Lace and Paint (True Colors Book 1)

by Ally Sky

  “What am I doing?” he whispers in my ear.

  “You’ve just started World War Three.” My body strains against his, my chest heaving, and I breathe rapidly.

  “Really?” He’s unfazed as he continues whispering in my ear and that goddamn feeling in my panties gets worse.

  “Yes.”

  “So what do you suggest I do?” He carries on with his torture.

  “Either kiss me or get the hell out of here.” The words are out before I can stop them. He straightens, his face close to mine, eyes wide with surprise.

  He didn’t expect that, huh?

  We stand frozen for a moment, breathing in sync, and I wonder if he’s hesitating, or if he’s trying to hold himself back. But a quick movement of his pelvis pushes me into the painting behind me. He releases my hands suddenly and grabs my hair.

  And kisses me.

  His lips press against mine; his hands bury themselves in my curls. His tongue explores my mouth with intoxicating passion and I kiss him back, kiss him hard. He tastes amazing, just as I’d imagined. My heart races as enticing currents wash over every part of my aroused body. My hands cradle his short hair, and I don’t care how dirty they are. My tongue is inside his mouth. He tastes…

  I bite his lower lip and he releases a small moan. His erection probes my pelvis, through his jeans, threatening to explode. He continues kissing me, his hands holding my head against the smudged painting. I’m floating and don’t want to wake up from this dream.

  He releases my mouth slowly and looks at me, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

  “Now look what you did…” he says, eyebrows raised.

  “You started it,” I stammer, trying to settle my breathing.

  “I need to get cleaned up. Luckily your brother knows how crazy you are, so it’ll be easy to blame you.” He pulls his hands out of my hair and takes a step back. My body protests as he moves away, and starts shaking slightly. I’m still leaning back against the painting, finding it difficult to breathe. He finally takes his eyes off me and goes into the small bathroom to try and remove the paint from his hands and hair.

  I close my eyes and manage to release the breath I was holding. Fuck! What was that?

  He didn’t just kiss me. He kissed me! And it was…addictive. And now I’m captivated.

  I open my eyes as the bathroom door clicks and he comes out with his hair completely wet.

  “Danny will think we took a shower here.” I try—unsuccessfully—to smile.

  “Go get yourself cleaned up.” He tilts his head toward the bathroom. I go inside and wash my hands, scrubbing them meticulously with soap.

  I can’t calm down.

  He kissed me.

  My entire back is smeared with paint and only a good wash in the shower will solve that.

  Ben is standing at the entrance to the crowded bathroom, leaning on the doorpost and staring at the sink, which is filling with watery orange paint. I scrub my fingers but before I know it, he grabs my hands tightly under the water and stares intently at my wrists. Thin white lines and small circles tingle under his gaze.

  Then his fingers move over them, stroking them gently and tentatively.

  “What’s this?” he whispers, his eyes never leaving my scars.

  “Old memories…” I whisper.

  I don’t believe it. How the hell did he see them? I want to die of embarrassment.

  “Did you do this?” his voice shakes. I haven’t heard his voice shake before.

  “Yes. Old story,” I answer, my voice less than a whisper.

  “What made you do something like that to yourself?”

  “I told you I was crazy. This is just proof.” I don’t know what to say. What is there to say?

  “Did you try to commit suicide?”

  “No. I just wanted to feel something. It wasn’t deep, just painful.”

  “Did you cut yourself with a knife?” Even though he tries not to sound shocked, his voice gives him away. Obviously he’s horrified. Who wouldn’t react that way?

  “Scissors,” I answer softly. “I told you, I wasn’t trying to commit suicide.”

  “And the burns?” His voice still gives away his emotions.

  “Cigarettes.”

  “Jesus…” he says in a hushed tone.

  I pull my hands away from him, close the tap, and wipe my hands on a small towel. He presses against the doorpost, making room for me to go out.

  I’m petrified, cringing with a pain I can barely contain.

  How did this happen?

  A minute ago he was kissing me, his tongue was in my mouth, his divine taste on my lips. But now he’s silent and shocked by what I did to myself ages ago.

  “You can take your painting and run along now,” I utter shakily as I bend down to close the open box of paints. I can’t look at him, can’t meet his gaze.

  “Talia…” he whispers.

  “What? You got it. I’m fucked up. You can go now.”

  All the carefully crafted plans and seductions in the world won’t help me after this.

  “Will you stop with that word already?” His tone hardens.

  “I don’t have a better word,” I try to muster what little strength I have left to say something.

  “I can see you’re in a mood.”

  “How observant.” I roll my eyes in frustration. What kind of a mood does he expect me to be in after he just found out another secret I was trying to hide?

  “Okay. So I’m going to go now with my painting and leave you with your misery.” I hear him sigh. I still can’t look at him.

  “Goodbye.”

  I close the box. I see only his Adidas shoes taking a few steps toward the wall. He picks up the painting, which he so insists on taking, then goes up the stairs. I hear the door close upstairs. I sit down on the floor, hug my knees to my chest, and burst out crying.

  He saw. He found out how screwed up I am. What was I thinking—that I could hide it? He’s probably filled with regret now. He probably believes me now, when I say I am crazy, yet I want him so much…

  I lie in bed wearing baggy sweatshirt and sweatpants. I finally managed to stem my tears under the water in the shower. My laptop is on my knees and I’m writing.

  Wednesday

  May 30th 2012

  Paint and Scars

  I can still feel him holding my hands. Paint and hands entwined, flirting, slippery, making my stomach clench with longing. I can still smell him, standing so close to me; I can still hear him breathing.

  I know he wants me. His bulging jeans gave him away. And all I want is to find a haven in his safe arms. All I want to do is to tell him how much I miss him. I just want to put my head on his shoulder, close my tired eyes, and fall asleep in his arms.

  I want him—enough to go crazy, enough to do silly things. I want him inside me, on top of me, breathing heavily, whispering words of desire, letting down his defenses, and pulling me to him in an embrace filled with love and comfort.

  He saw—my hands and the scars and the memories. But he didn’t see my heart.

  Should I let him? Should I just lay it all out and reveal my feelings? Will he run away? Or will I go crazy?

  I’m ready for the battle, ready to do anything that will enable me to drown in his embrace and get lost in his green eyes.

  I’m recruiting my strength, planning strategies and contingencies.

  What else is there to do?

  Talula

  I open my eyes after what seems like a sleepless night, make a cup of coffee and, still wearing the sweatpants I love (grey and worn out from all the washing), I go out to the patio to smoke my Thursday-morning cigarette. It’s ten o’clock and the house is deserted.

  My eyes are burning and my heart is crushed. Pathetic.

  What am I supposed to do now?

  I need to call Sarah and update her on my visit to Brick Lane yesterday. I open my phone and find a new message from last night waiting for me on Facebook. Ben sent it.
After everything that happened, I was so confused and the last thing I wanted was to talk to him. What’s the point? All he’ll say is how shocked he is and what a mess I am. I open the message, terrified.

  Ben Storm: I hope you don’t kiss all your friends like that.

  I stare at the single sentence.

  I expected something more along the line of “You’re fucked in the head. Go see a doctor. I know a really good one who does house calls.” Instead he completely ignores his discovery in the basement.

  I type a message back.

  Talia Blum: Only the annoying ones...

  I press send, more confused now than ever.

  Ben Storm: I’m glad to hear that.

  I see that it was sent from his mobile. So he installed the Facebook application on his mobile? The man who is staunchly opposed to Facebook, installed the application, so that, God forbid, he wouldn’t miss out on anything that happens?

  Talia Blum: And I hope you don’t kiss all your friends’ sisters that way...

  Ben Storm: Only the annoying ones

  Talia Blum: Don’t think I didn’t catch you checking out my cleavage...

  Ben Storm: I don’t think I tried to hide it.

  Talia Blum: You’re cheeky and the way you’re ignoring the rest of what happened last night is impressive.

  Ben Storm: I have no idea what you’re talking about.

  Is he insane? Is he planning on completely ignoring what happened?

  Talia Blum: Scarred hands and looks of shock...

  Ben Storm: You said that it belonged in the past.

  Talia Blum: It really does belong in the past.

  Ben Storm: So then why do you insist on discussing it? I swear, you love your misery. You try as hard as you can to find something to make yourself suffer.

  Is that what he thinks?

  Talia Blum: “The intention that man should be happy is not included in the scheme of Creation.”

  I quote Freud. I love that quote.

  Talia Blum: Anyway, you don’t even know me.

  Ben Storm: I’d like to get to know more of you, but I have a few buildings to build.

  Talia Blum: Get to know more of me??

  I just can’t ignore his last sentence …

  Ben Storm: Not during work!

  Talia Blum: I warned you about the Third World War you started. Now deal with the bombs

  Ben Storm: I’m going now, before I have to run and take cover. Stop moaning and go do something useful.

  Talia Blum: Useful to me or useful to you?

  Ben Storm: Bye, Talia.

  Talia Blum: Bye. For now.

  Well, it’s pretty obvious the man isn’t normal. Whatever game he’s playing, he’s fucked in the head. He’s not disturbed by all the bad things he found out about me—nothing fazes him. What’s his deal? Maybe he doesn’t really care about me. That would explain it. Maybe, as far as he’s concerned, I can cut my wrists all day long and put out burning cigarettes on myself.

  But he kissed me. Really kissed me. I can still taste his lips and smell his aftershave. I like it when he annoys me and teases me, and I like it when he kisses me.

  Maybe I need to excite him in some other way. If my quirks don’t scare him, I’m sure I can go a bit nuts.

  I open my laptop and go to my blog.

  Response from Ronnie K: What are you waiting for? Go out and get him! Cook him dinner and don’t take no for an answer. Let him sit across the table from you and go mad. Don’t forget, men are jealous types, and flirting with other men can crack even the toughest nut (like your guy). Not to mention extreme cases that demand extreme actions (have you considered seducing him in the office and having oral sex behind the desk?) and if you know where he lives, don’t forget to knock on his door wearing only a long raincoat and your sexiest lingerie.

  Wow. I’ve already decided the office is off-limits, at least for the time being. Also, Ronnie K’s offer is slightly too extreme for my current game plan. But I can definitely prepare supper and persuade Danny to invite him.

  I close my laptop and, since I’m no longer sleepy, I dial Sarah’s number.

  “How was yesterday?” she asks. She sounds keen to hear from me so I assume she’s happy with her decision to hire me.

  “I think it went well.” I’m hesitant, not sure what she’s expecting to hear.

  “What did you think of the exhibition?”

  “I didn’t really like it,” I answer honestly. It was a collection of horrible paintings and I didn’t quite get the connection between them. I can imagine my first exhibition—not that there’ll ever be one—and I already know exactly how I want it to look. “But Gary was charming.”

  I smile as I remember the pleasant man I met yesterday. We talked and laughed about life in London and about modern art and Barcelona.

  “He said the same thing about you.” I can hear the smile in her voice.

  “Oh.” I’m confused. Gary thought I was charming? “Have you spoken to him?”

  “Of course. He was expecting you. I also thought that the exhibition wasn’t too great,” she laughs.

  Okay, so that was my test. I hope I passed it, as I don’t have another job.

  “So you saw the exhibition?” I ask tentatively.

  “Yes, I wanted to make sure you gave me your honest opinion and not what you thought I’d want to hear,” she answers, her voice serious. “In any case, now that I know I can trust you, I’d like you to go and see another gallery I’m interested in.” She gives me an address and I immediately type it into my laptop.

  “Oh, and, Talia, if you could come by the office afterwards, I have something to give you.”

  “Of course,” I respond and end the call. It appears I have a new job.

  I pick out some clothes from my closet: a black mini skirt that hugs my waist, hanging from the protruding hip bones I’m not supposed to like, but do, and a pale green blouse (the only shade of green I’m willing to wear), and black high heels, which make my unbearably short legs look longer.

  I put make up on in the bathroom, making an extra effort to conceal the signs left over from my late-night weeping. When I leave the house around noon, it’s glorious and sunny. Now that I don’t have to find a waitressing job, but just cruise from one gallery to another, my mood improves incredibly. And I’m getting paid for it! My day is certainly starting out well.

  At lunchtime, I take the elevator to Sarah’s office on the fifth floor. Sharon isn’t at her desk, which immediately brings me some relief. I approach the second door to the left.

  Again, he’s so close to me…

  I knock on the door and go in.

  “Talia.” She smiles at me.

  “Hello, Miss Gibson,” I answer with a slight smile.

  “Miss Gibson?” She laughs. “Please, call me Sarah. How was today?”

  I fill her in, informing her that my visit was a success and so was the exhibition. We laugh together and I decide she’s certainly not the tough boss I was afraid she’d be.

  “Anyway,” she opens her drawer, “you’ll need this.” She gives me a small cardboard box. “It’s your new mobile phone. It’s already been charged and the number is written on the box.”

  I check out the package. Samsung Galaxy. I don’t understand much about phones.

  “You'll need a phone. I understand you like taking photographs and I’m sure you will enjoy a nice music player.” She smiles.

  Who told her all this? “Thank you,” I smile self-consciously.

  “You’re welcome.”

  We say goodbye, once I’ve asked her exactly how things will work from now on. We agree that we’ll speak to each other every morning around ten o’clock. Sarah seems to think that in no time at all I’ll know which places to go to. I think that she’s putting way too much trust in someone she’s just met. I leave her office and glance in the direction of Ben’s office. It’s extremely torturous. Here I am, ten meters from him, from his lips, and I don’t know what to do. I enter
the lift, take out my new phone and send him a message.

  15:15

  I have a new toy.

  I’m sure I’ll make good use of my new camera

  And now I should get back to my second job,

  slaving away in the kitchen

  Talia.

  I press send. As I leave the building, my phone rings with a new text:

  15:18

  Enjoy it. I thought you’d like it.

  At least now you’re smiling.

  I’m sure the food will be great, like you.

  I can’t stop smiling. He chose the phone? And he thinks I’m great?

  He has to come to supper.

  I dial Danny. The chances of Ben saying no to him are slim.

  “Hi, what’s up?” I ask, a huge smile spread all over my face as I walk toward Portobello Market.

  He thinks I’m great. And I don’t care what game he’s playing. I’m in.

  “Everything’s fine. What number are you calling me from?”

  “From the new phone Sarah gave me.”

  “You got the job?” He sounds pleased. No, more than pleased—happy. “I knew you’d be perfect for it.”

  “I passed the test successfully,” I rejoice. “And now I’m going to cook a celebratory meal. Maybe you’ll invite my new boss? I want to thank him.” I provide my premeditated excuse, one that won’t raise unwanted questions. I’m starting to get good at this, my blog readers will be happy to hear.