Another Brush of Love (The Carnal Exhibitions Book 3)

by LW Barefoot

  Harper

  My stomach growls painfully in the room with pulsing lyrics that once echoed through my apartment in Arizona. My forgotten, ill-fated playlist plays on a repeated loop.

  I’m stuck in that place with him. Then is now, but now I have far too much to lose.

  The Sculptor sits and becomes the creative madman who has haunted my every breath that’s carved into my life irrevocably.

  I follow his every command without him having to drug me or touch me. It keeps his hands off me from repositioning and arranging me like a puppet from the past. A role I’ve played before and never truly got over.

  My empty stomach growls louder but he doesn’t seem to notice. The sound of pen to paper scratches and drowns out my need for food.

  I spend an entire day shifting between troubled sleep and excruciating awareness. I close my eyes to a beautiful monster and meet the same masked man in my sleep.

  He holds himself back but I see the lust fueling his obsession. I’m intimately aware of what desire looks like and it shines brightly through him. It makes the deep shards of ice in his gaze sharpen and reflect its threat. I push thoughts away from what I know he’s capable of. It’s the only thing that will preserve my sanity, but even my hope of holding onto what’s left fades.

  Night stars twinkle off waves lapping sand outside the hotel windows. With my chest now completely exposed, I know this is only the prelude to my inevitable destruction.

  Soft footfalls drown everything out. A strong hand pushes down the sheet I’ve clung to all day. Removing it slowly, his eyes hold mine.

  “It was always going to come down to this,” he murmurs.

  Fight, fight, fight. Not yet I tell myself.

  He took me yesterday or days ago with my back to him. Resolve and strength fueled my fight, but now he wants more. Now he wants to face the past and the ruined leftovers of his perfect muse. I’m no longer an angel. I have become the demon of his nightmares. I’m a scarred-up mess and the mirror image of what he can’t stand.

  The cold blade of a knife moves in his hand the way I would hold a paintbrush. The way he expertly holds a paintbrush.

  “You haven’t asked me what the numbers mean,” he murmurs.

  He places cold steel flat against my nipple. My frayed nerves stop me from even trembling. I’m almost proud of myself for my self-control, but even that would be fooling myself because I have no control left.

  “I don’t want to know,” I confess because I already know the truth.

  “They’re your flaws,” he bites out.

  I’m speechless as he pulls the sheet down with the sharp edge of the knife. The silver reflection of moonlight shines off the metal and winks at me in intimidation.

  He curses when he sees my scars. He does it again even louder when he examines his handy work, his fucking brand, his claim that’s had me choking on fumes of the past.

  “How can you stand to look at yourself?” he asks. “How can you even live with it?”

  “How can you?” I ask referring to his ruined back.

  I’m rewarded and cursed with the soft palm that cups my face as his frozen eyes hold mine. I wish for a punch or slap or any kind of brutality, but not this. I can’t stand his loving caresses or his eyes full of wonder and fascination. If I have to endure it, I prefer for his mask to be in place. I need to see him as the monster he is and not the common thread of us both scarred beyond redemption.

  We’re nothing alike even in our ugliness.

  I should have never seen his tortured skin. I shouldn’t have studied it. He’s the monster in waking light and terrifying nightmares, but as he peers at me with knife in hand, he’s as human as I am. Three lines mark an area that I can cover and conceal. Along with railroad marks and ragged flesh. But the Sculptor’s back is a portrait of pain I can’t even imagine. A destroyed canvas that can never truly heal. Someone has already ruined him, but that’s not my fault. None of this is my fault.

  He stands and raises to his feet. His eyes freeze mine as he starts to undress.

  “It’s a shame we couldn’t have met under different circumstances,” he whispers and I know he means it.

  “I probably would have fallen for you,” I admit.

  I’ve thought this before and voiced it in therapy. I can’t imagine anyone immune to his handsome face. His actions spelled out an entirely different destiny for us.

  He smiles at me for the first time ever. It quickly changes from sincerity to shame.

  “You did when you were little,” he quips.

  “What?”

  “I wasn’t always the monster under your bed,” he sighs.

  He smiles again as I comb through memories I locked away of when I was a child. He turns around by the windows. The moonlight shadows the scars along his back. Flashes of me crying for a boy that locked the door to keep my nightmares at bay flood through me. The screams that echoed through thin walls proved there was something that lurked with sharp claws and cutting words.

  “These were all for you, sweet Casey,” he shudders.

  I have no idea what the hell he’s talking about. I don’t know him. I never knew him until I could never forget him.

  But then I’m wrong. Jamie and I made it out together. As I see the ruined skin of the ghost who locked me away from evil, I’m reminded that I saw that skin freshly torn, bleeding, tearing me up with his suffering.

  I gasp when I realize I was there through it all. My tears fall as I cry for the fucked up mess I’ve always been in. My troubles didn’t start when this masked man showed up in my apartment. I’ve been dodging those shadows since before I could run.

  “I’m sorry,” I confess.

  Jamie and I left that house and never looked back. It was just another stop in the rotation of families that dotted our childhood.

  “It’s too late for that.”

  “I’m sorry,” I break and blubber.

  “It’s too late,” he roars.

  I choke and try to block it all from flooding back through me.

  “I took what you owed me because I’ve suffered enough for you. Now lay down like the perfectly trained little slut you have become before I hurt you,” he whispers.

  “But you already did that, so what’s the difference?” The words slip out before I can catch them and hold them back.

  I shouldn’t have spoken, I should have kept my mouth shut because the heat in his gaze fuels his lust and that’s the last thing I intended.

  “You owe me,” he insists.

  He wants something I can’t give. Brad’s words slip through the barrier of my mind with Evan’s voice.

  “You’re fueling your fear,” I whisper.

  “You know nothing of fear,” he hisses.

  His cold eyes search mine in the darkness and find the truth. He was my first defender of fear and darkness before he became it.

  I scoot away from him. Backpedaling on my hands and I’m thankful he didn’t drug me.

  He turns his back to me and I see the extent of his scars. Horizontal horror marks him from the top of his neck all the way down to his ankles. He grips the back of his hairline before he turns back around. I’ve made it to the bed and I scramble for the phone. To call for help, to punch in 911 and end this.

  He catches my ankle and pulls me down the length of the bed. The cold metal against my throat evaporates my fight and silences my screams.

  “Shh, gorgeous. I think we can do something about this hideous scar.”

  His right fist locks around my throat while his left takes the tip of the knife and digs in the flesh on my pelvis.

  Watercolor memories float across my mind with sloppy brushes against old wallpaper coated in nicotine and years of neglect. Yellow plastic holds circles full of color that we dip our brushes on and swirl with drops of water.

  “We’ll make this pretty, Casey,” he says as he demonstrates with brush in hand and strokes over the wall.

  We try to make the ugly wall better. I follow his lead
and get carried away. Brush strokes decorate the wall with dripping paint. We continue painting until a voice screams for us to stop.

  I’m pushed out of the way by Ben when the rattle of a belt buckle and the leather hisses through the air. Ben screams when the belt lashes his skin. I scramble away. Big innocent ice blue eyes stand between me and the brute before he’s taken away from me. Ben screams for me to run. I wail when I hear his cries through thin walls until Jamie comes to comfort me. I don’t yell for Jamie, but for Ben. I scream his name over and over until I look into those same eyes that are no longer innocent. Ben’s same big ice blue eyes…

  The Sculptor’s grip on my neck blocks my cries as he cuts me. I want to tell him the truth; that I remember and I’m so sorry. I can’t stand that I’ve blocked out his existence all this time. It had to shock. It had to be a bad dream.

  I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry!

  I choke on my sobs as he licks the salty streams off and eases up on his grip.

  “What of your other victims? Why are there so many?” I have to ask.

  He licks his lips and searches my gaze. He doesn’t see me at all. He offers me a rueful smile.

  “I tried, but I failed. I couldn’t forgive you and I damn sure couldn’t forget you,” he tells me through blurry eyes.

  My legs uselessly kick but do no good when his sorrow takes a sharp turn. It happens in an instant. Me bringing up his past sins flips the switch.

  The knife cuts me deep and the fist around my throat shakes as he squeezes tighter. He makes the addition of my number and rounds it up. His warning, his promise, comes to light as he delivers the searing cut. My blood pooling on my skin churns bile in my stomach.

  “Don’t you dare get sick you fucking bitch,” he hisses and moves down my body.

  His mouth is everywhere and nowhere in particular. My head spins as he continues to cut off circulation and defile me with his tongue. He trails it past my tits and down my stomach. The apex of my thighs is where I thought he would go, but he licks at the fresh cut he made.

  “Do you remember me now, sweet Casey?” he prompts as I struggle.

  “How could I ever forget you?” I squirm.

  I’m dizzy when he finally removes his grip from my throat.

  When his lips come down on mine, I kiss him back with tears trailing down my face and conflicting emotions threatening to choke me themselves. The distance between who we were to who we are now keeps me sane. He’s never forgotten me, and yet, I forgot him so easily. My insides churn with worry, remorse, and self-disgust.

  He pins my hands against the mattress with both hands by my hips. The cold metal knife rests on my flat stomach. The point directed at my face. My heavy disjointed breaths push the thing up and down and hypnotize me with regret.

  He becomes crazed and obsessed when his mouth finds my core. I choke on cries and curses. My legs drape over his shoulders and his head is between my legs.

  He becomes the devil I know too well. There’s no trace of the boy I once knew. Those eyes are not the same I remember, but none of that matters now.

  I sob when he pushes inside me. The scream is cut off by the crimson stained blade against my neck. He moves in his lust and irritation. A trickle of blood drips down my neck where he cuts my skin when his hips thrust against mine.

  Watercolor is the only medium I never touch. Red is my least favorite color. Red is his least favorite color.

  His pumping delirious madness is all consuming. He leans over and captures my lips. I taste my blood, my intimacy, and my failure on his tongue.

  He moves us to where he’s underneath me and I’m on top. I struggle to free myself when he points the tip of the knife against one of my self-inflicted scars. He cuts me when I don’t move. The blade digs deeper than I thought he would push when I freeze.

  “Take me, you fucking disappointment,” he spits.

  The knife grazes my second scar when I lift my hips. Bile rises and I try to keep it down. He slams me back on him and my stomach demands my attention. I cry and convulse, but he holds my mouth shut and I swallow it down. I hurt everywhere.

  “Move, bitch. Become the greedy little whore I created,” he swears.

  I lean forward and kiss him.

  I give in.

  I give up.

  I do what I’m told.

  His cock burns my entrance, but I kiss him to distract him. I fight with my body because it’s my greatest weapon against him. I make out with the enemy and I feel the second he falls for it.

  “I’ve missed you,” I purr.

  I deceive.

  I rise up on him and sink back down. I grab my breasts and seduce him while I die inside. His grip on the knife loosens.

  “Ben,” I stammer his name and choke on remorse that’s too troubled to comprehend.

  “I’ve missed you more,” his shocked voice comes through the dark clipped edge that holds traces of who he once was.

  I take him in and destroy myself with the swivel of my hips. I become what he desires and what I need to get out of this alive. I’m no longer sure if it’s worth it. I work myself up and down and destroy every last ounce of goodness I possess to seduce the devil himself.

  It works.

  His moans, his grip on the knife, his thrusting hips give him over to me.

  My eyes glaze over when full understanding sinks in. It’s not desire that blurs my vision, but the awful hatred I have towards him. The blood that falls from me to him makes him delirious as he takes it all in.

  He thrusts up and I try to think about Evan, about us, about how I’ve destroyed it all in my ultimate deception. I watch the corded muscles in the Sculptor’s neck pulse. Brad’s lesson on vulnerable, death-inducing places shifts through my memory like a blaze of hope. Seth’s swift movements and heated instructions provide clarity. And Grayson’s unapologetic force seals the deal. The blood on my skin reminds me of the burst across Seth’s chest and I know what I have to do.

  “I love you,” the Sculptor whispers when he comes undone. “I’ve always loved you. Do you know that?”

  And the saddest part of all, is that now I know the truth, I would give anything to obliterate it from memory.

  I moan like he just rocked my world because I’m about to take him out of this one. I fake the orgasm that all men crave. I writhe and convince him. I shake and tremble, not from pleasure but the disgusting truth that I’m about to commit murder. My plastic mannequin becomes a living breathing piece of filth.

  The Sculptor leans up and captures my lips. I taste his tongue and my hands leave my breasts.

  I’m the succubus I dread.

  I’m the wicked woman whose redemption is forever out of reach.

  He drinks in my false kiss as I tangle my traitorous tongue with his. I grip the handle of his knife that fell out of his grasp onto the bed. His arms lock around me and his finger skates up my spine.

  He’s my victim, I’m no longer his.

  “I’m sorry I marked you, my love,” he murmurs with starstruck eyes and I see that he means it.

  “I’m sorry I marked you,” I whisper.

  “But you haven’t, precious,” he admits with reverence in his gaze.

  “But I will,” I state with my heart in my throat and my life in the balance.

  I’m sorry about the boy I forgot so easily, but not about the man I can never forget.

  My fingertips graze the first of his scars on the back of his neck. I make a matching slice across his neck with his knife and my lips pressed to his. His shocked expression seals my fate. Blood splatters all over me and I scream when he grips my waist and holds me to him until his life starts to drain out of the cut I made.

  Shock takes over and hurls me through panic laced forests when I see Evan pant from the doorway and shouts ring out. I scream and scramble. I die alongside the Sculptor.

  My shaking hand that holds the knife has a death grip around it. I hold it out as if to protect myself. I’m still straddling my adv
ersary while he fights for air.

  I move to finish the anguish to end this once and for all. I can’t take a life and not take my own. I made it out of my childhood nightmare and had a chance Ben never did.

  I wail when the blade drops away from me just moments before I repeat my last time with the Sculptor.

  “Shh, baby, I’ve got you,” it’s Evan’s voice, but the Sculptor’s fading eyes hold my undivided attention.

  I followed him in the dark. I became what he created. I killed the beast and morphed into one in the process.

  Evan pulls me off him. He tries to hide his disappointed groan when he disconnects our bodies. I’m slick with our mixed blood and I’m covered in it. The sticky warmth on my skin makes the burning bile in my throat rise.

  Brad throws the sheet from the floor over the Sculptor’s naked body as Evan hauls me to the shower.

  I’m lost and alone as he washes death off my skin, but it sunk past the surface and stole my soul when I committed it.

  There should have been another way. There had to be another way.

  I look down in the shower and see the Roman numeral two and start trying to scratch it off and take it away. Hysteria takes over and I scream as I dig into the skin that makes me the mess I am.

  I think about the Sculptor as I scrub and scrape his memory off. His story, how he became what he was and what would make him do what he’s done. But the answer isn’t far. It washes down the drain with my tears mixed with blood. The water runs pink and I dig. I hurt. I mark my skin more.

  He should have carved out the number across my chest so I could reach in and dig out my heart because the fucking damaged thing pounds with no shame, with no remorse. Even though, it taints every ounce of who I am. It thrums heavy with triumph while my head swims in contempt.

  The prick of a needle bites through the skin on my shoulder. I scream so loud and long everything I’m made of bellows out with it. It rings my ears. I tremble with its furious roar and the force behind it.

  Maybe I didn’t kill him.

  Maybe it was just a dream.

  I get spun around on sloppy legs with a woozy empty stomach. I throw up when my eyes meet Grayson’s emerald depths and Brad’s light dancing sadness.