Cassie

by deMora, MariaLisa

  Not for almost ten years.

  That thought snaked through her mind, bringing the panic back full force, freezing her into place, eyesight dimming around the edges as she fought for control.

  Cassie had been dealing with the affliction of anxieties all her life. From the near-normal teenage angst of obsessing over socially awkward moments up through now, when her fears could practically paralyze her, they were always there. She had pushed through when she could, found comfort in draping herself in soothing rituals, and used coping strategies to smooth over the anxiety when she couldn’t. Lately, the struggle seemed harder than ever, and it took real work to find reasons to force herself out of the house. Cassie wanted to refuse to bow before the demands of her anxiety, needing to experience anything, trying to bull through dealing with even the most uncomfortable situations in an effort to keep her world from narrowing even more than it had.

  The art shows were one way she’d determined she could draw herself out. But it couldn’t be just any shows. God, no. The art has to be worth it. She had gained that knowledge after dealing with horrifically public panic attacks in the middle of more than one gallery.

  Logically she would know afterwards that not every eye had turned towards her. But, in that moment, the weight of imagined stares could nearly bow her in half, making it impossible to move even an inch towards the temporary reprieve and safety in a bathroom, or the emotional failure of an exit. She’d be stuck in the center of a room, face, by turns, burning red or pale as death, her breathing fast and loud or drawn as tiny, short pants that invited dancing black spots of hyperventilation along the edges of her vision, and her skin damp with sweat that smelled like terror.

  Just the thought of a public attack raised her respiration rate and Cassie had to fight to bring herself under control, refusing to spiral while sitting on her own couch. I’m safe here. Safe. Safe. Safe. She held tight to a failing conviction that felt slippery as an oiled snake. I hate being like this.

  She stared at the uncomplaining empty space on the wall, a blameless opening patiently waiting for delivery of the piece she bought. There’d been wide-open terrain surrounding the beautiful woman in the painting, but somehow those vast, unfenced fields hadn’t been frightening when captured in stillness on canvas. Ease with an expanse like that was an anomaly for her, and she looked forward to hours of exploring the shading and pigmentation the artist used.

  The artist. Cassie let herself think of him for a moment. Isaiah Rogers, semireclusive phenomenon and conundrum. A man who could create impossibly beautiful art while living the life of a solitary biker, at times compared by art critics to eccentric masters of the past. She pushed from the couch and stood, still staring at the wall. Breathe. She attempted to pull a ritual into play as she consciously ran the script through in her head.

  Tomorrow morning I will hear the doorbell and open the door. Nothing bad will happen.

  I will let the men in, and they will hang my new piece in place. Then they will leave. Nothing bad will happen.

  Things will go just as they always have with the deliveries. Nothing bad will happen.

  Their job. They will do their job, and then they will leave. And, nothing bad will happen to me. Never again.

  ***

  Her sleep that night was fitful, uneasy, and she woke several times. Cassie found herself checking the clock on her phone each time to gauge how much time had to be endured before she could reasonably allow herself to get up.

  Finally. She turned off the unused alarm two minutes before it would have sounded. A confirmation e-mail received from the service last night had informed her that the deliverymen would be here between eight and ten, which meant she had two and a half hours to prepare. To get ready, as if for war.

  With a sigh, she sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing the already cramping muscles in her legs, and began the first of her normal routines. This one was a pep talk, a way to shore up her psyche after the edges of sleep had scraped off into the raw and bruised shadows of her memories.

  “Be a fucking lion,” she spoke softly, rubbing her thighs with deliberately stiffened fingers, working the last of the ache away. Anxiety and tension had a way of turning any bed uncomfortable, as rock-hard muscles made themselves known. She closed her eyes for a moment and pulled in a breath, then opened them as she blew it out and said, “Become the person you want to see in the mirror.”

  Each phrase paired with a familiar motion, working together to center her mind in preparation for the day.

  Rocking her head side to side, she stretched her neck and settled back into place before saying, “Color outside the lines.” Tipping her head far back, she held the position until muscles in her throat complained about the prolonged strain, then whispered to the ceiling, “Take back your power. They get nothing.”

  Cassie opened her eyes and glanced at the sign over the door, gaze tracking along each letter as she read the words aloud. “Actually, I just woke up one day and decided I didn’t want to feel like that anymore, or ever again. So, I changed. Just. Like. That.”

  By eight, she was standing in the dining room, situated halfway between the kitchen and front door, waiting. Sweating and shaking, but holding her position with counterfeit courage.

  When the doorbell finally rang, she was startled into paralysis for a moment, unable to move forward as a desperate need to run away clawed at her resolve. Needing a reminder to break the stasis she forced herself to say aloud, “Nothing bad will happen.” Drawing a deep breath, Cassie wrapped herself in the mental reminder of that certainty and forced her feet to take the first step, then another.

  Reach out, she thought as she matched action to her mental prompt and turned the knob. Come on, Cassie. Suck it up. Nothing bad is gonna happen. Not today. With a smile plastered on her face, she prepared to fake normal as hard as she could for the next thirty minutes, the amount of time it usually took the crew to hang the frame. That smile stuttered and faded as the door swung open and she saw a stranger standing just on the other side of the screen door.

  Her gaze flicked back and forth, trying to make sense out of the change from what she’d expected. The movers were back a small distance from the door, more near to the descending steps than the opening into her home. Those were faces she knew. These were the men the service had sent to her before. Known, and relatively safe. Relatively.

  But, right in front of her, between her and the known men was Isaiah Rogers. The artist. Reflexively, her legs took one step back before she could halt the retreat. Coward, she scolded herself. “What are you doing here?” The question leapt from her lips, and when she realized she’d said it aloud, she slapped her palm over her mouth. Rude much? Her cheeks heated at her verbal mistake, and she felt flaming red climbing her features until she imagined she looked like a ripe tomato. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. She knew air was rushing in and out of her nose but already felt lightheaded, the gray fog of panic swirling along the edges of her vision. In an effort to regain control, she dropped her gaze to stare at the bottom panel of the door. Why is he here? Sounds of boot soles scraping on her porch ratcheted up her fear, because she assumed the men behind him were preparing to leave. No, no. No, please no. Not with her painting. They can’t, I need her.

  Hands fisting, she dug deliberately blunted nails deep into her palms. He shouldn’t be here. But, he is. The tiny bit of pain was a known quantity, expected, stabilizing her in miniscule ways. Okay, steady. Be a lion. Blank wood and paint filled her vision, undemanding and uncaring of her faux pas and social stumbling. She could talk to blank wood and paint all day long. “I meant to say, this is a surprise. You’re Mr. Rogers. Was there a problem with the purchase?” Maybe if I avoid looking at him, I’ll be okay. And maybe, just maybe, she could hold it together against this unexpected off-rhythm disturbance to what had been a carefully thought through and rehearsed script. And maybe the earth will open and swallow me to hell.

  “Miss Williamson, pleased to meetcha. I hope you don’t mind me rid
in’ along with the boys.” His voice and words caught at her attention, slightly disrupting the fear. The cadence was unusual, and she found his accent interesting. Nothing she’d read about him had mentioned he was from the south. However, that origin echoed plain and clear through his voice, the soft rhythm of his speech somehow soothing and calming her nerves enough that she was able to lift her gaze to his chin.

  His chin, which lined up with the tidily fastened buttons of his shirt, the three nearest his neck undone, leaving the shirt to gape slightly, a sun-browned triangle visible between the edges of fabric. Smooth, flowing up to the notch of his throat, and that leading to the strong, corded column dented with a prominent Adam’s apple. Every bit of skin looked touchable in a way she’d never noticed on anyone else.

  With a flinch, she halted her gaze there, instinctively knowing that to make eye contact would probably blow what little control she still held entirely out of the water. “I know I oughta apologize for just showin’ up like this, but when Barry—” He twisted as he gestured to the tallest of the men behind him, the neck of his shirt gaped wider, and she devoured the expanded view of shadowed collarbone. “—told me he was deliverin’ this piece today, I just had to come with. I hope you don’t mind. This is one of my favorites, you see, and I wanna see where it’s gonna live.” He gave a shrug that managed to be both masculine and elegant in one motion, his confidence and control demonstrated in everyday movements. “Then, when I heard from him that you had several of my paintings, I surely had to meet you.”

  He stepped forwards and without thought, she took a matching step backwards, seeing muscles along his jaw tighten as she moved away to maintain what her mind screamed was the only safe distance. “May we come in? Can the boys—” He indicated the men again, that gape folding fabric differently to expose the hard plane of his chest, “—bring in the canvas?”

  Cassie knew her nod was jerky, but she forced her head to move, glad when he took it as a certain invitation she couldn’t put voice to. He reached out and smoothly opened the door, holding it in place with the heel of a boot while two men carried in the long crate. As part of her preparations this morning, she had anticipated the process and had placed a small crowbar and hammer along the bottom of the wall underneath where she wanted the canvas hung.

  Six years ago, the very first delivery had nearly been a disaster because the men had to go in and out of the house several times to gather tools. The sound of her front door opening and closing, opening again, closing, had scraped her nerves raw, resonating through her mind and in her nightmares long after the men were gone. Each new breach had seemed a chance for unseen dangers to enter alongside the workmen. To forestall that fiasco from happening again, for each delivery she now made certain everything needed would be close at hand.

  Mr. Rogers stood just inside the arch that led to her living room. He looked at ease standing there, broad shoulders seeming to fill the space as he swept the walls with his gaze. Cassie watched as his appearance changed, brightening in a way she thought might not happen often, and she saw a wonder-filled expression break across his face.

  “Beautiful,” he murmured, the drawn-out word sounding so heartfelt and raw she couldn’t help it. She smiled.

  Cassie’s walls

  Hoss

  Flighty as a hummingbird, he thought, catching her shift in expression from the corner of his eye. But, Jesus, she’s flat-out gorgeous when she smiles. He’d come along with the crew today after Tamera had dropped a mention about the buyer and he’d put two and two together to come up with his elusive art lover from the show.

  Looking around at her collection, he thought it was gorgeous, too. His pieces on her walls looked right somehow, more at home than he could have ever dreamed or hoped for even if the arrangements were eclectic and interesting. Perfect, and thought-provoking. They appeared randomly arranged at first, spaced unevenly on the wall. Some frames were crowded around with a mix of pop culture pieces and what looked like photographs of her family. After moments spent studying each placement, he began to understand the method behind the puzzles. She had somehow matched the emotions of his paintings to the pieces that supported them, building on living sentiment and passion to create an arrangement that made his paintings…more.

  Looking at them, he found his breath coming faster, heart pounding in a way it hadn’t in a long time. Ideas crowded his brain, the collaborative aspect feeding off the work giving rise to a thousand inspirations. Each frame held his art—those were his brushstrokes on canvas, but she’d morphed them into something so intensely personal it was as if she’d absorbed the passion imbued in each piece and returned it ten-fold.

  “God, I love it. Every one of ’em.” He let his gaze sweep around the room again before landing back on the light-haired woman. Hoss didn’t like to see how her gaze flinched from him, but what she’d done had woken such excitement inside him he pushed through because he wanted—no, needed her to know he understood. “I get it. I totally get it, and what you’ve done with each display is amazing.”

  Eyes wide, her gaze flicked past him to where the crew was working on hanging her latest acquisition. She didn’t say anything in response, just nodded slowly while staring at the men. Huh.

  Disappointed at her lack of reply, he turned in a circle and noted an oddity on the short wall over the arch leading from this room out into her house. He recognized the saying, but it was out of place in this tiny home gallery. Not art, the Hunter S. Thompson quote was a cheesy, cheap font treatment mass produced and available at any number of low-cost outlets. Reading it, he wondered if it could possibly mean the same thing to her that it did him. Why the fuck should it matter to me? Hoss lost a brief battle against not caring and decided he absolutely needed to know. “Hmmm. I like Thompson, too. Even so many years later, his words are relevant, yeah? This one especially, I always thought it was a mandate to live intentionally.”

  “Yes.” Her voice was melodic, a sweetness that pulled him in like gravity. He turned to look at her, meeting her eyes for the first time, the darker hazel fading to a golden ring around her midnight pupils. God, beautiful. Hoss watched, mesmerized, as they dilated slightly, a thrill of discovery coiling down his spine that she also recognized the uniqueness of whatever this was between them.

  Hoss’ mood changed a moment later and his stomach fell when he realized the look was fear, and not arousal as he first thought. She didn’t seem able to look away from the stare and the longer their gazes remained locked, the more her breathing sped up, grew ragged and out of control, her lips parting slightly as she panted for air. Jesus, I’m scaring the fuck out of her. He dipped his head, breaking the connection, giving her back her space.

  “Always liked Thompson.” Hoss spoke softly, evenly, keeping his eyes fixed to the side. Using his peripheral vision, he registered she had flushed red again, probably embarrassed at the near panic she had been in when looking at him. “I do like how you’ve got my pieces displayed, Miss Williamson. Done ’em justice. They look very much at home on your walls.”

  “Cassie,” she corrected him on a near whisper and he nodded, softly repeating her name back to her before offering her his true name.

  “My friends call me Hoss.” He grinned, letting his gaze skip across her blazing face as he looked over to where the men were cleaning up the crate pieces they had disassembled to remove the framed painting. Shit, have we been here that long already? “I’d like it if you called me that, too.” With regret, he saw they were ready to go and squared his shoulders towards the wall, looking at the painting of Hope on this stranger’s wall. Not a stranger. Contentment settled inside him in that certain knowledge. She’s on Cassie’s wall. “What will you surround my golden girl with?”

  “I met your kids once,” she blurted, “at a show.” When he turned, he saw her fingers twisting into the fabric of her shirt, stretching and folding the hem. She looked terrified at having spoken, mouth now clamped tight.

  He knew the smile he wore was p
roud and caring, because those were the strongest emotions he had inside him these days. “Love my kiddos,” he told her with a nod, and then asked, “were they behaving that night?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said softly, and he studied her, capturing a mental snapshot of her face. Her expression was a dichotomy of emotion, shame and joy mixed together. She was staring at a painting of Sam and Faith, his son and daughter. Done a decade ago, when Faith was barely five, Hoss had enjoyed putting this vignette of protective devotion to canvas. Faith was shown balancing on the blades of tiny skates while Sammy bent over her from behind, holding his hands out to steady her. Framed in his arms, he was helping her glide across the expanse of open ice in front of them both, freeing and shielding her all at the same time. The look on his boy’s face was intent, Sammy’s focus firmly and totally fixed on his little sister, determined to keep her safe.

  “Good.” He stepped towards Cassie, gratified when this time she stood her ground, not retreating before him. Holding out a hand, he waited, remembering only belatedly that Tamera had said the woman had some quirks about being touched. Shame she hadn’t mentioned the overwhelming fear, too, he thought with a frown. He hated he had caused this pretty woman any distress at all, found it insufferable that she looked more fragile now than when she first opened the door. Hated the memory of watching the eagerness bleed from her face when she’d found him standing on her front porch.

  Tentatively Cassie reached out, slipping her hand palm-first into his and he folded his fingers around, holding the heat and unexpected strength found in her grip tightly for a moment, watching as her lips parted on an indrawn breath. Reluctantly, he released her hand and saw her lips move slightly, the bottom one bowing up sweetly before she rolled them into a flat line, biting down. He frowned. Again, he was causing her distress he didn’t understand but did not like one bit. “Cassie, it has surely been my pleasure to meet ya. Thank you for giving me a chance to see things from your perspective.” With intentional emphasis, he told her, “I’ve enjoyed everything I’ve seen today immensely.” Everything, including you.