“Well, I didn’t choose it. I inherited it from my dead mom,” I unfairly spit out to rattle him.
“I’m sorry.” His voice dropped low and velvety, slipping in and around the pain. “You’d better go before your dad worries.”
I handed him his coat, a chill shuddering through me as I got in my car. “Not something I have to worry about.”
I reached out to pull the door closed, but Quentin stepped in its closing path and pushed it wider, leaning in. The air was suddenly sucked gone. I held my breath.
Breathe. Breathe.
Hesitation lingered, his eyes locked on mine, before he said, “Goodnight,” and slammed the door closed, vanishing into the dark.
I snatched my bag from my locker, thankful it was Friday. Thankful to escape the torturous day I’d forced myself to move through. But no amount of school distraction was able to shake the cold feeling left in the wake of last night’s images. It was a war of shadows dueling in my mind, tormenting me to understand their vagueness before they’d made a hasty retreat into nothingness. I had no idea why my mind conjured up the people, but was fairly certain their fate did not end well.
I cut through the back doors of the school, instantly wrapped in a veil of mist. My mind felt like a scarlet “A” that throbbed for all to see the craziness lurking behind my eyes. I picked up my pace as I wove in and out of the parked cars, my cell phone beeping somewhere in the depths of my messenger bag. I dug for my keys and came up with my phone. I ducked into the car, wiped the mist from my eyes, and glanced at the screen. My stomach clenched as the letters of Quentin’s name sprung from the screen, along with three words:
Where R U?
The brusqueness of his message sent annoyance down my spine. What does he mean, where am I? What business is it of his?
Why? Where R U?
I tossed the phone on the seat and pulled out of the parking spot. The beep was instantaneous. I stopped and picked it up.
In UR house
My heart hiccupped in disbelief as I re-read the text. This had to be a joke. A very bad joke.
A horn blared behind me, causing me to jump. I looked in the rearview mirror and saw a line of cars stacking up behind me. I tossed the phone back to the passenger seat and slammed on the gas, racing away from the school at record speed.
My grip on the steering wheel tightened in anger. The nerve, showing up uninvited. He had no right to be there, to be sharing anything with my dad. I wrenched the steering wheel hard into my driveway and skidded to a stop in front of Quentin’s parked car. My shoulders slumped. It wasn’t a joke. He was inside my house, telling Dad who knows what.
This day was not going to end well.
The mist had upgraded to a full rain shower by the time I ran up the front steps and burst through the door, my eyes adjusting to the unreal scene before me: Quentin and Dad were sitting quietly across from one another in the living room.
“Cee? Is that you?” Dad asked, standing up from his spot on the couch.
“Yes.” I skirted cautiously around the backside of the furniture like a trapped prey, not taking my eyes off of Quentin.
His eyes held mine in a contest that was becoming all too familiar. I braced myself, waiting for the questions, the accusations.
Instead, Dad said, “Quentin Stone is here from the University as part of the art partnering program you forgot to mention to me.” His disapproval rang loud. Picking up his cane, he moved to a familiar spot at the end of the couch where he could be sure of where he was looking.
Partnering program? What the . . .?
Quentin stood, a newspaper tucked under his arm. “Your art teacher, Ms. Harris, passed along your contact information to me so we could meet,” Quentin lied with ease as he walked toward me. He stretched out his hand in a friendly gesture, but the gesture didn’t touch his frosty emeralds. “It’s nice to finally meet you, CeeCee. My name is Quentin Stone.”
I had no idea what was going on.
I hesitated before shaking his hand and prayed it would not end with me on the floor. “Um, nice to meet you Quentin.” My feet remained firmly on the ground. The warmth of his grip crawled up my arm, skewing the moment and tipping it sideways. Sarcasm drifted into my tone as I added, “It was lucky for you that you knew Ms. Harris, and she could connect us.”
“Yes, it was convenient, wasn’t it? Would you like to show me any of the current art pieces you’re working on?” He didn’t relinquish my hand, but continued to hold it firm in his grip.
I looked over at Dad anxiously, waiting for him to react. Waiting for him to toss Quentin out. Waiting for him to say something. Anything. “Um, sure. I have some in the room above the garage.”
I yanked my hand from his and turned to walk out of the room. Dad finally broke his silence — two minutes too late. “Cee, when you’re done, will you please come back in and find me?”
“Okay.” I didn’t bother to look at him, or wait to see if Quentin would follow. Instead, I stalked out the front door into the rain, my words locked in my throat where anger bubbled close to the surface. I tucked my head down and picked up my pace as I crossed over the wet gravel, Quentin’s feet falling somewhere close behind me.
“Is your dad the deranged person wandering around your house?” His voice traveled over my shoulder and ran into my wall of irritation.
“Amongst other things,” I said, simmering as I climbed the stairs to the art room two at a time.
“He appeared lucid to me.”
“Appearances can be deceiving,” I snapped and wiped the rain off my face. The sharp scent of acrylic paint greeted me as I stepped into my sanctuary and moved to the far side of the art table, happy for the barrier between us.
His voice turned serious. “Has he always been blind?”
The tragic story of my family was not a journey I had the energy to take today. “Why are you here Quentin, and what the hell is the ‘partnering program’?”
He closed the door and spun the newspaper he’d had lodged under his arm across the art table. The damp pages came to a stop in front of me, an article circled in red facing up.
“What’s this?”
“Read it,” his hard voice urged, leaving no room for argument.
Mugging in Pioneer Square Leaves One Dead
Seattle, WA: Karen and Leland Tate were held at gunpoint around 1:00am Friday morning, while crossing through an alley in the Pioneer Square area of Seattle. An unknown assailant came out from the alley, demanding the Tates’ purse and wallet. When they didn’t immediately surrender their money, the husband was shot twice in the chest. The police are asking for any information in regards to the shooting. The assailant is still at large.
I was stunned. I read the story three times, the shadows in my mind aligning to the words on the page. My breathing turned into huge heaves. I couldn’t look at him. “This could be anybody,” I choked out, the walls of my sanctuary pressing in around me.
“It could be.” He crept gradually around the table, rendering the barrier useless.
“It’s not what you think.” Panic sprung loose. I grabbed the edge of the art table and tried to suck in the non-existent air in the room. “It can’t be.”
“How could you possibly know what I’m thinking?” His voice was eerily calm, causing my loose panic to strangle my rational thought.
“IT’S NOT!” I trembled from head to toe. This couldn’t be happening. My eyes darted around, looking for anything that felt normal. Anything that resembled my life before my mom died. Before we moved. Before Quentin.
Unable to control my breathing, I bent over and put my hands on my knees. I was determined not to pass out. Again.
Quentin moved up next to me, demanding answers. “Do you know what I’m thinking? Or can you only see . . .”
“Don’t say it,” I interrupted so he couldn’t finish his sentence. I lifted myself upright too quickly, causing the massive amount of blood in my head to trip up my balance. Quentin reached out to steady me
, but I pulled away, working to control the wave of tears threatening to escape. “You can’t say it.”
“I need an explanation.” His tone was chilling, his face a mask of intimidation. “Now!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The lost girl in the dark routine is getting old, CeeCee,” he hissed, taking a step closer. “What kind of game are you playing at? People are dead.”
He was searching my face for an answer, but I had none. No answer racing through my mind seemed remotely plausible.
The rain continued its assault on the roof and filled the painful quiet.
Moments.
Ticking.
He pointed to the newspaper lying accusingly on the art table. “How were you able to see that shooting before it happened?”
“I already told you, what I saw was too fuzzy,” I sputtered. “They were shadows acting out a play with no lights or sounds. It could have been anyone.”
“Which means, it could have been the Tates.”
“Oh, no.” I recoiled from his words. “THAT is not even remotely possible. That is something that only happens in teen vampire novels.”
“I’ve known you for what, a month? And it has already happen three times. Three times you’ve nearly passed out from seeing random visions.”
“They. Are. NOT. VISIONS.” I was unwilling to venture down this slippery slope of possibility.
“How do you know?”
“Because nothing like this ever happened before I met you,” I said as I grasped onto my thin accusations of last night. “It’s you. Maybe you’re the one causing this to happen to me.”
“You do not want to mess with me.” His tone turned deadly. My heart threatened to thump out of my chest. “I moved to Seattle to get away from idiots and lies, and crap like this. The last thing I need is your fucking mind trip.”
“Me? Mess with YOU? No one asked you to come here today,” I spit out defensively, backing toward the window. “No one asked you to lie to my dad. Or, invite me on the art walk. Or heap your stupid opinions on me at the SAM. That. Was. All. YOU!”
“What the hell are you doing to me?” The words were barely audible as he pushed both his hands through the dark waves of his hair. I wasn’t even certain they were meant for me. With renewed vigor, his eyes darkened and pierced through me. “From the moment I saw you staring all teary eyed at those Picasso women, I knew something was off. Every instinct told me to ignore you and your strange, not normal . . .I don’t know what.” His hands flailed the air in front of him. “But every time I did, a hard, nagging feeling of dread took over, leaving me overwhelmed with the need to check on you.”
Hurt by his words I knew as truth, “strange, not normal,” my throat strangled my voice silent. There was no way to recap this spinning bottle of truth.
I dropped down on the bench seat in the window and pulled my legs up tight against my chest. I leaned my head against the glass, streaks of rain sliding past my eyes, rolling time forward. I wanted it to stop. To run backward. To erase the art walk, the alley, the images from my mind. To erase the warmth I felt sitting next to Quentin on the ferry.
“Are you psychic?” he asked, interrupting my thoughts. “Can you read minds?”
“No.” I wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the question.
“Can you see into the past?” There was an edge to the question.
“No,” I whispered under my breath. I rested my chin on my knees, my arms wrapped tight around my legs in an attempt to keep them from extending and running out the door.
“Are you sure this has never happened before the night at the SAM?”
I nodded my head yes, too drained to say anything more. Too scared I might break down. I would not cry. I would not give him the satisfaction of knowing he got to me.
“Does anyone else know about this?”
Something inside me snapped. “No. No. And no. I can’t read minds. I can’t see the past or the future. I can’t cast spells over people and make them seek me out against their will. And yes, you are the only privileged soul to know I’m slowly sliding myself into a straight jacket. Any other questions?”
He was momentarily stunned by my outburst before he closed the distance between us with five purposeful strides. My back went rigid, bracing for another round of accusations. Before I could react to his movement, he was in front of me, his hand stretched out, softly caressing my cheekbone with his thumb.
The gesture was so unexpected, my head automatically leaned into his palm. Into the caress. Into his touch. The intimacy washed over my uncertainty. Ever so smoothly, he pulled me up to my feet and into his arms, my senses overwhelmed by his musky scent and the warmth shooting up and down my spine.
Softly, over my racing heart, I heard him say, “Cee, I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what’s happening.” There was frustration in his voice. My arms dangled, unsure of how to react. “Every instinct inside of me says I should leave and walk out that door.”
And yet, here he was.
I didn’t answer. I stood perfectly still. I knew we were teetering on a precarious edge that could give way at any moment.
And give way it did. With the single ring of Quentin’s cell phone. He released me, swearing under his breath, and had his cell phone to his ear before a second ring sounded off.
“Yes?” he barked, turning his back to me as he walked to the other side of the room.
I dropped down on the bench, trying to decide if what just happened really happened.
“No, not yet,” he said to whomever he was talking to. He glanced over at me and I quickly diverted my eyes.
“I said I would take care of it, ” he hissed irritable, abruptly ending the conversation. He ran his hand through his hair again and turned to look at me. “I have to go.”
“Someone else needing to be checked on?” I didn’t move from my place by the window.
His hand hesitated on the doorknob. “Um, I’ll call you.”
But I didn’t believe it any more than he did.
I walked back to the house in a dreary stupor.
“CeeCee?”
Dad. I’d forgotten about Dad. I trudged into the living room and found him sitting ramrod straight on the couch, his cane hovering vertically between his legs.
“Yeah?” I moved behind the chair next to the couch, exhaustion and water dripping from every limb of my body.
His eyes found my voice, eerily looking but not seeing me. “CeeCee, I do not think it is appropriate for Ms. Harris to be passing out our personal information to a complete stranger.”
“She didn’t.” I scrambled to come up with a logical explanation so he wouldn’t try to contact her. “When I signed up for the, um, partnering program, I said she could give my information to whomever she thought I would partner best with.”
“You should have told me about the program. Your school should have sent information home about the program and what was to be expected.”
If they did, I doubt he would have read it. “It’s no big deal. They were just trying to connect artists up.”
He stood, agitated. “It is still inappropriate to have an unknown male show up at our house and you spend time alone with him in that room of yours above the garage.”
“Dad, seriously,” embarrassed by his train of thought. “He’s just a photography student at the U.”
“He told me that much. But he was too quiet. Nobody is that quiet. You know nothing about him . . .”
Irritation flared up at his sudden need to be a parent. “Dad,” I gritted out, “it’s no big deal.”
“It is a big deal. I may not be able to see, but I can hear. And there were times I couldn’t even hear him breathe.”
“Well, that’s something,” I added hotly and turned to leave the room. “Because at times I’ve wondered if you were still breathing.”
“CeeCee, you are seventeen and still living under my roof and my rules,” his raised voice countered, but he d
idn’t bother to try and follow me out of the room. “I am still your father and you will speak to me with respect.”
“Hmph,” I grunted.
Father. He hadn’t been a father since the day Mom died. Since the day he couldn’t gain control of the car, spinning everything about our lives into this mess. He was the reason we were here.
I headed up the stairs, and stormed down the upstairs hallway that overlooked the living room.
“And don’t forget we have dinner at Lucy’s in thirty minutes,” he added distastefully.
Ugh. My head had no space for an evening with the cousins. Why he ever bothered to accept her invitations was beyond me. Everything about his sister rubbed him wrong. She was the only decent thing left in our lives and he managed to push her away every chance he got.
I glanced over the banister and caught sight of him standing directly in front of the only art piece of Mom’s that he’d kept. She’d made a name for herself in San Francisco, but Dad had sold all her paintings, save one. His arm was stretched out, his fingers tracing the contours of the metal pieces folded gently into the waves of linen, the background flooded in an ocean of blue.
It was breathtaking. No. Heartbreaking.
I knew he was trying to touch Mom, to find her energy in the raging ocean background. I tore my intruding eyes away. The intimacy of the moment produced a wave of grief, of loss, of guilt for having lashed out at him.
The drive to Aunt Lucy’s was quiet.
No mention of Quentin, or the partnering program, or our fight. A stark contrast to the wall of sound we were greeted with as Summer opened the door and her mouth at the same time.
“CeeCee!” Summer threw her arms around me, my mouth catching a clump of her bright red hair. My body sagged, unsure if I could force myself through an evening with the twins after the emotional roller coaster of the past twenty-four hours.
“Hey, Summer,” I said, spitting her hair out of my mouth. I pulled away and noticed Autumn standing quietly behind her. “Hi, Autumn.”
Art is the Lie (A Vanderbie Novel) Page 6
