Deacon had been watching me, he swallowed the last bit of his waffles, motioning in my direction. “Still no word from her?”
Blushing, feeling caught doing something wrong, I slid my phone into my purse. “No, nothing. She's really mad at me, I can tell.”
“Well, how about this,” he said, wiping his hands on a napkin. “Let's kill a little more time. I have something I want to show you, actually.” With his sly comment, I expected him to wink at me, and was surprised when he didn't. He tossed a handful of cash on the table, ignoring my arguments against him paying for my meal.
Everyone is always helping me out here. Why does it make me feel so bad? Am I scared I'll feel like I owe them? Don't I, though, in a way?
“What do you want to show me?” I finally asked, hoisting my purse, following him out to the car.
“You'll see,” he grinned, shooting one brief, proud look at me. “And hopefully, you'll like it.”
****
We pulled up alongside a small building downtown, parking on the street. Deacon amazing me with his ability to squeeze the car into the smallest of spots. I was jittery, but I blamed it on the coffee, even if I'd only had one cup.
What is he going to show me?
Together, we strolled a short distance down the cracked sidewalk, until he reached out, touching my elbow, halting me in my anxious pace. “Here, it's here.”
“Oh,” I said, stopping on a dime, looking upwards. Small, cramped, the building reminded me of his car, stuffed between the others on the street. It didn't seem like it should fit among the grand storefronts of a candy shop and a place selling old books. I almost asked him where we were, except that my eyes locked onto the sign pasted on the door, the words there answering my budding confusion.
'Endless Color, the Art of Deacon Day.'
“This is your galley,” I stated, not needing him to confirm. My damp palms touched the door, a look tossed excitedly his way. “Can we go inside?”
“I'd hope so, it'd be unfortunate if they didn't allow people inside to see the actual work,” he laughed, reaching past me to open the entrance for us, leading me into the most unexpected of surprises.
The gallery was a cool dark grey, lamps hanging down above to light the windowless interior. It was bigger inside than had been hinted at, empty, hollow as a cavern. There were no tables, chairs, nothing of the sort. The only thing to draw the eye were the walls, and what hung on them.
Wide stretches of color, dimension forged from dark paint, expert blending. The images were confusing, they drew the eye, pulled me deep, a wave that became a swirl of wind and light. I forgot they were canvases, instead, the large squares became windows into the mind and heart of Deacon Day.
“What do you think?” He asked, so close to my shoulder that I twitched.
“This is beautiful,” I said softly. Looking at him, I was positive his face showed satisfaction. The idea that my joy had given him pleasure of any kind was addicting. “I had no idea you were so good.”
“Well, that's a matter of opinion,” he said, eyes darting away from mine. He hadn't given me the impression of someone unsure of themselves before, yet just then, turning away as quickly as he had, it made me wonder. “I'm glad you like it. I wasn't sure if it would seem sort of pompous to bring you here.”
Shaking my head, I let go of the ends of my hair, not realizing I had been playing with it. “What? Of course not, this is great! I really wanted to see your art, I just didn't expect you to have a whole gallery to yourself!”
“It's not that hard to do,” he shrugged, turning, strolling along the wall. “There are a lot of places to rent out space to display any sort of work, it's a little expensive, though.”
Expensive, like everything else here, I thought with a wry smile.
“Sometimes, you'll get offered a space at no cost,” he went on, staring up at a canvas that reminded me of musical notes that slowly morphed into leaves. “If someone likes your work enough, I mean.”
“Which are you?”
“Hmn?” He asked, glancing at me with a wrinkled eyebrow.
“Did you pay to rent, or was this offered to you?”
Deacon's mouth fell partially open, my question too blunt to hide his reaction in time. He recovered with a sharp grin, teeth glinting while he squinted at me. “Isn't that a little forward?”
I laughed, tilting my head with my hands gripping my hips. “Do you not like forward girls?”
He was quiet, my blood racing from his lack of reaction, wondering if I'd pushed him too far. This is a useless game, I'm more likely to offend him than succeed in flirting. I shouldn't even be trying to flirt.
“I was offered it,” he suddenly responded, watching me curiously, though I noticed he hadn't answered my second question. “The people who own the space have worked with me before, back when I did pay to rent it. I guess I did it both ways, then.” Scratching his cheek, he looked like he was dissecting his own words.
“Sorry,” I blurted, taking a step closer to him, “that was rude. I shouldn't have been so nosy, I was just... curious, I guess. But I shouldn't have just assumed you'd be okay answering that sort of stuff.”
“It's fine,” he assured me, though I wasn't entirely convinced. “Actually, if you want to talk assumptions, I—here, just wait here a minute.” Deacon hurried to the other side of the wide room, where I noticed a door for the first time. Watching him, intrigued by what he was doing, I saw him slip inside, listened to things banging around.
What in the world is he doing in there? And what kind of assumptions is he making?
It became obvious when he stepped back my way, one arm clenching a canvas that was half my height, the other holding a small backpack. “What are those for?” I asked, my intuition buzzing with hope.
“They're for you,” he smiled, looking pleased at my shocked face. “After you told me about how you liked to paint, I remembered I had some extra materials laying around, and since I don't really need them... I mean, this is me assuming, like I said, that you didn't fly out here with your paints and things. If you don't need them—”
“No,” I almost shouted, lifting my hands to quiet him. “No, I mean, yes. Yes, I would love to have them! You're right, I don't... didn't, that is, bring my art supplies out here with me.” That is, I didn't have any to bring, and I don't exactly have the cash to purchase anything out here. I had no plans to tell him my internal thoughts. Instead, I looked from the canvas, to his warm gaze, in pure disbelief. “You're really going to give me all that?”
“Of course,” Deacon said, offering me the bag, then pulling it back as I reached for it. “But, you do have to do one thing for me in exchange.”
So used to people taking advantage of me, of playing the tit for tat game, I stared at him warily. What could he possibly want from me? And why did the fact he wanted anything make my heart pulse? “Go on, then.”
Pausing, those handsome features grew even more appealing with his slow, wicked smile. “You,” he murmured, offering the backpack to me properly, “need to promise you'll paint something wonderful with all of this.”
Paint something wonderful? My mouth was dry, so I nodded instead of listening to myself fail at speaking. He believes I'm capable of doing that? Me? I held the bag at my hip, noticing the heft. He'd given me many supplies, that was clear, but did he really, really think I could make something worth calling 'wonderful' with them?
Noticing I was blatantly staring into his face, his smile gentle, I cleared my throat, straining to talk. “Deacon, this... are you sure?”
“Why wouldn't I be sure?”
“Because you, I mean, you hardly know me. You can't know if I'm any good, what if this is a waste of paints and canvas?”
His chuckle reminded me of warm syrup, I remembered the waffles he had eaten that morning. “It won't be a waste. Trust me, I believe in you.”
The gallery felt very warm, stuffy, I hoped I wasn't openly sweating. Deacon was too much, he'd thrown me for a l
oop, I didn't even know what to do with it all. “Alright,” I whispered, “I'll do my best. You know,” I laughed, a hint of bitterness coating the edges, “I think you're the first person who's ever said that to me.”
His eyes were darker, warring with the black paint on the canvas near him. “What, to trust me?”
“No.” I looked at my shoes, then forced myself to peer into his astonished expression. “That you believe in me.”
Dammit, why did I say that, what's wrong with me? I'm supposed to be keeping a wall up, not... not this...
Deacon was silent, neither of us blinking. The back of my neck was simmering, the boil moving up to my cheeks, over my forehead. Red as an apple, I jerked backwards, raising a hand in defense. “Oh, god, I'm sorry! Haha, that was... that was just me being weird, I was joking, people have said that before, really, um...”
“Leah,” he said, ending my babbling quickly. The smiling Deacon was long gone, this was someone serious. His eyebrows were hooded low over melting green-gold orbs. “Leah, it's fine, really. I'm not, how do I put it, used to that kind of honesty?” Shrugging, he set the canvas down, leaning it on the wall beside us. “Listen, this is sort of sudden, but can I get your cell phone number?”
“Why do you need that?” I said without thought, regretting my knee-jerk reaction as the words tumbled free. Seriously, what is wrong with me, I'm falling apart here.
Deacon only inhaled, then bent over laughing at my bewildered face. “I'm sorry, that wasn't the response I expected!” Wiping his eyes, he straightened up, pulling his phone out, watching me with a sideways grin. “I need it so I can call you tomorrow night, when I come by to pick you up.”
“You're asking me on a date?”
“I'm trying to, you're making it far more of an obstacle course than I was prepared for.”
“I... I'm sorry, I just didn't expect that.” Do I say yes? Should I say yes? Have I really given up on my plan to avoid all of this mess? Rubbing my cheeks, I smoothed my hair behind my ears, noticing I was smiling. It must have been for some time, my face was aching from it. “Um, yeah, that sounds great, actually.”
He looked pleased, so when he motioned with his phone, I pulled mine out from my purse to share my number. Flicking open the device, I glanced at it, my smile fading. The missed calls blinked, some from Owen, and while those frightened me, it wasn't what really made my stomach convulse.
The rest were from Vanessa. Oh, dammit, how did I not hear those going off?
“Everything okay?” Deacon asked me, but I just nodded, tapping at my phone.
“Yes, everything's fine, give me your number so I can send you mine.”
Our cells beeped, making me thrill as I stared at the new contact. Typing in his name, my fingers shook.
“Great,” he said, tucking his phone away, lifting the canvas again. “Then, I'll pick you up around five tomorrow, sound good?”
“Sounds good,” I answered honestly.
“Then let's get you home, Vanessa might be there by now, don't need her to worry.”
Thinking about the missed calls from her, I bit my tongue and said nothing, following him out of the gallery. My heart was lighter, fluttering, but my stomach was weighed down with anxiety at what I would find when I finally met with Vanessa in the place Deacon was quick to call my home.
Nothing felt like home these days.
Chapter 9.
––––––––
“Are you sure you want to go inside alone?”
I glanced back at Deacon as he spoke, my mind warring with the idea I had proposed. If Deacon comes in with me, Vanessa won't talk to me. I need to mend this whole mess with her right away. Smiling mildly, I grabbed the canvas from the backseat, hoisting the bag he had given me. Juggling everything, I leaned back into the car through the passenger side, my legs shaking on the sidewalk. I was glad he couldn't see enough to tell.
“It'll be fine,” I said, wondering if it really would be. “Her and I just need to talk. Don't worry, okay?”
“Okay,” he agreed, sounding entirely like he didn't. “I'll see you tomorrow night, then.”
“Yeah,” my lips curled into a delighted shape at the reminder of our date. “Yeah, see you.” Shutting the car door, I stood back, watching him drive off. I can't believe he really lives as close as he does. More importantly, my chest was tight with the knowledge of our oncoming rendezvous tomorrow. How had that happened? How had I gone from deciding to back off, to getting so pulled in by Deacon, and now he wanted to take me out?
I was so sure he didn't think of me that way, I wonder if my intuition is just terrible.
Collecting my new art supplies, I moved towards the apartment door. Testing the knob, I found it unlocked, taking a deep breath before letting myself in. “Vanessa? Are you here?”
The room was as I had left it, nothing seemed to have been touched at all. Did she not come back yet? Exploring the small apartment was a fast, disappointing process. She was definitely not there, it didn't look like she had come back at all the entire day.
Perturbed, I placed my purse and the art supplies on the floor, eyeing the mess in the living room. I should straighten this place out. With nothing else to keep me busy, I took my time collecting my clothes, folding clean ones, putting the dirty ones in a tidy pile. Far quicker than I liked, I had the place organized, my meager belongings out of the way.
Dusting off my palms, my attention slid to my laptop bag. I wonder if maybe she emailed me? The missed calls had been useless, Vanessa hadn't left any voice mails. It didn't seem likely she'd have sent me anything online, but the chance was enough to motivate me to set my computer up.
Settling lotus style on the couch, I balanced my laptop on my knees, browsing around. Checking my email wasn't much of a surprise. There were no messages from her, however...
There was one from Colby, and one from Owen.
My belly tensed, my neck aching from how low I bent towards my glowing screen. Subconsciously, I reached back, rubbing at the bruise he had given me. It had only been a few days, but I'd been trying to erase my ex-boyfriend from my mind since I'd gotten on that plane.
What could he want?
Forcing myself to resist, I opened the message from Colby instead. It was a short email, his concern clear in it. He wondered where I had gone, what had happened between Owen and I, and admitted he was glad it seemed I had left.
That made me smile, thinking I had managed to make someone proud, at least.
I wrote a quick response, telling him a basic gist of what had gone down. Avoiding explaining the part about Owen throwing me into a table, strangely ashamed by that detail, I instead just typed that I had realized things had gone too far.
Which, really, is pretty much the truth.
It took some guts to reveal I had run off to California, but I didn't want Colby worrying about where I was. He was Owen's friend, I knew that, but he obviously had good intentions for me.
Still, I made a small notation that he should not, under any circumstances, reveal where I was to Owen.
Owen, what does he think happened? Does he suspect I'm hiding out in the city, maybe?
Curiosity got the better of me, I opened the message. Scanning down the page, my heart pumping hard to work the blood through my veins, the message sank in as I read. It wasn't much, just an email asking 'how are you, where did you end up staying, did you really have to take the car? Get back to me right away, please!'
He doesn't know I sold it, he has no idea about anything.
The guilt rolled over me, heavy, powerfully defeating. The coldness of it made me hug myself tighter, fingers hovering over the keys. I noticed I was planning my response, so I stopped myself. What am I thinking? Why should I even respond to him? After everything he'd done to me, put me through without remorse, here I was prepping to answer his questions like I had no other choice. I have a choice, it doesn't matter if I don't respond. He can't punish me if I don't behave how he wants.
Trembling
, I navigated over to the trash icon, planning to delete the email. Do it, you can do this! I thought I might throw up, my back was coated in moist sweat. Come on Leah, you're done with him. Delete it! Swallowing the sensation of sand in my throat, my hand hovered... and I clicked the button.
The sound of the trash can eating the email made me jump, my gasp audible enough that I was relieved I was alone. I didn't think I was ready to explain to anyone what I had just accomplished.
“I did it,” I said aloud, laughing. “I actually did it.” Sitting back, I shut my laptop, wanting to move around with my new surge of ecstasy.
That was when I saw the canvas Deacon had given me, and I knew exactly what to do with that energy.
****
Verdant greens, rich blues, bright yellows. He'd given me every color I could have needed. Deacon had handed me a collection of paints that had to be worth a hundred dollars, if not more. With the brushes he'd thrown in, the mediums to mix with everything, I didn't want to think about the cost.
So I didn't.
Instead, I let myself fall into the action, my limbs bending, curving, while I added color to my canvas. I wasn't like Deacon, I hadn't had any teachers to show me how to paint. My parents hadn't put me in college for art, I knew little about color theory, history, or perspective.
But I love this, I love it, and maybe that will show through. Maybe that would allow me to make something...
Wonderful.
Standing back, I looked over the make-shift easel I had set up. The kitchen chair was covered in newspaper, my goal to keep it from getting stained. I'd then carried it out onto the small outdoor patio, a place probably meant to host a tiny garden, not my artwork. Surrounded by a wooden fence taller than myself, the roof overhanging above the sliding glass doors of the apartment, I felt sure my project would be safe.
Looking up, the sun hiding itself from my view, I noticed the time. It's getting late, it must be after eight, I should take a break. Rubbing my forehead, I set the brush down, wandering inside, wanting badly to take a shower and find something to eat.
Tangled: A New Adult Romance Boxed Set (12 Book Bundle of Billionaires, Bad Boys, and Royalty) Page 91
