Explicit

by Ava Harrison

  Linc.

  His face.

  His body convulsing.

  Him talking to the man in the corner.

  Dark eyes, the color of death. They look up and catch me watching. They gleam wicked, a smirk on his face.

  Dark eyes . . .

  I wake, but the haze of the nightmare lingers.

  Another day. Another night where I know sleep won’t come. How could it? My eyes won’t even close. They know if they do I’ll be plagued with visions.

  Why won’t they go away?

  Why can’t I make them stop?

  I can’t take this anymore.

  It needs to stop.

  Sleepless nights and endless torment.

  I need to refuel.

  I need to sleep.

  I can’t.

  The dark of the night haunts me.

  The fear of insomnia is my constant companion.

  In the middle of the night, without a word, I kiss her on her cheek and leave. As the memories dance in my vision, it feels like ice fills my blood. It blossoms in my chest. Suffocating me. Making it hard to breathe. I need to expel this broken feeling inside me, so I do, the only way I know how.

  I paint.

  I lift up my paintbrush and pour all that is in me onto the canvas. It feels like every nerve ending inside me is snapping. Like shattered glass. The shards tear me apart, ripping me up, severing me completely.

  By the time the light ebbs into the room, signifying that the night has passed, I ache. Everything inside me aches, and my vision is spotty from the lack of sleep. But tonight, a painting stares back at me that’s different from the rest of the series of paintings I’ve been making.

  Today, looking back at me are dark eyes. Eyes so black they remind me of obsidian. They stare at me, causing a chill to run up my spine. They’re all that I remember from that night.

  Something that tastes like copper floods my mouth.

  Blood.

  With quick steps, I head to the bathroom and open my mouth. Without realizing it, I’d bitten my inner cheek. Still staring in the mirror, I hear the buzzer ring.

  Who could be here?

  My hand hits the intercom. “Mr. Lancaster, Lindsey Walker is here, sir.”

  “Send her up.”

  I open the door wide. Dark circles and disheveled hair show me she’s worried. She bites her lip, concern evident on her face.

  “You left.” She chews on her bottom lip.

  “I had to,” I respond as I rake my hand through my hair.

  She steps past me and starts toward my bedroom and I follow her. Once inside, she sits on my bed and looks up at me. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No.”

  To that, she nods and then shakes her head. “I think you should speak to someone. You need to forgive yourself. These nightmares. This not sleeping. It’s killing you.”

  “I don’t think I can.”

  “You can.” She smiles with assurance, and for the first time in the last week, I allow myself to believe it.

  “Okay.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  I shrug.

  “Let me hold you.”

  “I’m not one of your boys.”

  She gives me a soft smile. “Aren’t you though? Come here.”

  I move closer and place my head on her chest. Slowly she runs her fingers through my hair lulling me to bed. Taking care of me. Giving me what I need.

  I listen to her breathe, calm, the even cadences of each inhale and exhale. It doesn’t take long, but eventually, the corded muscles in my body relax.

  And sleep finally comes.

  “Thanks for last night.”

  I kiss her slowly. I kiss her passionately. I tell her with a million unspoken words and with the swipe of my tongue how I feel about her, about what she means to me.

  She tells me back.

  We pour everything that we have into each other.

  We strip off our clothes and she lets me love her the only way I know how.

  The next day I have an appointment with a Dr. Montgomery. Apparently, he is affiliated with the hospital and his specialty is grief. I don’t know what will come of this. Maybe nothing. But if I can move forward . . .

  Surprisingly, last night was the first time I slept the whole night since Linc died. As if the idea of finally voicing my thoughts and feeling today had calmed me.

  I walk through the door to his office, my gaze skating across the reception space in front of me. It’s surprisingly warm and inviting, with artwork and comfy chairs set up in an intimate fashion. In the corner of the room is a mahogany desk with an older woman sitting behind it. The whole set up is in complete contrast to the front facade of the intimidating skyscraper this office is located in.

  “I have an appointment with Dr. Montgomery.”

  “Please have a seat, and the doctor will be right out,” she responds with a warm smile.

  I’m staring at my phone when I hear my name being called. I look up and am met with a man who appears older than me, I’d say mid-thirties and wearing a crisp navy suit. My breathing becomes ragged as I cross the room and follow him down the hall and into what must be his office.

  “If you want, you can sit on the couch, or the chair?”

  I choose the couch. It’s red and velvet and looks inviting. Dr. Montgomery takes a seat across the coffee table and then leans forward.

  “So, Pierce, what’s going on?”

  “I can’t sleep.”

  “Can’t sleep? Or don’t want to sleep?”

  “Both.”

  He nods. “I’ve worked with many patients who have suffered through nightmares. Often, I’ve found there is a catalyst. Has something happened?”

  “My friend died and I’m having nightmares,” I blurt out, my back muscles loosening a fraction, just from unloading this onto him.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. This all must be very hard on you.” His voice is calm and reassuring. Telling me without words that I can trust him, and I do.

  “It is, but it’s the nights that are killing me. I can’t sleep. I can’t close my eyes. I just can’t.” My hands run through my hair, frustrated, tired.

  “Tell me what you dream?”

  “The nightmare is always the same.”

  He picks up a pen and scribbles on his notepad.

  “I see him leaning forward. I see him taking the line, I see him dying. Over and over again. I see the eyes. Dark black eyes. I want to stop him. Tell him to not buy the drugs, not for me. It’s my fault.”

  “It’s only natural to feel responsible.”

  “He bought them for me. It’s because of me that he’s dead. I killed my friend.”

  “It is not your fault.” He lets his words soak in. “You are not responsible for any one’s behavior, only your own. You need to forgive yourself.”

  “How do I do that?” I mumble.

  “Only you can answer that. But I think the first step is recognition.”

  “I have so many regrets, I’m drowning in them. If . . . if I had just done the line myself . . . If I didn’t call him to go out.”

  “You can’t say ‘if,’ you don’t know what would have happened, Pierce. You need to move forward. Forgive yourself.”

  Over the next few weeks, I do what I do best. I throw myself into painting. I throw myself into organizing the run. I throw myself into everything so I don’t think.

  The only time I allow myself to think of what I lost, of what almost was my fate, is at night. Alone, with my brushes. That’s when I bleed.

  I bleed my soul into my work.

  There’s only a few days before the run, and I dread the phone call I have to make. I don’t necessarily have to invite Spencer to the run, but this is for Lindsey and having him there means more money for the kids. There is also a place inside me, that I don’t like to admit, wants him there to see me run. To see the work I did to help set this up. I hit send and before I can answer he speaks.

  “I’m s
orry about your friend. Olivia spoke to Lindsey and she told me your friend died of a drug overdose.” His words level me. I’m speechless. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through. I can’t say I’m not surprised though—”

  “Are you serious right now?” I snarl into the phone, not able to control my rage from what I’m hearing. I’m a live wire that’s just been lit, ready to explode. “My goddamn friend is dead and all you can say is you’re not surprised.”

  “Pierce, calm down. I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “Oh, and how exactly did you mean it?”

  “I just think that maybe seeing this, acting like this will open your eyes to the way you’ve been acting.”

  “Oh, that’s fucking rich.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I’m pretty sure you know exactly what I mean.”

  “I don’t think I do.”

  “Your fiancée. Or did you forget?”

  “Stop right there before you say something that you can’t take back. Olivia made her mistakes, but she strives to be better.” Unlike you. That’s what he’s really saying and I’ve had enough.

  “That’s the sad part. You, up there on your pedestal, you have no idea what us mere mortals do.”

  “I know you still don’t have a plan,” he huffs.

  My fists clench, turning white as my nails bite into the skin of my palm.

  “I’m done.” I inhale a sharp breath. “You want to see the worst in me . . . then fine.” I exhale.

  “I want you to grow up and succeed.”

  “There’s no talking to you.”

  I hang up.

  He doesn’t call me back.

  That’s when I realize I never asked him to come.

  Doesn’t matter anyway, he wouldn’t have.

  Not worth his precious time.

  The thought is sour in my stomach. There was a time before, where I might have reached for the bottle. But that’s the thing I have changed.

  That was the one thing that Spencer is right about, watching my friend die was the rude awakening I needed.

  Ironic that Spencer is too blind or stubborn to know that.

  I stalk out of my studio. I can’t let him get to me. Dr. Montgomery said I need to focus on my catalyst and redirect.

  Find what makes me happy, painting and Lindsey.

  Creating.

  So I decide to let her in. She’s been asking me about my process. Showing her is exactly what I need now to make me happy. With the fun run in two days, I can’t be like this. The nightmares are better. Almost completely gone. I’m coming to terms with my roles and what was out of my hands. I’ve come too far in this month to allow Spencer to bring me down.

  “Get your sneakers on. We’re going for a walk,” I say, giving no additional information.

  Lindsey’s brow rises, but she doesn’t fight me, and that’s what I like. She doesn’t ask any questions. She doesn’t need to know what we’re doing and if it’s something she wants. She trusts me. And she’s always willing to try something new. There’s something so incredibly real about her.

  Based on my experiences—and hers as well—I’d expect her to be like every other girl from my past: shallow, self-centered, and whiny. All the things I’m accustomed to from my history with girls. Lindsey used to be one of them, but she’s nothing like that now.

  She’s down to earth, caring, and so willing to jump right in—even if it sounds like work—and have fun. Her perseverance and determination—despite the setbacks from her accident—are incredible. Lindsey isn’t the person I always thought she was.

  It’s easy to get sucked into the party lifestyle, especially when you have more money than you know what to do with it, but it’s so much harder to get out of it. Painting has always helped me from not falling into the total abyss of addiction. When life gets to be too much, I take a step back and see the broken people around me. Others have it so much worse than I do. That helps me to channel the anger and apply it to something else—something beautiful.

  “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” Lindsey asks, looking out the window.

  “Nope. It’s a surprise.”

  The truth is, it’s nothing big. She might very well be disappointed, but this is my life, the one I hide from everyone else, and I want to let her in. I’ve never been more inspired in my life, and right now I want her to see a glimpse of my world.

  Before I paint I like to find inspiration and the best way to do it is to observe the city.

  Observing is my process. Nothing is better than watching an onlooker’s reaction to the different intricacies of the city. A tourist taking in the many homeless men, women, and children during what I’d imagine is their first visit to the city. Their responses ranging from disgust to sadness are so raw. It’s in those moments I find inspiration. And New York is full of interesting people with stories I can only dream up. I watch the homeless, listen to the conversations of desperate housewives and bored husbands, and every time, something comes from it. If I’m being honest, it helps me to see I’m not the only broken person in this big world.

  Our first stop is going to be to the Bethesda Fountain. There’s always such a mix of cultural and socioeconomic people there. I wonder what Lindsey’s reaction will be. Surely, she’s been there before. Will she be underwhelmed?

  “Pierce? Did you hear me?”

  My head turns to her. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  Her eyes widen, and a smile graces her lips. “You seem excited. Will you tell me what we’re doing?”

  Since we’re almost there, I don’t see a reason to hide it from her anymore. I stop in my tracks, looking at her and rocking back and forth on my feet. “I want to show you my process for painting.”

  Her eyes widen marginally. “You do?”

  She seems surprised by this. I’m very private about my painting and she knows this, but if I wanted to share it with anyone, she has to know it would be her.

  I nod. “I wanna share this with you for all the support you’ve shown me.”

  A smile spreads across her face. “Tell me everything,” she says, grabbing my hand and walking us forward. There’s a skip to her step that wasn’t there before. She’s excited, which only makes me more excited.

  “Typically, I just walk and never know where I’m going to end up. There are so many places in this city to find inspiration, but today, we’re going to go to the Bethesda Fountain. It’s one of my favorite places.”

  Moments later we’re standing in front of the fountain. I’ve seen it a million times, so my focus is entirely on Lindsey. Tingles work their way down my spine as I watch her eyes widen and her mouth hang slack. Surely Lindsay Walker can’t be in awe of such a mundane thing. I pull out my small sketchpad and begin to capture her in this moment, hoping she doesn’t turn away, because I want to remember this second forever.

  “For all the years I’ve lived in the city and walked by this fountain, I’ve never once stopped,” she admits without looking away. “It’s beautiful.”

  She’s beautiful.

  Her reaction is more than I could have ever hoped for. Someone with the world at her fingertips would typically turn their nose up to the fountain. She doesn’t. It doesn’t matter how much she had growing up. She can still appreciate something beautiful.

  We spend the next half hour sitting on the fountain ledge and watching people as they pass by us. Smartly dressed men and women walk hastily to what I imagine are their high-paying jobs. The man in front of me stops to check his watch. From this angle, it looks like an Audemars Piguet—expensive. I bet he works on Wall Street, making deals on the daily, and at night he goes home to his overdone wife, riddled with plastic surgery and long, painted nails. They fight, he leaves and heads to his mistress. The man checks his phone and a smile graces his lips. Yep, it’s his mistress.

  This is what I like about the city. These people can be whoever I want them to be.

  “Look,” Lindsey says, poking me in the sid
e. A carriage drives by and a man and woman sit snuggly inside, looking cozy and in love.

  I look at her with a raised brow. “You’ve never been on a carriage ride?” Not that I have. In fact, I’ve done very little touristy things within my own city.

  “No,” she says. “When would I have done that?”

  When you live in the city, things that tourists enjoy are things we take for granted. I don’t want to do that anymore. I want to enjoy life and everything it has to offer. I’ve seen the inside of just about every club in this city, but now I want to enjoy more.

  “Let’s go,” I say, pulling her up and toward the horse-drawn carriage. Once sitting, we make our way along the park. We tour the city pretending we’re tourists, allowing him to point out different architecture and places of relevance. A lot of it is unknown to me, and I internally mark the places I want to explore myself. I have no doubt they will all provide loads of inspiration.

  Lindsey leans into my side, placing a kiss on my neck. “Thank you,” she says. “I like this.”

  I do too. There’s something so normal about this. Something right. When we’re done, we head back to the fountain for one last look.

  “Excuse me, miss, will you take our picture?” a woman asks Lindsey.

  She smiles, taking the phone from the woman and helping to line up the group. Every one of them smiles widely, clearly enjoying their time in New York. When she’s done, she hands the phone back and comes to stand next to me.

  “What next?” she asks.

  “We can check out another place. I have a ton of them all over this city.”

  “What if we found a new place?” she suggests.

  “That’s even better.”

  She goes to turn around, but her foot snags on a raised portion of the base of the structure. Her eyes widen as she stumbles backward. My hand shoots out to grab her, but I’m too late. Water splashes all around her. People stop to point and stare. I want to push them all away, shield her from embarrassment. I’m waiting for her to begin crying or yelling or anything but what she does next. She throws her head back and laughs with abandon. She stays rooted in the cold water, laughing with not a care in the world. I join her. The scene is so ridiculous.