prickle of an idea hits me. "Did you worry about it too? No one seeing your art?"

  His whole spine goes straight before he twirls, staring at me, then looking away. "I don't think about that anymore."

  "Why? Did you stop painting?"

  His jaw moves like he's chewing more doughnut, but I know his mouth is empty. He speaks through clenched teeth. "It's been a very long time."

  Slow as possible, I approach him the way one would approach a wild animal. I can see it in his twisted expression, the reality of the path he walks on, the way he abandoned his own art in order to succeed in the mafia. It cuts me to my core. "It's not too late to paint again," I say carefully.

  Marshall's shoulders sink. "What would be the point? The only person who ever cared about my art is gone."

  Placing my hand on his arm, I give him my kindest smile. "That's not true. I care."

  His lip curls, the scar twisting with it. "What?"

  "I want to see." Bending down, I grab a brush, offering it to him handle first. "I know you said you prefer oil paints, but maybe you can manage. This time, I mean."

  "This time?" he asks. He looks at the brush like it's a poison needle I'm suggesting he stab himself with. Pushing his hand to his face, hiding his eyes, he lets out a sharp little laugh. "My god, you're cocky. This time. As if there'll be a second one."

  "There will be."

  "Who are you?" he snaps, his hand falling away. As hard as his tone is, there's a velvet-softness in his eyes. "No one has ever tried to push me around the way you do, Leona."

  Holding the paintbrush higher, my smile grows so big the edges of my eyes crinkle. "Get used to it."

  He snatches the brush, crushing it in his fist next to his head. I glimpse the tattoos on his wrist, the declaration of sacrifice to his father. I think for a horrible moment he's going to throw the brush across the room. Did I go too far? "One canvas," he says flatly. "Just one. The rest are for your show."

  "Right, of course," I gush, my muscles loosening as the tension flows away. It's replaced by anticipation when Marshall sets up one of my smaller canvases on an easel. He grabs the tray of paint and my glass of water, then abandons his coat with a flourish onto the chair. Underneath he's wearing a plain white dress shirt, the cuffs deftly unfastened so he can roll them to his elbows.

  He works fast, efficient, and I'm marveling even before he creates the first brush stroke. I once read that art is like music for your hands. I never understood that; I'm painfully clumsy when it comes to singing, and my parents gave up on hiring expensive teachers for me when I broke my second violin.


  But watching Marshall work,

  I get it.

  His body rolls in elegant waves. There's power in his masculine slicing of the air, his jugular taut as he controls his breathing. His energy doesn't fade, not even when an hour rushes by, followed by another. I'm not thinking straight as I watch him paint. Strictly fascinated, I sit on the floor nearby and watch.

  This part is easy for me. Watching silently is my honed skill; all my memories of my famous family nickname of mouse come rushing back. Neither of us interact, and yet I feel like we're part of the same experience. Marshall said he hadn't painted in a long time. I'm so damn lucky to get to see him in action.

  A siren blares through the air outside the building.

  Marshall jumps, ripping away from the canvas, eyes darting around like he just realized where he was like a man waking from a dream. The sirens fade, the police hurrying off to a location far from us.

  "Are you okay?" I ask, my voice sounding too loud after our long silence.

  "Yeah," he replies, shaking himself. "How long have I been painting?"

  Grunting, I stand carefully, shaking out my sleeping legs. "Hours. I didn't want to interrupt; you were so wrapped up in it. Marshall, you're amazing."

  He narrows his eyes, then faces the canvas. I can tell he's judging his own work critically. It's a habit I know too well. "Watercolors aren't my medium," he says.

  "We'll get you oils next time."

  "What makes you so sure there'll be a next time?"

  My feet are still tingling with pins and needles, but I make myself walk to him, closing the small gap, grabbing the front of his shirt. "You didn't see it. I did."

  He inhales the air around me, his eyes fluttering, voice a throaty sound. "See what?"

  "How happy you looked." On tiptoe I kiss his frown, washing it away until it becomes something tender. Through half-lids I look up at him, my whole body heating rapidly. "I enjoyed it too much to never see it again."

  "You want me to look happy?" he whispers.

  "Of course I do. Did you forget I love you?"

  "No." Nuzzling my temple, then my throat, he groans and the paintbrush clatters to the floor, his fingers all over my body. "But I like the reminder."

  ****

  We're wrapped in his jacket on the concrete floor of the studio. It should be cold and uncomfortable, but with his body cradling mine, my head in the nest of his shoulder, it's not. My arm rests on his chest, fingertip idly tracing his tattoos.

  I'm looking across the room at my art, at his art, when I feel one of his scars. It's a large one, a strip of raised skin that I follow towards his ribs. I want to ask about it, about all of them, but I'm afraid to ruin the mood.

  "A glass bottle," he says under his breath. I lift my head enough to see him looking down at me. "I was at a card game. My job was to watch for cheaters. Caught him, and this is how he paid me back."

  "Oh my god," I mumble. "That's awful."

  "There are worse things." His arms are folded behind his head to make a pillow. He moves one away so he can stroke my shoulder, pulling me tighter to him, and I get the idea he's suddenly afraid I'll vanish.

  "Your dad," I start to say, unable to keep my question at bay. Marshall tenses immediately. "You know how he died. The shoot out."

  "Yes."

  "Did your boss ever get you any information about who was responsible?"

  I'm close enough to see the fine lines that erupt on the ridge of his perfect nose. He looks up at the ceiling, sunlight casting along his cheekbones and forehead, turning his skin moon-white. "Not yet," he whispers. "But I'll figure it out soon enough."

  I scan his face. He hasn't blinked in far too long. "How can you be so sure?"

  Turning just enough to regard me from the corner of his eye, he reaches to stroke my cheek. "If someone dear to you was hurt, would you stop hunting their attacker? Would you give up on revenge, even if it took years?"

  "I've never been angry enough to want revenge," I say.

  "Never?" he asks, his eyebrows furrowing. "Not once?"

  "I guess I'm struggling with the idea. Nothing has happened to me like it has to you. The worst thing I can think of is when my brother got locked away, but that was his fault for messing with drugs."

  "You don't feel furious at the people who got him involved with the drugs?"

  "Wait, do you know about my brother?"

  "I know a lot about your family, Leona."

  I frown mildly. "Willbur lost the case. My sister, Katy, she was pretty wrecked over it. They're twins, it was bound to be harder on her than anyone else. But if he did something wrong, what else is there but accepting his punishment? I'm not sure I could stay focused on chasing someone down the way you are, let alone committing an act of vengeance."

  Marshall is holding his breath. "No," he says quietly. "You're not capable of it. And you shouldn't be." He kisses my temple, talking in my ear, hugging me hard enough to make my ribs ache. It's the way you hold someone you're trying to shield from something. What is he protecting me from? What's causing his rush of frantic emotion? "Forget I asked," he says, his voice vibrating in my cells. "Revenge creates a taint inside of people, Leona. A black tar that never washes away. Stay innocent for me. Stay unchanged. Understand?"

  I wish I could tell him it's too late.

  Chapter 14.

  I should have stuffed tissues under my arms. I'm sweating so much I'm sure it'll stain the ivory turtleneck sweater dress I've put on. It's the first white thing I've worn since Marshall gave me access to my private studio space.

  How did the time go by so quick?

  Too quick, honestly, because I hoped for a chance to show Bradford Mink what I was working on before it was hung on the walls of his gallery space. Unfortunately, things kept getting in the way. That's what Marshall told me each time I begged him to find a way to show my progress to the man bank-rolling my show.

  But now I'm here, back at the Ramette House, with only an hour until the start of my first show. Wringing my hands, I look up at Marshall, expecting him to be smirking at my signs of distress. He's staring straight ahead at the far wall.

  What's he thinking about? I wonder, considering how quiet he's been since we got in the car. I don't have time to muse. The door to the back room I've never gotten a peek at opens. Bradford Mink strolls into the vast show room. He's dressed in a white suit, several rings glittering on his hands. Min is at his elbow.

  "Friends!" he crows, opening his arms as wide as his grin. "Great to see you both."

  I snap myself straight, hands at my sides like he's a military general, and I'm some new recruit. "Mr. Mink, I'm so glad to get to talk to you again!"

  "Yes, right, I've been incredibly busy, apologies." He looks Marshall dead in the face, sizing him up with a strange smile. "Klintock, hope you're well."

  "Of course I am," he replies flatly.

  "Of course," Bradford chuckles. He clasps his hands at his chest, beaming at me. "Ready for tonight?"

  "I think so," I laugh nervously. I wave my hand at the walls where Min directed four staff members I didn't know by name, all wearing matching red and black vests and pants, to hang my canvases. "I was hoping you could look at what I created. I'd love your thoughts on if I, well, I guess if I did enough. If it's what you expected."

  He flicks his eyes up briefly towards the nearest wall. "Looks great," he says dismissively.

  I blink. "Huh?"

  "It's great," he repeats, shrugging his large shoulders. "How many are there? Eight?"

  "Eleven," I say in a deflated tone. Did he not bother to count them? "Here, I sketched out some possible layout plans in case you didn't like how I arranged everything." Pulling my sketchbook from my shoulder bag, I tap the page I marked up. "I did a few concepts, actually, because I wasn't sure what was best. See?"

  "I just said they're fine."

  I open my mouth, unable to make a sound. No one is looking at me. Not even Marshall. Something is wrong, and I can't figure it out, but
his aloof attitude is making the back of my neck hot. "Sir, please, I want your expert opinion. This is my first show, I put all of my heart and so many hours into trying to create stuff that would impress you."

  "Why?" he asks.

  My heart stops. "What?"

  "Why would you bother with all that?" Bradford cocks his head, squinting at me with his lips pursed in a smile, as if he's trying not to straight up laugh in my face. "It doesn't matter how many hours you spent, Leona. Did you actually think you had to work yourself to the bone for this?"

  I start to breathe faster. "I don't understand."

  He swipes a palm over his forehead, facing the taller man. "Really, Klintock? Did you think you were being cute by not explaining this to her?"

  Marshall glares at the floor. Min glances at me, her eyes shining with sympathy. My body feels sluggish, it takes me longer than it should to reach out, grabbing Marshall's wrist, squeezing, begging him to meet my confused stare. He doesn't. "Marshall," I whisper, "What's going on?"

  What am I missing?

  Crossing his arms, Bradford sighs loudly. "I don't know all the reasons you do what you do, Klintock, and I don't ask because you get results. But not telling her what she's getting involved in is just twisted."

  "That's because she's not involved," he says, eyeing Bradford. "Let's talk. Alone."

  "What am I involved in?" I ask, yanking at Marshall's arm. He's turned to stone. I can't make him budge. "Tell me what's going on! Please!"

  "My pleasure," Bradford says."

  "Bradford, don't," Marshall growls.

  "Christ. It's too late, Klintock. Either I tell her it's a scam or you do. It doesn't matter if she knows."

  Marshall rips away from me, his body lurching towards Bradford, and I think he might actually hurt him. He stops himself, hands flexing at his sides. Bradford hasn't budged. He's not worried at all.

  I feel like I've been submerged in the Arctic Ocean. "What do you mean?" I ask in a shaky voice.