Said the Demon to Little Miss Eva

by Billy London

  “The line's outside, Eva,” Martin said with excitement. “I smell sales.”

  “I hope so.” She shrugged off her coat. “My dad still thinks this is a hobby I'm eventually going to grow out of. Are you going to remind me I have trainers here?”

  “Fuck off,” he said smartly, taking her coat. With a grin she was able to look around and see what Martin had done with six months of work. Alongside paintings recalling propaganda and English ennui with the situation were depictions of the devastation the war had caused. The gallery had been sectioned off by large prints of the propaganda posters, extracts from the poet Lorca's work, living statues of soldiers holding replica guns, and bowls of badges which stated Nationalist and Loyalist. As much of a bastard as Richard had been, this work was the best she'd ever done. Angry, evocative and a bit too worshipful of the horrors of the Spanish Civil War. Well, when in the mood for proving a point... It would give that journalist something else to write about. She blinked at the red dot on the “Man in the Shadows.”

  “Mar!” she yelled.

  “What?”

  “How the hell did you sell Man before the exhibition?”

  “Private buyer viewing.” Martin came back with a glass of champagne. “Doubled the price and he couldn't have written a check faster.”

  “But it's vile,” she said, stunned that anyone wanted Man. It was the depiction of the loss of a soul torn to pieces by the furies of Hell. Take that for depth of work and shove it in your cock hole, she thought furiously.

  Martin gave a shrug. “Whatever ends up in your back pocket can only be a good thing. Well, cheers, Mini Me! To a sell-out show!”

  “To people as depressed as I was!” They touched glasses and she sipped at the ice-cold champagne.

  “Let's greet your public!”

  She spent the next glorious hour talking with friends and colleagues who, while pleased for her and in awe of the madness of her exhibition, were genuinely shocked at what she'd spent six months in Ghana painting instead of crying under a rock about her cunt of an ex-boyfriend. “I saved the tears for after the sex,” she answered the one foolish person brave enough to venture the Richard subject.

  “Hardcore anger,” Jocelyn muttered when the person scuttled off, plucking a chorizo sausage roll from the tray of a waitress in military dress. Jocelyn was five foot eleven and stick thin. Eva imagined that Jo could unscrew an arm and beat her husband with it if he ever got out of line. If anyone knew hardcore anger, it was Jo.

  Jo wrapped an arm around her. “It's amazing, Eva. You've done so well. Don't tell Mum how much your shipping costs were.”

  “Do I look thick?” She affected her mother's accent. “Cousin Alfred can do it for half the price.”

  Jo laughed. “Be proud. Like a phoenix from the ashes. Is he here?”

  “Who?”

  “Rock star!” At Eva's calm blink of disregard, she tutted, “Useless. How will you ever get married and make me bridesmaid so I can have a spread in OK!?”

  “Not happening.” Eva smiled.

  “Hmm,” Jo murmured disapprovingly. “You're already acting like a WAG turning a blind eye. Did you see how many women came off that yacht he was on over New Year’s?”

  “I didn't notice.”

  Jo gave an evil smile. “Fair enough. You can check out that bloke eyeing you up.”

  “Which bloke?” she asked, swiveling around.

  Jo rolled her eyes. “Could you be any less subtle? Too late, he's coming over.”

  A man just around the same height as Jo in her heels stood in front of them, an expectant look on his attractive face. Really attractive. An eight at least. “Hi, Eva.”

  “Hello. Erm, thanks for coming.”

  “Pleasure. Michael Lee.”

  She smiled and held out her hand, trying not to wince at the sharp cold of his fingertips. “Sorry,” he apologized. “Champagne glass had icicles on it.”

  “Michael, this is my sister, Jo.” He shook hands with Jo, giving Eva the opportunity to blatantly stare at him. His face was familiar, she thought, her dark eyes trailing over his features, from his bed-mess hair to his clean-shaven jaw. “Where do I know you from?” Eva said suddenly.

  He gave an embarrassed smile. “I've been known to take photos of tall girls wearing really expensive clothes.”

  No, that's not it... “Oh, okay. How long have you been doing that then?”

  “Always. Not the tall girls thing, but taking photographs.”

  Eva grinned. “I can hear a bit of a Leeds accent there.”

  His face paled ever so slightly. “Really? Must be the friends I have.”

  “Are you sure? Because it's background accent. Like you grew up there and moved elsewhere.”

  “I think you're mistaken,” he replied, an edge to his voice.

  Never one for taking a “No Entry” sign seriously, Eva battled through with a short shake of her head. “It's just that I swear I know you from somewhere, and if you can tell, I don't really read those sorts of magazines.”

  His brown eyes warmed slightly. All right, mate, you just worked yourself up to a nine. “You reserve yourself for the top shelf?”

  “Ha! No, if I was going to buy porn I'd do it online.”

  He didn't laugh with her, but there was a curiosity in the twist of his lips. “You've got such an expressive face. You should let me take some beauty shots.”

  Eva roared with laughter. “Oh piss right off!”

  “Don't be so modest. Plus it would be great publicity.”

  “My dear man, you are standing in a recreation of Dali's finest work. I'm covered on the publicity front.”

  He shrugged. “The offer's there.”

  “Thank you. Would you like another drink?”

  “Why don't you show me around?”

  “Okay.” She turned to her sister, who had been watching them with amused eyes. “Jojo, are you coming with us or staying here?”

  Jo leaned forward. “Don't let Rock Star catch you with a guy that damn pretty.”

  “Rock Star isn't coming,” Eva said assuredly.

  Michael held out his arm and she curled her fingers around him. “So this is Man in the Bath. Terrible title, I know, but I couldn't think of anything better. Was trying to portray in the same style how a man's demons will haunt him worst at the quietest time.”

  “Who is the man?”

  “My ex,” she admitted with a sigh. “Drop kicked me from a great height and called me a copycat of a shit artist in a national newspaper. He did it to get some notoriety and to get back at me for saying he had the emotional depth of a leaf in autumn. So I took him at his word and created an homage to my favorite. So fuck him sideways and three quarters.”

  “His loss. It's amazing.”

  Eva gave him a suspicious look. “You can tell me if you hate it. It's already sold so I'm okay with criticism. Well, unless you're giving me one, and then you can piss on my artistic parade.”

  Michael stared at her. “Are you like this with everyone?”

  “Yes!” She grinned. “I am always up front. I do my best not to lie and I never, ever cheat.”

  “Good philosophy to have.”

  “Come on, I'll show you something better.”

  Michael's face tightened as she just tugged him toward another canvas.

  “What's up?” she asked.

  “Someone who wants to drop kick me is here.”

  Her skin prickled and she knew, she knew when she turned around she was going to see Gabriel. He looked on the wrong side of livid. What the devil did he have to be angry about? Other than the fact that she’d borrowed a t-shirt. She'd told him when she’d met him that he had the air of a man who was from a long line of struggle. Maybe he was mad because she was giving him more hard work than he was probably used to with women. But anyway, he had fans collecting his chest sweat. He didn't need her. And it was a daily battle to tell herself that she didn't need him either, even though he had completely ruined her for other men. T
he number of times during sex with Richard she had to catch herself from calling Gabriel's name…

  “You're British,” Richard muttered once when he'd actually paid attention. “Why'd you keep saying 'Gad’?”

  “Er...women always say strange things during sex.” She'd spent every four-hour session at church in Kumasi praying about that lie.

  “Why does Gabriel want to drop kick you?”

  “Long story,” he murmured. “I've got to go. Here's my card.” He tucked the little white square into her hand. “Think about letting me do those shots for you.”

  “Thought. I appreciate the mild flirt, though. Thank you for coming.”

  Michael inclined his head and swept away just as Gabriel reached her. He looked glorious, jet-black hair pulled back at the nape of his neck. The only reason he carried it off was all his swagger and that it highlighted those eyes, slivers of sparkling gray flint, like a wolf's on a hunt.

  Yeah, she thought. He's mad.

  “Hi,” she said cheerfully.

  A dark brow lifted. “Is that all you have to say to me? Really?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Okay, sorry about your t-shirt. In my defense, you did rip my top.”

  “It wasn't a top, it was a scarf you barely wrapped around your breasts.”

  “You still ripped it."

  “Angel...” he started.

  The tone in his voice made her hold up her hands. “All right, I said sorry. Stop making me feel guilty. How much was the t-shirt?”

  He shook his head. “It's not about the t-shirt.”

  “Then what?”

  His eyes met hers and she bit her inner cheek. Don't do anything stupid. “Leaving a note is not good bedroom etiquette.”

  She bit harder to not laugh. “I had a five a.m. flight to New York. That I missed.”

  “Why are you making excuses, you little thief?”

  “Because quite frankly, I did us both a favor.”

  “You didn't do me one,” he said firmly.

  This was really unfair. Why was he making out like they were partway through a fantastic relationship before she left? It was one night. “Gabriel, come on.”

  “No, it was all for you. Because if you'd stayed, you'd now have a capital G and W right about here.” The tip of his finger an inch away from her skin pointed right at her left buttock. Insulted, turned on, a little offended, horny.

  “Behave yourself, Mr. Walker, I have members of my family in the room.”

  He gave a flash of a grin. “I don't care.”

  “You really should if you're threatening cattle branding.”

  He shrugged lightly. “Wasn't a threat, it was a statement of fact.”

  “Wow,” she laughed. “I must be really good.”

  “I'm better,” he asserted. “That's why you legged it.”

  She wasn't going to admit that, for love nor Prada. “Not at all. I told you. Five a.m. flight. Besides, it's not like you had to chase me.”

  “You're lucky I didn't. Deprogramming is expensive.”

  “Why would I need that?”

  He leaned down, his lips barely touching her ear. “There's so much more to the world than how good my cock makes you scream.”

  Ah hell. Now all she could think of was being back in that hotel room, with her hands on the headboard, his body hard and smooth between her thighs. She still needed deprogramming the way her pussy was reacting. “What if I was faking?” she taunted.

  “Let me see...” he offered.

  She took two firm steps backwards, out of his reach. “Stay away, you absolute sex beast.”

  He chuckled. “What do you think a man will do when you leave him with a yearlong hard-on? I've just been thinking of all the ways to torture you, until...actually, there was no until.”

  She touched a nervous hand to her hair. “I think you have the wrong idea about me altogether.”

  “No, I don't. I can tell by your paintings.”

  “My what?”

  “Paintings,” he repeated. “Mind out of the gutter, please.”

  “But that's how you like it!” She looked up at him. Come a little closer, let's have a brief replay and I'll let you gather chest sweat.

  “Photo op.” He nodded toward the photographer hovering beside them. Eva made a little moue with her mouth and stood next to Gabriel. He curled an arm toned by years of guitar playing and drumming around her waist. His thumb slid under the hem of her top and stroked the skin of her hip at the waistband of her shorts. It was like he had his thumb on a dial inside her body, turning up the heat with each brush. I am not over him. I don't think I ever started. I want to get under him again.

  “How do you two know each other?” the photographer asked.

  “Mutual interests,” Gabriel answered simply. The photographer left and Gabriel looked down at her. “Talk.”

  “Now?” she spluttered.

  He barked a short laugh, his mouth skimming over her temple. “You're not the only one who has a flight to catch these days.”

  “Okay. Let's go to the office, at the back there.”

  He released her so she could lead them to Martin's cramped space at the rear of the gallery. She turned the desk light on and perched on the edge, crossing her booted legs at the ankle.

  “So, Mr. Rock Star,” she beamed. “What do you have to run off to do?”

  “Need to finish recording an album. I should have gone back a week ago, but luckily I had a Time Out magazine to hand and there you were.”

  What was that in his voice, disappointment? “I didn't think you'd want an invitation.”

  “There you go again, assuming all sorts. You should ask me once in a while. You'll be surprised.”

  She sighed, looking down at the toes of her boots. “I don't know why you're so intent on making me feel guilty.”

  He reached into the pocket of his leather jacket and removed a box. “Get ready to embrace that emotion. I got this for you. To say congratulations.”

  It was a Links of London box with a neat ribbon around it. Oh good god. Men didn't give her gifts. Men barely bought her a drink, probably in fear that she'd smash it into their skull. She tugged at the bow and revealed an antique gold charm bracelet.

  “I got you a Big Ben and a London taxi, so you don't forget where you're from whenever you decide to leave the country again. A palette to represent your craft. And a rickshaw.” She laughed, thinking of how they'd been talked into having a ride through the West End in a rickshaw that blasted out Rick Astley. It had been just before he kissed her, and she’d had a sex blackout. “They made that pick comb for you specially. And a cross to remind you to praise Jesus like you did.”

  Oh yes, she had done, and how. It was utterly gorgeous, and kooky and so her.

  “Want me to put it on you?” he asked, when she eventually looked up from the box.

  “The bracelet?”

  “Yes,” he answered with patience. “The bracelet.”

  “Oh, right. Yeah, fine, go ahead.” She winced at her gaucheness. “Thank you. It's gorgeous. People aren't this nice to me.”

  “If you didn't go around stealing t-shirts I'm sure they would be.” He removed the bracelet from its bed of tissue paper and locked the clasp around her wrist. “There. A temporary brand until I get my irons flown over.”

  She glanced up at him. “You only want me because you can't have me.”

  He took the box from her fingers and threw it across the office, placing his hands on either side of her thighs. “Who says I can't have you?” His smile deepened as a taunt hovered on her lips. “Say it, Angel, I dare you.”

  Man, she was a child. “Says me,” she challenged.

  She tasted a winning smile on his mouth as he kissed her, drawing her own firmly open, his hand circling around the back of her neck. Her heart skipped beats all the way down to her pussy, pulsing rapidly. His other hand hooked around her waist, pulling her from the desk until she was flush against the length of his hard body. She gave a moan under
his lips, her hands searching for the heat of his skin underneath his t-shirt. She felt the raised flesh of his tattoo and dug her nails in.

  He gave a growl of discomfort and lifted his head. “That's two,” he warned. A faux little smile of coyness curled her lips before she pulled him back down to her. She could totally waste time by cursing herself for not shooting every girl who had probably been kicked off his tour bus, but he was here, with her, and he tasted so damn good. His hands went suddenly to the buttons of her shorts, popping them open impatiently and sending them to her ankles with the lightest of touches. Their mouths separated for a short moment as he admired the two fine ribbons on either side of her hips. In a flash of movement, he'd whipped them away and tucked them into his jeans pocket. Without giving her time to think what she was doing in her gallery's office, he firmly cupped her juicy pussy. “Faking this?”

  “I need to leave something to the imagination,” she argued, parting her thighs wider to allow him whatever he wanted. He stroked his fingers over her slowly, teasing a flow of juices from between her lips. She tried to wriggle closer, each touch prickling electricity through her veins, trying to coax him inside her, echo what his cock had done twelve long, long months ago.

  “Something you want?” he asked quietly, his index finger slowly starting to push into her. She grabbed the hair at his neck and pulled hard, enjoying his immediate wince.

  “You! When did you turn into a complete Dom?”

  “You've only got yourself to blame,” he reminded her, his finger surging inside her pussy. Her hips jerked against him at his demanding entry.

  The door handle rattled. “Eva?” Martin's voice sounded. “Are you okay?”

  “Just a minute,” she gasped.

  Gabriel stroked his finger with aching slowness over that small nub of raised flesh inside her pussy, sending another tremor through her body before he drew his hand from her body altogether. He licked his finger clean as she stared at him. That wasn't it, that couldn't be it, what was wrong with him?