Let Me Be Your Truth

by Lynsey M. Stewart

  He intrigued me.

  ‘You’re an enigma, Danny Benedichi. I know nothing about you apart from your art skills.’

  ‘That's just fucking bullshit,' he smiled. ‘For a start, you know I work as a courier. You also know I used to be an addict.'

  ‘That’s just a tiny part of you.’

  ‘Used to be big.’

  ‘Stop evading the questions,’ I replied.

  ‘Ask me a question and I'll answer it.'

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Right at this moment?' he asked. I nodded as I watched his hand curve across the canvas. As I imagined it was skimming the tight skin across my stomach, I suffered a full body shiver. He smiled as I arched my back and stopped painting. ‘Here and there.'

  ‘Evading.’

  ‘I don’t have my own place. I crash with friends or occasionally some family.’

  ‘You don’t have anywhere to live?’ I asked, shocked at his admission.

  ‘Funnily enough, courier work doesn’t pay that well,’ he snapped.

  ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.’

  He sighed again, breaking the silence in the room. ‘You don't have to go far to find home, Kate.'

  ‘That’s true.’ Mush. Right there.

  ‘I could rent a place but I'm saving my earnings for other things,' he replied, a slight blush appearing.

  ‘Really? You want to tell me, or shall I shut up?’ I smiled.

  ‘I have plans. Travelling…maybe.’

  ‘You only give me tiny crumbs.’

  ‘Maybe that’s the best way,’ he shrugged. ‘Can’t go getting you too close, telling you all my secrets.’

  ‘Well, there is one thing I do know about you. You’re an arse,’ I said with newfound confidence. He stared at me in shock before smiling slightly.

  ‘See,’ he replied, holding out his hands. ‘You know everything you need to know.’

  I narrowed my eyes in frustration. ‘Why do you come here? Because you enjoy the art classes or because it stops you from using?’

  ‘Fuck, what's happened to Miss Prim who nearly had an aneurysm when she thought she’d said the wrong thing?'

  I put my hand to my mouth. ‘No, I didn’t!’

  ‘You looked like a fucking rabbit caught in the headlights for the first month.’

  ‘Answer my question.’

  ‘I’m here for the art. It’s somewhere for me to escape to. I like being here. Plus I’ve been doing some mentoring, mainly with Oli. I enjoy it.’

  ‘Really? Oli’s lovely,’ I said.

  ‘You’ve made quite an impression on him.’

  ‘Did he say that?’

  ‘Yeah. He said you helped him. I think he liked the fact you shared your story. He knew you had a deeper understanding. You've been there. It helps.'

  ‘He told you my story?’

  ‘Not in detail. Enough for me to know you’ve not had it as easy as I thought, princess.' He leant his elbows on the table and smiled. His T-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders and I could see the tiny peeks of his nipples. I had to stop thinking about his body. I had to stop thinking about him.

  ‘Are they the only reasons you come here? The art classes and mentoring.’ I chewed my nail, trying to hide my nerves after asking a question I desperately wanted an answer too.

  ‘Jesus, don’t look like that.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like you’re frightened of saying the wrong thing. Using the wrong words. Scared of offending me. Your Bambi eyes are killing me.’

  ‘Bambi eyes?’ I bloody touched them, like a fool.

  ‘Yes. Bambi eyes. Large. Wide. Innocent.' He pushed his dark hair back. ‘And in answer to your question, I come here to keep out of trouble. If I'm here all the time, it means I'm staying out of trouble, but if I'm hardly here, it means trouble may have found me.'

  ‘Do you mean drugs?’

  ‘I told you, I’ve been clean for two years.’

  ‘Oh.’ I had a feeling I wouldn’t be able to resist his lips much longer.

  ‘I can see you’re running through previous conversations in your head.' I wasn't. I was imagining his lips pressed hard on mine. ‘Let me help you.' He joined me at the sink. ‘I replaced my addiction with another addiction.' I gasped. It took all of me not to press my body against his groin. ‘I fuck.' Another gasp. His or mine, I wasn't sure.

  ‘You talk a big talk,’ I smiled.

  ‘Don't test me,' he replied, rubbing his jaw. It was late and quiet but everything around us was still so active.

  ‘You like to mess with people, don’t you?’ I replied, breathing so hard my breasts were rising and falling just an inch from his chest. ‘You like to twist people around your finger, keep them guessing. Poke them until they’re angry one minute and tease them to get a different reaction the next.’

  ‘I fucking love the reaction I’m getting from you.’

  ‘No reaction,’ I said, holding up my hands and accidentally smacking them against his chest before pulling them back like he’d bitten them.

  ‘Really?’ He cocked his head.

  ‘I’m in a happy relationship, thanks,’ I said as he stepped back, closing my eyes to try to hide the lie.

  ‘That’s a fucking shame, princess. I’ve been driving myself crazy trying to imagine what’s under those skirts you favour so much. Guess I’ll just have to be happy with our painting lessons,’ he smiled as he watched my chest rise and fall. ‘For now.’

  He walked back to the easel and I searched for oxygen.

  ‘What happened to hating me? Hating social workers? What happened to the nasty jibes and cutting remarks about my lack of artistic skills? I can't keep up with you; I really can't. I never know where I stand,' I gasped.

  ‘Stand with me,’ he replied, holding out a palette knife. I took it and spent the rest of the night watching him paint, totally transfixed and more than a little turned on.

  Chapter Fourteen

  A week had passed since our first painting lesson, and in that time, the centre had turned into the headquarters of tension. I wasn't sure what was causing me the most anxiety; sullen Danny who hated everything I represented, or dark, sexy Danny who wanted to run his fingers down the inside of my underwear and discover if I was bare. I knew that was an ambition of his because he had no qualms about telling me. Repeatedly. He told me at the same time he praised my most recent painting, and I questioned his ability to make me come without laying a finger on me.

  Danny was late for the art therapy session. He smiled as he caught my eyes in the kitchen looking tired. Tonight, his body was covered in a deep red hoody, which he shook off after entering the art room. He was settling himself at the back when I came through after dropping my bags in Ruth’s office.

  I noticed the message immediately. Ruth had a large whiteboard on the wall opposite her desk. Danny had scrawled in thick black writing: Are you up for a lesson tonight at 10 pm? You really can't afford to be complacent. Your skills aren't good enough… What a tosser. I nearly wrote: Stick it up your arse, then we'll see who can afford to be complacent. But as I closed my eyes, I saw his arms, which forced me to question why he had to have such magnificent muscle definition. Thoughts of what a tosser turned into thoughts of what a hotty.

  ‘Yes. Hello. Quiet, please. Lovely. OK. Tonight's session is all about your inner critic,' Ruth said. Groans were heard around the room. ‘Hold on!' Ruth held up her hands. ‘Society has an obsession with perfectionism, on having the…hippest bit of kit.' People laughed. Danny smiled warmly at Ruth as I set up an easel next to his. ‘We can feel shame, and we fear not being good enough. We need to permit ourselves to be human again. We need to help the inner critic relax.'

  Danny leant over. ‘I’m great at helping my inner critic relax.’

  I laughed at his sarcasm. ‘I don’t believe you have a fear of not being good enough. You’re usually so bloody cocky.’

  ‘Cocksure. The word you’re looking for is cocksure.’

/>   Oh, heck. I wanted to lick his tattoos.

  ‘I want you to paint a representation of your inner critic.' Ruth was talking, but my eyes didn't leave Danny's. His eyes didn't leave mine. And, holy hell, I was panting. Let’s not even talk about my heart rate. He walked behind me and placed his hands on my hips, moving me over in one motion and reaching across to get a box of oil paints from the cupboard to the side of us.

  ‘I like that you're painting next to me. Gives me a great view of your arse.'

  Puddle. Melting. Floor. Confused. Majorly aroused…

  My vagina had stood up and was trying to get a better view of whoever was causing this unfamiliar reaction.

  ‘Have you decided to take part?’ I could hear a voice. ‘Kate?’

  ‘Yes, Ruth. Sorry. Erm…yes, I thought I’d give it a go.’

  Danny smirked.

  ‘Fantastic. Can’t wait to see what you come up with,’ Ruth replied.

  ‘Give what a go, princess?' Danny said as Ruth scooted passed us. He came behind me; standing so obscenely close he made me shiver. Everything around us fell away. He subtly pushed his thumb against my hipbone. ‘Me?' I closed my eyes and felt my head fall back to his shoulder. ‘Please let it be me,' he continued as his hand guided me back to my easel. I rested my forehead against it in a sexual mess. I turned to find him watching me playfully.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I mouthed, still clinging to the easel. He laughed and started to paint. ‘Stop trying to embarrass me,’ I whispered dramatically.

  ‘I like it,' he smiled. ‘Can't help myself. It's easy.'

  ‘Pack it in,' I giggled, taken away on his smile until Steve's face entered my head and I felt a pang of guilt that even Danny's smile did more things to my body than Steve's penis ever did.

  ‘I'm going to hang around for half an hour after class. I have an idea for a painting and was going to start. Are you going to join me?'

  ‘I saw your little note on the whiteboard in Ruth’s office. Thanks for that,’ I replied, rolling my eyes.

  ‘Think of it as a lesson; like last time.’ He didn’t stop to look at my reaction or make any attempt to talk me into it. He just carried on painting like the brush was an extension of his arm.

  Waiting for my reaction.

  ‘I’d love to.’

  ‘What’s your idea?’ I asked as the last of the art class participants left the room.

  ‘I've had this image in my head of a tree, but the way I see it, it’s like you're at the bottom of the trunk crouched down on the floor and looking up. It's surrounded by oranges and reds, but the eye is drawn to the trunk, which will sit right in the middle.' He was so animated when he talked about his ideas. He really was intoxicating.

  ‘Is this the standard process for you? I mean, do you just get these images pop into your head and you start to paint them?’ I asked, fascinated to know where his ideas came from.

  ‘It can be a mix of ideas or things that I see. I'm influenced by nature. I love being outside. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and I have to sketch out an idea or a concept that I've had.' He glanced at me as he started to set up the canvas. I stood slightly behind him with my arms crossed. ‘What about you?' he asked.

  ‘I'm not sure how to explain it. It's almost like a feeling that I need just to do something. Be creative. I don't really have an idea until I start, and then I just let those feelings take over. Unless I've been asked to do something specifically.'

  ‘A commission?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah. Friends and family mainly.’ He didn’t reply. ‘What about you? Have you sold many of your paintings?’

  ‘A few.’

  ‘That’s fantastic,’ I replied as it hit me again that I really didn’t know much about his life. ‘Is that how you earn your money? You said you’re a courier but is that really what you want to do?’

  He shot me a frown as he shook his head. ‘Not many kids dream of delivering parcels, Kate.’

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean—’

  ‘I’m a courier because my mate owns the company and offered me a job. I have a police record, so it can be hard to get work.’ He continued painting but cast fleeting glances my way.

  ‘Oh, right. Well, you should sell them. They're beautiful.' He didn't respond to my compliment, just carried on sketching an outline. I thought for a second and smiled. ‘Can you remember your first painting?'

  ‘Not really. I got a painting set one Christmas, from a social worker ironically. I loved it. I felt free. It was the first time I felt like I was good at something. I finally felt some relief from the world.’

  I took in his words. They were heavy, and I knew he wouldn't want me to question him any further, but it seemed wrong not to acknowledge his statement at all. ‘See, we're not all bad. If your social worker hadn't given you those paints, you may never have found your talent.'

  ‘I would,’ he said sullenly. ‘It had nothing to do with her.’

  The headquarters of tension were back open for business, and I was trying desperately to get it to close again.

  ‘My social worker gave me a moneybox as a present when I was first adopted. It had my name across the front and tiny little white mice dressed as ballerinas. My parents would put their loose change into it. As I got older, I loved asking for a coin to save. Eventually, when it was full, they took me to a toyshop and told me to choose whatever I wanted because I had my own money. I still remember how excited I was. I chose an art set. I was four.'

  ‘What do you get from painting?’ he asked. ‘Where does it take you?’

  ‘Same as you I guess. It was the only time I felt truly myself, like I knew who I was. Now I love that a painting can have so many different interpretations. I like that people can take anything from my work but only I know the true meaning of it.' For some reason, he didn't question that answer. Instead, he watched me with a mixture of awe and disbelief, like I was a curiosity, a mythical creature, a mermaid washed up on Brighton beach.

  ‘How old were you when you were adopted?’ he asked.

  ‘Just before my first birthday.’

  ‘Why were you…taken?’

  God, how he said it. The words were so firm and full of distaste.

  ‘For my safety. My parents were addicted to drugs, and that's all that mattered to them.' I noticed his sketching got harder and the muscles in his forearms pulsed.

  ‘Mine too,' he said. ‘Drugs were more important to them than I was. I didn't get adopted, though.' His jaw clenched and tension drew his body together tightly. I wished that I could pull the anger out of him. All that bravado really didn't mask anything well. Underneath it all, there was still a hurt child, a scared child. ‘I often wonder why I stayed but others in similar situations were rescued.'

  ‘I wish I knew the answer to that,’ I replied.

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘Is that why you hate social workers?’

  He glanced across. ‘I don’t hate social workers.’

  ‘You hated me. I’m the goody two shoes busy body. Remember?’

  ‘Opinions change,’ he said, giving me a half smile. ‘There are some good ones out there, people who are in it for the right reasons and don’t get choked by red tape. I could give you an example,’ he replied, shrugging slightly.

  ‘Go on,’ I goaded, desperately wanting praise from the man who had been let down by my profession.

  ‘Ruth,’ he replied, smirking before breaking into laughter when I shook my head, pushing his arm.

  ‘Technically, Ruth isn’t a social worker anymore, so she doesn’t count.’

  ‘Is that so?’ he said before picking up a large palette knife. I watched his shoulders visibly relax. ‘I’m going to start adding colour if you want to watch?’ I stepped forward and followed his hands as he built the vivid browns and oranges, working them along the thick trunk. He was fast in his work, his strokes curving and stretching into fascinating shapes. Danny stopped and pulled back, stepping away from the canvas. He was silent and
still for a second, obvious in his hesitation. ‘Remember when Oli gave you the telephone number for the adoption service?’

  ‘I told you; stop eavesdropping on other people’s conversations,’ I smiled, unsure where he was going with the question.

  ‘Have you done anything about it?’ he said, ignoring me.

  ‘Thinking about it.’

  ‘What’s stopping you?’ he asked.

  ‘A lot,' I sighed, running my hands through my hair. ‘I'm a worrier and a people pleaser, but you've probably already picked that up.'

  ‘Is that why you always say yes to everything but your eyes say something different?'

  We sat in silence again, allowing me to consider my answer. ‘I’ve always wanted people to like me. I also hate confrontation, which is why it’s been a nightmare with you.’ He smiled in the corner of his mouth before he placed his hand there.

  ‘I like to make things interesting.’ His ability to see exactly where he needed more colour was fascinating. I watched his eyes dart around the canvas, registering what he needed to build on or to change. His fingers saw it through, working so methodically but with so much feeling. ‘You didn’t answer my question. Who’s evading now?’

  ‘Not evading. I was just watching you. You’re hard not to watch when you’re painting.’

  His hand stopped mid-stroke and his chest rose as he took a sharp breath. ‘Evading.'

  ‘I worry about upsetting my parents, but I know they’ll support me in whatever I choose to do, so that’s just ridiculous,’ I said, wafting my hand out in front of me. ‘I worry about finding my birth family and discovering that they’re still involved in drugs. I worry about finding out something that I really didn’t need to know and my life as I know it will start to crash down around me.’ I glanced at him. No reaction. ‘Like opening a wound that had started to heal.’

  He stood back and wiped his hand on the back of his jeans. Orange paint dragged across his behind and seemed to frame it perfectly. ‘You’re a worrier, right?’ he said as he wiped his finger down the canvas. ‘I see the smile that hides the fear. I catch it sometimes. Not always. Shows me everything I need to know about you.’