Lace and Paint (True Colors Book 1)

by Ally Sky

  No green eyes have come to visit me after I got up and left the coffee shop in a huff. Not that I should care. Why would a guy like that even look in my direction? He’s so out of my league, especially after the scene I made. Again.

  He’s Danny’s boss. Danny’s boss.

  I’ve been repeating that mantra, unsuccessfully, all week. The thing is, though, he didn’t run away after all the things I told him. I’m the one who ran away in the end. What a dumbass. He was just trying to be nice to Danny, taking his baby sister out to have a pleasant time.

  Nice.

  And good looking.

  And he makes me laugh.

  And he listens to me…

  I lie in bed, trying to get him out of my head, to stop missing him, dreaming of him. At least thinking about him provides a welcome break from my demons. They come to me at night, more loathsome than ever.

  The weekend arrives, bringing lovely summer weather. Not that it means anything. It’s rained all week, so I had to remember to take something warm to wear every time I left the house.

  Saturday evening, I emerge from the basement. Danny and John are cuddling in front of the television. I take my time showering and allow my thoughts to flow with the water, vigorously soaping my hands after taking out all my frustrations on the canvas.

  When I’m changed into a large sweatshirt and faded grey sweatpants, I lie on the bed. The laptop is open on the bedside cabinet, pulling it towards me I immediately open my Facebook page and find I have a new friend request.

  I press on the red sign. Damn…

  Ben Storm wants to be my friend. My heart misses a beat.

  Should I be surprised? Maybe not. I already know he’s playing some sort of game. I just don’t understand what kind yet. And he’s sent me a message.

  Ben Storm: It seems that I do have Facebook after all. Mark Zuckerberg is in a forgiving mood. I waited a week and you never sent me a friend request. Maybe you’re not as addicted to Facebook as you said you are. Seriously now, why do you run off every time something doesn’t go your way? Is that what you came to London for? I can offer more effective coping strategies

  Shocked, I confirm his friend request and send him a message.

  Talia Blum: Good to know you took a psychology course at university. As for Zuckerberg, I can speak to him, and we can cancel your page in a flash.

  Ben Storm: I never went to university. And you’re talking rubbish. Stop being evasive all the time.

  He never went to uni?

  Talia Blum: You’ve known me for five minutes and already you’re rushing to diagnose me. But you don’t know anything. So I’ve told you a few things, maybe you Googled it and maybe you didn’t, but it doesn’t mean you have any idea what I’m going through or what I’m dealing with. Stop pretending you know anything about me.

  Ben Storm: You’re impressively defensive. Is this how you plan on spending your time in London, your life, waiting for the next blow?

  Talia Blum: I am not being defensive. And the next blow will come, whether I want it or not. Excuse me for not jumping with joy each time you decide to embark on one of your annoying interrogations and insist I tell you about myself, especially when you don’t tell me anything about yourself.

  Ben Storm: Do you think I would hurt you?

  Talia Blum: Nope, because I won’t let you. I just don’t understand why you care, why you need to know everything. If you’re so intrigued, you can ask Danny. I’m sure he has enough hair-raising stories about me.

  Ben Storm: Hair-raising? Now I’m intrigued. You want to know why I care? Because Danny told me you were coming and that you’d gone through a shitty time, and I thought you could use another friend. So, I tried talking to you, because that’s what friends do, talk, but you’re such a drama queen it’s impossible …

  Seriously, what a load of crap. How can I be friends with someone who irritates me all the time and hypnotizes me with his eyes?

  Talia Blum: That’s me. Impossible. You’re not the first one to tell me, so don’t try and take the credit. You want to be my friend? So why are you so annoying all the time? Is that also something friends do?

  Ben Storm: Nope, that I just do for fun

  For fun?

  Talia Blum: Good to know I entertain you. I didn’t think you had the time, with everything you do. You sound like a very busy man. Isn’t it a shame to waste your time on disgraceful behavior?

  Ben Storm: My behavior is disgraceful? And yes, I am a busy man. Which reminds me, have you found a job?

  Talia Blum: I haven’t looked. The idea of going back to waitressing doesn’t exactly thrill me, to say the least.

  Ben Storm: What did you do all week? Hide out in the basement?

  Talia Blum: I’m surprised you didn’t ask if I ran away to the basement.

  Ben Storm: I restrained myself So, did you paint and write?

  Talia Blum: Yes. More or less.

  Ben Storm: Maybe you’ll let me read it some time?

  Talia Blum: That's not going to happen.

  Ben Storm: Why not?

  You don’t want to know. In the past few days I’ve been writing mainly about you, and you’re not always dressed …

  Talia Blum: It’s personal. And I already told you, anonymous. That’s the whole idea; it’s the only way I can write freely.

  Ben Storm: Have you made plans for the weekend?

  Talia Blum: Not really.

  Ben Storm: Someone needs to get you out of that basement.

  Talia Blum: You can have that conversation with Danny. I’m sure he’ll be a willing participant.

  Ben Storm: I may just do that …

  Talia Blum: Don’t threaten.

  Ben Storm: Okay. Well, I’d love to carry on chatting with you, but I need to get home.

  Talia Blum: You aren’t at home?

  Ben Storm: At work.

  Talia Blum: Are you serious?!

  Ben Storm: Yes.

  Talia Blum: It’s Saturday evening!

  Ben Storm: I’m completely aware of that.

  Talia Blum: Workaholic.

  Ben Storm: Absolutely.

  Talia Blum: Go home!

  Ben Storm: Good night, Miss Blum.

  Talia Blum: Good night, Mr. Storm.

  I continue staring at the screen. He logged out more than five minutes ago, and I can’t tear my eyes away from the screen. He wants to be my friend. Seriously, if he continues coming over, I’ll never be able to stop thinking about him.

  I lie down in bed, try to close my eyes and not think about anything. I just want to sleep. And not think about things that will never happen…

  “Why are you looking at me, whore?” A burning gaze stares at me; all eyes in the classroom turn to me. Standing self-consciously before those derisive blue eyes, I swallow as murmurs fill the air. What was I thinking?

  The night before, I gave all of myself to him. My fingers traveled all over his back, his hand grabbed my hair, and he’d groaned as he plunged inside me.

  And now he’s standing before me with his scornful smile, humiliating me in front of everyone.

  “Well? Still looking at me? Didn’t you get enough last night?”

  My feet are stuck to the ground, and I lower my gaze. The murmurs have turned into audible whispers. Seventeen- year-old kids can be cruel. And now everyone knows what I did with him, not that it was supposed to be a secret. I don’t know what it was supposed to be. Maybe a desperate attempt to feel loved in any possible way. No matter the price. The price was my body and I willingly paid it. And now I’m standing in front of the whole class and paying for my mistakes.

  A familiar feeling rises from inside. Itches. Prickling the tips of my fingers and my wrist.

  No…I mustn’t feel like this.

  But I can’t fight it. Not right now, not in front of everyone, standing and staring at me, smiling and laughing.

  My feet break free of the paralysis holding them down and I run out of the classroom. All the way to the bus stop.
I’m not crying. I’m not crying at all. I just want to get home, go to my room, and close the door behind me, so I can unleash the pain.

  Sitting on the floor, my back to the door, rusty scissors carve bloody lines down my arm. I cut, each time a little deeper. Silent tears run down my cheeks, tears of relief.

  You deserve it. You deserve to feel pain. Pain is the only thing you understand. Here you go. Why give others the pleasure? You’re so good at it.

  Why did you sleep with him, you whore? Why did you let him? You’re better off like this, on the floor of your room, where you deserve to be. Cutting deeply, so that everyone can see what a mess you are. So that no one will get close to you. So that no one will hurt you again, ever.

  I sit up in bed in alarm, my heart racing wildly.

  Fuck. My hand goes quickly to my wrist and I run my fingers over it. Where did that come from now? I locked that memory away ages ago. The only things left are the tiny white scars on my wrist.

  London has pried open all the locks and my demons are coming back, crueler than ever. It’s ten past four in the morning and I’m sitting on my bed in London, thousands of miles from anyone who’s ever hurt me. Yet, the memories insist on coming.

  I get up, grab my laptop, open the bedroom door, and quietly make my way to the basement. I settle on the couch and play music on my computer.

  Sunday

  May 27ᵗʰ 2012

  Memories

  My demons are finding their way back out of my cupboard and into my life.

  Dark memories overwhelm me.

  Four a.m. My body is cold and so is my heart. Fear is creeping in.

  I can still remember the terrible looks, the laughter, and those pointing fingers. Kids can be persistent. It can take a while, a long while for them to forget. Believe me because I know. It’s not the best place to be, being the girl everyone laughs at. You don’t have to beat someone to hurt them. Words can very easily kill. And I died and was reborn, just to die all over again every morning.

  Why is this all coming back to me now? Why is it here, fresh, drawing out every drop of breath I’m trying to take into my lungs? I sealed it under a thousand locks and keys, with all the other memories. But someone or something has turned the key, and I can’t lock it up again.

  I just want to be happy, to paint, to write, and not to think about all the things that have happened. That isn’t me anymore. I’m no longer the girl who can’t stand up for herself, who can’t stop what’s happening to her. I’m not her. I’m stronger…I think. I don’t know how strong I am or even if I’m strong at all. Strong enough to deal with the memories, strong enough to dare one more time, to live…

  At four in the afternoon, Danny and I are drinking coffee in the kitchen, when the doorbell rings.

  We exchange a look of surprise and Danny hollers, “It’s open!” causing me to jump in alarm.

  The door opens and then Ben is smiling at us, wearing a pair of black jeans and a grey knit jersey which clings to his chest. God, he looks good in suits and jeans. My face heats and I want to fan myself down. I haven’t seen him in a week. I’ve missed him more than I thought possible. And now he’s here and my heart is pounding with the excitement of a hormonal sixteen-year-old.

  “Hi.” He struts into the house confidently.

  “What’s going on?” Danny smiles at him, unsurprised to see him walking into his kitchen, although it seems to be a regular occurrence.

  “Everything’s fine.” Ben continues smiling and turns to me. “You said I can have your painting.”

  “What?”

  “Your painting? You said I could have it.”

  “Are you serious?” I scrunch up my face. “Do you really want it?”

  The very thought that someone wants my painting is implausible. Smudges of paint on a canvas.

  “Very. Have you changed your mind?” He frowns.

  “No, you can have it.” I still can’t believe he’s serious.

  “Wicked.” He heaves a sigh of relief I’m sure my painting doesn’t warrant. “What did you do today?”

  I glance at Danny, surprised to see he’s busy with the newspaper and not showing any interest in what’s going on right under his nose. God, is he blind?

  “Nothing.” I’m embarrassed, as per usual since I’ve arrived here.

  “Danny, I’m taking your crazy sister out to the park.” Ben grins mischievously.

  Excuse me? Hello! I’m here! Did he even think of checking with me?

  “Have a nice time.” Danny smiles without lifting his head from the paper. I don’t understand his reaction at all.

  “Are you going to get dressed?” Ben looks at the sloppy shirt and sweatpants I’m wearing.

  Oh, God! What am I wearing? I can’t believe he’s seeing me like this.

  “I’m dressed just fine and I am not going to the park,” I reply irritably.

  Who am I fooling? I’m dying to go to the park.

  He glances at me. “Come on, don’t be so serious. Come to the park.”

  Ugh! He’s so stubborn.

  “Okay. Ten minutes.”

  “Five minutes. And the countdown has already begun.”

  I get up from the chair, trying not to show too much enthusiasm. It requires sheer willpower not to run to my room and wear the most gorgeous outfit I can find so I can seduce him in the park.

  I go to my room, close the door and slump against it like a teenager. Pathetic. What am I supposed to wear to the park? Skinny jeans and flats? I get dressed in a hurry, rush into the bathroom and, since I don't have time, I just put on some mascara.

  “I’m ready.” I walk into the kitchen hesitantly and Ben leads me out.

  At the park, mothers are pushing baby strollers, people are jogging, and we walk along the pathways. The sky is grey and overcast, and I’m glad I’m not blinded by the sun.

  “I hope we’ll manage to get through the day without you running off somewhere.” His quiet voice triggers a reaction from my body again.

  “If you don’t piss me off,” I utter in a failed attempt to hide my inner turmoil.

  Ben steers us toward the grass and we sit under one of the trees. He stretches his long legs, his body relaxed, and leans back on his hands. I lift my knees to my chest, as if trying to protect myself.

  “So, are you going to continue living off your brother for much longer?” He delivers one of his infuriating sentences. The sheer nerve.

  “I’m not living off anyone, don’t make presumptions”

  “Do you have your own money?” His tone is disparaging.

  “Yes, my dad left me an apartment in Tel Aviv. I rent it out and it pays my way here, not that it’s any of your goddamn business,” I reply through gritted teeth.

  “So you rent it out and live off the rent?” He sounds surprised.

  “Yes,” I shrug.

  “What a waste.” He snickers and rolls his eyes.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re excused.” He flashes me a smirk. “If you had sold it, you could’ve renovated two apartments, then sold them, too, and made a nice profit.” He smiles.

  “Hey, Mr. Real Estate, take your hands off my property! I’m not selling to you, or to anyone for that matter.” I jokingly wave a long, cautionary finger at him.

  “Relax! I have no intention of expanding all the way to Tel Aviv.” He laughs again, his face shining.

  And all I can think about is him kissing me.

  “So that’s what you do—buy properties and renovate them?” I try to shove all thoughts of kissing out of my head. One moment I’m mad at him and the next…

  “I buy and renovate, but also build new houses. I do all kinds of things.” He seems pleased with himself. As he should be. “Seriously now, what are you planning on doing in London?” He changes the subject again. It’s difficult trying to keep up with him.

  “What can I do? I’ll waitress at some café and that’ll leave me enough time to do what I really love doing.”

 
; “Writing and painting?” He searches my face with probing eyes.

  “Yes,” I smile shyly. “That’s all I really feel like doing. But you probably don’t get it. You’re a workaholic, you work all night on your computer.”

  “Sometimes.” He shrugs, smiling. “Somebody has to work.”

  “I prefer the second option.” I chuckle.

  “Which is?” He looks amused.

  “To travel the world and have fun.”

  “I’m sure.” He laughs his lovely laugh again. “So where else have you been, besides Barcelona, of course?”

  He gazes at me curiously and I hug my knees tighter, leaning my chin on them.

  “You know, nothing serious, a week in Rome, a week in Sinai, those kinds of vacations. And you?”

  “Vacation?” The question startles him.

  “Yes, vacation.” I laugh when I see the surprised look on his face. “You must’ve traveled in your life.”