Lace and Paint (True Colors Book 1)

by Ally Sky

  “Everyone goes to the army. It’s mandatory service,” I reply. I sit down on the blanket next to him and take off my shoes. I take the red wine out of the basket and pass the bottle and corkscrew to Ben, who opens it easily.

  “What did you do in the army?” He seems to be amused by the idea.

  “I was a shooting instructor,” I answer.

  “Really?” He doesn’t try to hide the amazement in his voice.

  “Yes.”

  “What, rifles and stuff?”

  “Rifles and stuff,” I repeat amused. “You know, M16, machine guns, no big deal.”

  “No big deal? I think I’d better remember that piece of information.” He grins. “I’m surprised someone even recruited you.”

  “Why do you say that?” His statement surprises me.

  “Come on, Talia.” He pours me a glass of wine and hands it to me. I take it without taking my eyes off him. “You’re so small and delicate.”

  “I’m not so delicate.” I roll my eyes. “But luckily I brought food. You’ll get a chance to feed me.”

  “That sounds like a good idea.” He grins at me.

  He thinks I’m thin. But I don’t know if he likes it or not. Maybe he thinks I’m too thin? Well, it hasn’t worried him until now. I take out the rolls and the cheese, and Ben raises his glass.

  “To your surprises, beautiful,” he says, happily.

  “I have a few more up my sleeve.” I giggle, as I raise my glass and take a small sip.

  And now, food.

  Ben is delighted to see a copy of Harry Potter in the basket.

  He puts his head on my thigh, closes his eyes, and looks so peaceful. My fingers caress his hair as I read to him about magicians and witches, and a smile appears on his gorgeous face. I manage to read two chapters before he decides it’s too cold. When we get back to the caravan, I take out the wine, put it on the table, and pour us each a glass. We lay on the double bed and I tell Ben all about my week, about the hours of painting in the basement and writing my blog.

  “Can you see that you need to make some time for yourself?” I smile at him warmly as he plays with my curls.

  “Luckily, I can count on you and your mischievous head to organize it for me,” he agrees, still playing with my hair. “How did you manage to set up this entire thing?”

  “It’s not so difficult nowadays with the internet,” I answer without giving away too many details. It really wasn’t so complicated. There isn’t a thing that can’t be organized with an available credit card. It took me exactly one hour of research to find the place, and Bill and his wife sounded lovely. The deal clincher was that the train station was within walking distance.

  “So you weren’t sure I’d come?” he asks jokingly.

  “I didn’t know what to think,” I answer truthfully. “You were so busy this week. What were your plans for the weekend before you boarded the train?”

  “Work.”

  “Really?” I roll my eyes. “On the weekend?”

  “Yes, there’re a lot of projects that need my attention.”

  “So why did you come?” I can’t hide the quiver in my voice. I know what I want to hear. I know how much I missed him and I want to know if he, boyfriend or not, missed me as well. “Was it pure curiosity?”

  “I worked the entire week and I decided I could take a break to recharge my batteries.”

  Not the answer I was looking for. Recharging batteries.

  “And the thought of recharging them with you…” he concedes. Now he’s talking. “I haven’t seen you since Sunday and I missed your taste.”

  My taste. That’s the most honest statement he’s capable of making. He’s unable to say he missed me, but I’ll make do with that. I’ll make do with any statement of longing from him.

  “But, I must apologize because I did bring my laptop and I’m going to have to steal a few minutes to work.”

  “Now?” I’m disappointed.

  “No, beautiful.” He raises an eyebrow and grins. “Now I want to be inside you.”

  I peek into my boss’ office. Yoram’s a nice man, about fifty years old. He was nice enough to give me this job, even though I didn’t have any office experience.

  “It’s just typing documents. I’m sure you’ll manage,” he’d said to me.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you,” I apologize. “I just wanted to tell you I’m leaving early.” My voice is low as I murmur self-consciously.

  I don’t feel well. I woke up with a terrible headache and felt faint and dizzy. But it’s the end of the month and I had to get to the office, even for just a few hours, to help out with the paperwork. I’ve taken two pills, hoping they would take effect quickly. But I’ve barely survived the last few hours.

  I know it’s shitty I’m leaving early, particularly today. I did as much as I could, but I can’t stand the pain in my head any longer.

  He looks up from his desk with concern. “Talia, you are very pale.” I look at him while the hammering continues in my head.

  “I’m fine. I’ll just go home.”

  “How are you getting there?” He gives me a concerned, fatherly look.

  “By bus.”

  “Absolutely not. I’ll ask Eitan to take you.”

  My heart freezes. What? No, no, no, anyone but Eitan. I’ve managed to avoid his awful, daily visits, and now Yoram wants him to take me home, unaware of what happens behind closed doors. My heart starts to pound.

  “Yoram, there’s really no need. I can take the bus.” I’m staring at him in panic. I can’t even feel the hammering in my head anymore, only my stomach clenching painfully.

  “Don’t be silly.” He picks up the phone and starts dialing.

  I must stop him! I have to say something!

  “Eitan…everything is alright. Talia needs a ride home…” I can hear Yoram’s concerned voice and can just imagine the smile on the face of that awful man at the other end of the line. “No problem. Five minutes.”

  “Yoram.” I make another desperate attempt to save myself from the terrible situation I’m about to get into. “I really don’t need a ride.”

  “All set, sweetheart. Eitan will be waiting outside in the car in another five minutes. Feel better.” He looks at me, wondering if I need anything else from him. I can’t say a thing. I’ve taken up enough of his time. It’s not his fault; he’s just worried about me. And now I have to deal with that menacing man in the car. Luckily it’s only a short trip, just a few minutes.

  “See you tomorrow,” I stammer hysterically. I close the door behind me and make my way down the long corridor. I zip my coat all the way up. Maybe that’ll stop him. Maybe I’ll manage to get through the few minutes in the car without feeling his burning hands on my body. I go outside and can see Eitan’s car parked on the road opposite, waiting for me to fall straight into his trap.

  Run! Go to the bus stop!

  No one knows what this man does to me. I open the car door slowly and get into the passenger seat. I stare straight ahead through the window. My eyes are on the road and my heart is racing. I fasten my seatbelt and hold my bag tightly to my chest.

  “I hear you’re not feeling well.” His awful voice is trying to be nice and charming, but I know him. He’s anything but nice.

  “I just want to get home,” I say quietly without looking at him. Our eyes must not meet. Eitan puts his foot on the accelerator and joins the traffic on the main road.

  I’m paralyzed. The seatbelt is securing me to the seat. I have nowhere to run, even if I want to. Just a few more minutes. Just a few more minutes and I’ll escape this car.

  I don’t say a word. We’re driving down the road and my body is completely tense. Let’s just get there!

  I can feel my heart pounding while I clutch my bag, trying to hide my shaking hands.

  “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Eitan breaks the silence. His tone gives me the chills and his words make my stomach clench. “Where are you hurting?”

  Where am I
hurting? All over! My whole body hurts from all this tension, from this situation I’ve gotten myself into—being trapped in the car with him.

  “Well?” A slight movement of his hand causes me to glance in his direction. His left hand is still on the wheel. But his right hand is creeping slowly toward me. “Your job is coming to an end soon. Aren’t we going to go out to celebrate you going to the army?”

  Is he kidding me?

  I pull my bag even closer to my chest. Each breath is becoming harder and harder to take.

  He doesn’t take his eyes off the road but his hand finds my thigh and moves slowly over my jeans.

  What the hell? What is he doing? This isn’t happening to me! My eyes are darting around. I can see my house at the end of the narrow road.

  His hand, brave and confident, slithers between my thighs, squeezes them, and climbs up, slowly, toward where my legs meet…

  “No!” I hear a scream.

  And then I realize. It’s my voice. It’s my scream.

  He slams on the brakes suddenly and the car comes to an abrupt halt, throwing me forwards and backwards.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I yell, fumbling with the buckle of the seatbelt, releasing it. I open the door and rush out hysterically.

  What just happened?

  I run home, open the front door, and slam it closed behind me. I’m shaking all over. I rush to the bathroom, bend over the white toilet bowl, and puke my guts out.

  “Talia!” A pair of wide, green eyes stare at me. I’m panting heavily. Where am I? A quick look around—and then I remember. My dreams don’t care that I’m in a caravan, in the middle of nowhere. They find me. “What happened?”

  “Just a dream,” I whisper, trying to catch my breath.

  “Jesus, Talia. You were screaming.” He looks appalled. “What were you dreaming about?”

  I can’t believe I screamed. Now he wants to know what I’ve never told anyone—another sensational discovery about fucked-up Talia.

  “It’s nothing,” I avoid answering and sit up, picking my clothes up off the floor. His gaze follows me. “I need a cigarette.”

  I’m sitting on the steps of the caravan, inhaling deeply. We fell asleep and it’s eight in the evening. The door opens behind me and Ben sits next to me on the step.

  “Why won’t you talk to me?” he pleads.

  “Why do you need all this?” I’m feeling hysterical. I know him and his ability to get me to spill everything.

  “Talia, it was frightening,” he says anxiously.

  “You know I was hurt. It was just a dream.”

  “About a guy?” His voice is soft, but far from calm.

  “Yes.” I squirm.

  “Your boyfriend?”

  “God, no,” I shake my head. “Someone who I used to work with before I joined the army.”

  “Before the army?” He sounds astounded. “How old were you?”

  His green eyes are staring at me in disbelief.

  “Eighteen…”

  “And him?”

  “Older, about forty,” I whisper, starting to feel nauseous. This is the first time I’ve ever talked about it.

  “Son of a bitch.” Ben’s eyes are ablaze. The look on his face paralyzes me. “What did he do?”

  I swallow. “It’s not what you think.”

  “I don’t know what I think. What did he do?” He turns to me, his eyes enraged, and I have difficulty breathing. Why does it matter to him?

  “He would touch me, in the office. No one knew. No one knows.” My voice breaks.

  “Is that what you dreamed about?”

  “About the last time I saw him. He took me home in his car and his hand…”

  “And his hand?” He’s furious.

  “And his hand went between my legs,” I whisper almost inaudibly. I’m shaking, and it’s not from the cold.

  “Son of a bitch…what do you mean nobody knows?” He’s fuming.

  “I couldn’t tell. No one would’ve believed me.” I’m trying to stifle the tears threatening to break through. “It would’ve been his word against mine.”

  “So you never said a thing to anyone?”

  I recoil in pain. He’s so mad. And for one moment I’m not sure whether he’s mad at me—for staying silent, or for never saying anything.

  “He was married, with small children, and I was the black sheep. There was no point.” My effort to stop the tears fails and a big teardrop falls down onto my cheek, reaching my mouth. I quickly wipe it away and take another puff of my cigarette.

  “I’m such a fuckup…”

  “You don’t give yourself credit for anything,” he says wearily and I turn my shattered gaze to him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look at how much stuff you deal with, and the only things you see are your failures.” He shakes his head slightly.

  “What am I supposed to see?”

  “That you’ve gone through so many things and you never gave up.” His voice is soft as he turns to me.

  “Gave up on what?” I’m puzzled at the direction the conversation is taking.

  “On yourself, on who you are, on who you want to be.” He keeps his eyes on me.

  “You’re so wrong. I let everything break me.”

  “That is so not true.” He gets upset with me again. “You’re not broken. You tell yourself stories. You’re much stronger than you think.”

  I roll my eyes and shake my head.

  “Damn it, Talia, your self-deprecation is exhausting,” he sighs despairingly.

  “Do I exhaust you?”

  “I just can’t understand why it’s so difficult for you to see how wonderful you are.”

  I’m wonderful? Did he really just say that? After he heard how damaged and broken I am?

  “Please, don’t say that,” I plead. Don’t say words that only confuse me.

  He looks baffled. “Why?”

  “Because you don’t mean it.”

  “What?” He’s stunned. He doesn’t have to pretend. We both know what he wants from me.

  “You know why I say that.”

  “Because I don’t want to be your boyfriend?”

  “Yes.”

  “What does that have to do with it?” To my surprise, he sounds insulted. “Can’t I think that you’re wonderful? You know it has nothing to do with you.”

  “I don’t know anything.” I’m confused. “You’re the one who won’t talk to me.”

  He’s exhausted. “Talia…”

  “What?” My voice doesn’t hide how confused and hurt I am by his inability to talk to me.

  “What do you want to know? I was in a relationship and it ended terribly. I don’t want a girlfriend. I don’t want all that commitment and heartache and all that it demands from me,” he says softly. His voice sounds distant, and it’s clear to me that his thoughts have wandered to a bad place.

  “You don’t want to commit because you want to see other girls?” I ask, slightly afraid. Is that it? He gives me a stern look. My throat chokes up.

  “Talia, I don’t want anyone else.”

  He doesn’t?

  “Really?” I’m caught off guard. My tone of voice makes him smile.

  “Yes.” He looks at me. “I’m happy with you, like this, when you manage to avoid all your dramas. And I think you’re wonderful and beautiful and smart, and I love talking to you, and I love sleeping with you, and I love listening to you. Please, don’t think of yourself as being fucked up or damaged or any of the things I keep hearing from you. Please try and see yourself as I see you.”

  I stare at him, hypnotized. “You’re lovely.”

  “So are you. Now put out your cigarette and come inside. We have rolls left over from the picnic and I’m hungry.”

  I nod and whisper suggestively, “Me too.”

  We both know what I’m talking about.

  “Talia,” he says, still concerned. “Your dream.”

  “It was just a dream. Now take me
inside and make me forget about it.”

  “I’m glad you told me about your dream yesterday.” Ben is relaxed as I dry myself off after my morning shower.

  “You have the amazing ability of getting me to spill all my secrets. You should consider a career change. An interrogator for the Secret Service sounds appropriate.” I laugh.

  “So what are we eating for breakfast?” He stretches out in bed and I examine his muscular chest and the V of his lower abdominal muscles.

  “Hello!” He laughs. “Breakfast?” I blush and grin, like a kid who’s been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

  “Well, there’s a lovely grocery shop here. They grow almost everything themselves. We’re going shopping.”

  “After breakfast I have to work a bit, beautiful.” He sits up and searches for his underpants on the floor.

  “If you insist.” I smile at him. As far as I’m concerned, he can sit in front of me all day long with his laptop and let me just look at him.

  “What time is our train?” He gets up and pulls his pants on.

  “Four o’clock,” I answer hesitantly. Let this day go by slowly. If I could, I would stop time.

  “Okay, let’s go shopping.” He puts his shirt on and slides his feet into his Adidas.

  The small shop is lovely. The sun, which accompanied us the whole way, warms me, and I’m so happy. We buy fresh bread, vegetables, and eggs, and Bill is pleased to hear we’re enjoying our stay. I remember to thank him for placing us in a remote corner, just as I’d requested.

  Back in the caravan, I make omelets. Ben spreads a thin blanket outside and then pours us some freshly squeezed orange juice. I slice some vegetables and take the food out to eat in the sun, sitting down next to him.

  “How did you sleep last night?” He bites into the fresh bread and looks at me, concerned.

  “Good.” I cut a small piece of my roll and chew it slowly. It’s ten in the morning. Who can even eat at this hour? But I have no intention of ruining the day with my issues.

  “You didn’t have any more dreams?”

  “No,” I answer honestly. That dream was more than enough.

  “I still can’t believe you never told anyone about it.” He’s insistent.

  “I told you, they wouldn’t have believed me.”