by Angel Lawson
“What about you?” Damien asks. “Where are you from?”
“I grew up in Georgia. I lived just outside Atlanta until…”
Bunny frowns, his eyes curious. “Until what?”
“Until University. I mean, I still lived in the state, just in a college town.”
Again, an awkward silence settles over the table. This always happens. I can’t offer much about my childhood. I don’t want to discuss my parents. I’m a clean slate until about four years ago and none of that is very interesting. I could discuss my work but it feels too private.
I determine the break in conversation may be my signal to head back upstairs. I move to stand but Dylan clears his throat and lifts his hand for me to wait.
“I just wanted to say that I think we’re in for an exciting year of study, creativity, and friendship.” He looks at me directly with those intense blue eyes. “The guys and I met before you got here, Morgan. The dean gave us a heads up about there being only one woman in the mansion. We all swore on our honor to respect and take care of you.”
I look at the others and they all nod in agreement. I can’t decide how I feel about the honor thing. They’re very handsome men. Any one of these men seem like a good choice for finally losing my virginity. The random thought makes me blush and I make eye contact with Clinton, of all people. I take it back, any of them but Clinton. No chance.
“I appreciate your sensitivity, but it’s not like I haven’t been on my own for a while. I’m an adult.”
“Of course you are,” Sam says. “But standards needed to be set. You can count on us. All of us. We’re all here to accomplish greatness and it’s in our best interest to have an understanding from the start. ”
I suspect it’s the exhaustion from the day, but their words trigger a wave of emotion. I fight back the sting of tears. “Thank you for being so sweet.”
I stand and they all rise in unison, each man completely different but in this very moment resolved to support me. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt such unconditional approval. No one back home, not Ryan or even Shannon, ever understood my work or even my crazy brain. In just one day, I already feel closer to these men than I thought was possible.
Chapter 6
Sam
After hours of trying to sleep, I finally give up. I stare at the vaulted ceilings and curse. Sleep is elusive. Dark dreams walk on the other side and I know why.
Morgan.
The instant she walked in the house it was like something shifted. I felt her footsteps. Her heartbeat. Her mere presence shot straight to my groin. She’s down the hall, I remind myself, all I have to do is go down there. One thing will lead to the other and this thing, this oppressive energy, will release. Fuck, it doesn’t even have to be me (I would certainly prefer it to be me) but she could screw any of the men in the house and we’d all feel a bit of relief.
I toss the sheets to the side and get out of bed, ignoring the tight constriction between my legs. “Not now, dude,” I tell him. “It’s not happening.”
We all know the rules. Morgan chooses her mates. She must find the right man to release her powerful energy into. It’s just unfortunate that her pheromones drive us wild in the meantime.
I flip the switch on the wall and a series of lights clicks on, buzzing overhead. I walk into my studio—the darkroom is to the left. If there’s one way to kill my libido, it’s coming in here. Photos hang from the wall in various sizes and compositions. The skyline, fountains in the park, portraits of men and women around the city. I look at a scene and set up my shot, but what I see through the viewfinder is chilling.
I look at a photo I took down in Times Square two weeks ago. It had been a lovely spring day, with tourists enjoying the weather and blue sky overhead. That’s what they saw. Me?
The final result hangs with the others. Dark clouds press down behind the buildings. The flashing lights of the billboards are off, replaced with cracked gray screens. The streets are abandoned, other than litter piled against the empty buildings. A dead child lies in the street.
The walls are plastered with similar images. Each one I take turns into this. I can’t control it, but each photo I process has the same result.
I know in my heart that unlike most photos, the images do not represent what has already happened. No, it’s not a sign of what’s here.
It’s a sign of what’s coming.
Chapter 7
Morgan
I wake after a night of dreamless sleep to the smell of bacon and eggs wafting through the air. My stomach churns and I realize I’m starving. From the angle of the sun out my window, I get the feeling I slept a little later than normal and I tug a hoodie on over my tank top and head to the kitchen. I’m tying my hair in a knot when I enter the kitchen and find Bunny eating at the table alone. His feet bounce on the floor, bobbing up and down with a fast beat.
He looks up from reading a magazine. He does a fast double take when he realizes it’s me, and there’s no mistaking that he’s checking me out. I tug at the strings on my jacket.
“Morning,” he says in a hoarse voice.
“Did you oversleep, too?” I ask. I’m ecstatic to find the coffee still hot and a covered plate of food on the stove. I groan when I see the fluffy biscuit next to the eggs and bacon.
I walk over to the shiny, stainless steel kitchen table and raise my eyebrows. Bunny nods for me to sit.
“I’m a night owl.” He takes a sip of his coffee. I try not to focus on his missing arm but as in all situations, the more you try not to look at it the more you do. The close proximity does give me the chance to see that his arm is still attached, it’s just not fully functional, and his hand is mangled and mostly useless.
“Is that when you work?” I ask, digging into my eggs. They’re delicious. “I’ve tried writing at night but early morning seems to be the best fit for my creativity.”
He smiles and his soulful eyes light up. “Then we’re opposites. For some reason I can’t get moving until after midnight. It’s like the rest of the world needs to be asleep for me to focus.”
I shovel in a mouthful of eggs and a strip of bacon. After washing it down with a swig of coffee I say, “So tell me about your paintings.”
“They’re uh…well, would you like to see them? That may be easier than explaining them.”
“I’d love to.”
We clean up our dishes, leaving them in the sink as instructed by a note on the counter. I suspect Sue doesn’t want people touching things in her kitchen. Together, Bunny and I walk up the massive staircase and I finally gather the courage to ask, “So how did you get the name Bunny?”
“I don’t know, I’ve just always had it.”
“Your parents named you Bunny?”
He laughs. “No, but my parents are from Ireland. My real name is hard to pronounce. Bunny is just easier.”
I glance at him from the side. “It’s the bouncing thing, isn’t it? You’re constantly moving.”
A slight grin appears. “Could have something to do with it.”
We climb the stairs past my floor up to the attic. The area is divided into two sections but the rooms are different. Bigger—with massive, vaulted ceilings and arched windows that overlook the city. The cavernous rooms have a haunting glow of daylight and instead of the area being split into suites, it’s just a massive studio. An unmade bed is tucked in one corner and mural-sized canvases lean against the walls.
I stop mid-stride when I see them.
“You made these?” The canvases give me a physical reaction, like I’m surrounded by something holy. I walk up to the nearest one—it also happens to be the biggest. The rectangular piece is as tall as the ceiling. A million stars splash against the blue-black backdrop and a woman floats in the middle.
Her eyes are enormous. Her pupils are dark with irises a deep shade of sapphire. Her mouth is heart-shaped and red, and a tiny raven is perched atop her long black hair. The woman’s neck is graceful and thin, stretching fro
m the bottom of the canvas. In her hand is a jewel that sparkles like purple fire against the backdrop.
I blink and look at the others and they’re all similar—each a variation of the girl with the raven and the intense, haunted eyes. In some, she holds a stone. In others, a locket hangs from her neck, nestled between her alluring swell of breasts. She wears a variety of dresses, most delicate and fine. In a few she’s nude. More than once I wonder if it’s actually a photograph I’m looking at and not a painting at all, but the drops of oil and acrylic on the floor tell me otherwise. Upon closer inspection I realize they’re not simply paintings but intricate collages built from paper, objects, and paint.
I glance back at Bunny, who is standing several feet behind me. His hand is shoved in his pocket and it makes me wonder.
“How?” I blurt, before I can censor myself. “This requires such skilled work. Doesn’t your disfigured hand hinder you?”
He shrugs. “It’s a bit of a challenge at times but I’m able to create even with my injured arm.”
“It was an injury? An accident?”
He doesn’t reply and it’s a fair response. Who am I to ask something so personal? He walks past me to a small work table covered in brushes and paints. Knives, scissors, and spades stick out of well-used containers. I watch as he selects one thin paintbrush with a tiny tip. He dips into a small jar and walks back over.
“Can I?” he asks, holding the paintbrush to my cheek. His eyes are on fire, burning closer to copper than brown.
“Sure.” I bite down on my lip as he moves closer, aware of a heat rolling off of him. He brushes the hair off my cheek, eyes focused and intent. I sense his heartbeat thumping with slow, easy beats. He leans close, hovering the brush just over my skin, until first touch when the tip surprises me with the cool paint. I laugh, because it tickles, but brace myself as he goes to work. The strokes of the bristles are soft and soothing; I’m lulled quickly into ease. Bunny’s body is close enough that the hem of his flannel brushes against my arm. I get a whiff of his delicious scent. I have to stop myself from pressing my nose into his shirt. I study his face, his lips and mouth, and in the peace of the moment I want nothing more than to press my lips against his, just to see if they feel as soft as they look.
I’m so into this thought, into the moment, that I feel myself leaning forward just as he steps back and says, “There. Perfect.”
I reach to touch the paint, cool and wet on my cheek, but stop myself, knowing it will smear. He returns from his work table with a small circular mirror and asks, “Want to see it?”
“Yes!” I’m giddy like a little girl.
He holds it up for me and I hunch, trying to catch the right angle, and then I see it. It’s a delicate twist of vines, similar to the one engraved on my locket.
“I liked the design,” he says quietly, as though he’s revealed a piece of his soul.
“Thank you, Bunny,” I say and continue my walk around the room, absorbing every one of his pieces.
Chapter 8
Morgan
I spend the afternoon working on my book. The story is bothering me—a nagging feeling that I’m missing something important. I sit back in the window seat and review what I’ve written so far.
Maverick has spent her childhood with the ravens and they’ve become like a second family—maybe her real family. She feels a sense of peace when they’re around, but lately other forces have come into play. The girl is older now, in high school, and even I have to admit it’s time for the protagonist to branch out a little. Meet new friends. Maybe a boy.
But what boy would want to be with a girl that speaks to animals? Also? Boys suck.
I stare out the huge window, pressing my forehead against the glass. Down in the park, birds burst in and out of the treetops. Up here it’s quiet. No birds at all. Not even pigeons roosting in the eaves.
I look down, as much as is possible. From this angle it’s clear the house has a nice-sized back yard, and in it, a figure catches my eye. I see the top of a head—hairless—and I think it must be Damien. He wanders in and out of a small structure and curiosity gets the best of me.
I didn’t shower after Bunny painted my face. I didn’t want to lose the magic of the moment and a quick glance in the mirror proves the painting is still on my cheek. Quickly, I slip on my shoes and run down the stairs. Sam’s door is shut and when I pass by the second floor I pause briefly when I hear low, soulful music drifting down the hall.
I know that Damien and Clinton share this level and the former is outside. That means Clinton is behind the haunting melody, and as much as I want to follow the music, I know better than to barge in on Clinton. His reaction to me the night before was less than warm. In fact, he made it clear he has a problem with me being here. Dylan basically confirmed it.
I leave the music behind and head to the kitchen, seeking a door to the back yard. I swing open the heavy door and find Sue standing over a table of freshly washed vegetables. The small woman with graying hair and a stiff-looking uniform holds a knife with a wide blade and has a pile of red peppers nearby. A bowl full of different colored eggs sits on the counter.
“Do you need something, dear?” she asks.
“Are those fresh?”
“There’s a coop on the roof.”
“Really?” I smile. “We had chickens when I was a kid. My father built a coop in the backyard. Oh man, they nearly drove him mad.”
“But they provided plenty of eggs?”
“Well, not really. There were a few incidents.” The memory floods back and I grasp for it before it fades. “The first was when we had this one crazy chicken that just vanished in the back. Like one minute we were chasing it. The next poof, he was gone.”
“And the second?”
“Something got in the coop. My father had to clean it up. That was the end of the chickens.” I watch her work for a minute. “So, I’m just looking for the way out back. Thought I’d check out the yard.”
“Just through that door there,” she replies, pointing with the knife. “Are you going out to see Master Damien?”
“Sort of?” I answer honestly. I’m a little embarrassed that she knew right away what I was up to. Sue has a knowing glint in her eye. I suspect it’s difficult to get anything past her.
“Well, take him a plate, will you? He gets so busy out there he forgets to eat.”
“Sure, of course.”
She walks over to the refrigerator and extracts a plate covered with foil. I take it from her. “There’s enough for two in there.”
“Oh, I don’t plan on…” I glance down. “I just wanted some fresh air.”
Sue shrugs and waves her knife. “Well get along, then. Dinner is at seven sharp. We’re having salmon.”
“Sounds delicious,” I say, backing away and reaching for the door knob. “I’ll make sure Damien gets this.”
“Thank you, dear.”
The warm afternoon heat blasts against my skin the second I step outside and I unzip the front of my hoodie. I cross a small porch and follow a path of slate pavers around to the main part of the yard. A wide, bigger porch sits across the back of the house and nestled in the corner is a cement structure with a metal roof. The building is plain and wide ventilation shafts poke through the ceiling. A strange chemical smell wafts through the air.
The door is open and I’m given a moment to watch Damien before he notices me. He’s standing at a long, metal work table with a thick, leather apron hanging around his neck and tied at the waist. Leather work gloves cover his hands and he uses a small torch on his project. His muscular arms are bare, the hint of his white tank visible under the leather. His black work pants fit perfectly, snug across the butt. A pair of workmen’s goggles are pushed to his forehead and he concentrates on a small object under a circular magnifying glass.
Extreme heat rolls out of the room even with the large fans mounted to the walls. I shift uncomfortably, wanting to take off my hoodie, but unable to with the plate in my ha
nds. Damien is incredibly focused, but something happens and he drops the torch with a clatter on the table.
“Fuck,” he mutters, tossing his gloves across the room. He wrings his hand.
“Damien!” I step through the doorway uninvited and ask, “Are you okay?”
He looks up, wincing from the pain. “Morgan? What are you doing down here?”
I hold up the plate. “Sue wanted me to bring you this.” I set it down on the table and approach him. “Can I see it?”
“I just cut it. Nothing big. It happens.”
I reach for his hand and see the slice in his length of his finger. “Do you have a first aid kit?”
He stares at my hand for a moment before looking back up at me. He swallows. “Over there, in that cabinet. Blue box.”
I move quickly, grabbing the box among all the other supplies in the cabinet. I rummage though and find bandages and ointment. Leading Damien to a stool near the work table, I get out the medicine and slather it on the bandage. We clean the wound and wrap it up.
“Better?” I ask. I’m standing between his spread legs, his feet perched on a rung at the base of the stool.
“Much,” he says in a quiet voice. We stare at one another for a moment and I sink into his beautiful eyes. They’re the most unique shade of violet. He strokes a finger over my cheek, the one that Bunny painted and his lips twist into a wistful smile.
“What?”
“You look good marked like that.”
I reach to touch the dried paint. It should be flaking off by now but it’s not. Damien’s eyes and hand move to the charm resting on my chest. I removed my hoodie before cleaning his finger. The studio is almost unbearably warm and I’m well aware of the sweat drenching my thin tank.
“This charm,” he says, fingering my necklace. A shiver rolls up my spine. “Where did you get it?”
Normally I lie. I say that I found it in a boutique or an antique shop. The truth always clings to my tongue but not today. Not now. “I don’t know,” I say, placing my hand over his. “It’s like I’ve always had it.”
