Chapter Eight

Marty knocked on the door to the pool house and waited for Ryan to open it. She saw a beat of something in his eyes that made her stomach do a very pleasant flip before the wall went up in his gaze. She bit back a sigh of frustration. The line was there between them and he was not going to cross it.

"Hey," he said, his voice wary, as if she expected him to jump him any second now.

Really. She liked to think she had more tact and pride than that. Though no one had really tested them before Ryan Atwood.

She motioned to the grey bin she held. "I came to clear out my art and paints and stuff. Give you some more room. I'm not sure you'll be able to get the turpentine smell out completely though. Sorry about that."

"Oh. Uh, sure. Why?" Ryan asked moving back and taking the bin from her.

"Well, I'm setting up a studio in the garage since your-"

"You don't have to do that. I mean, I'm not taking your studio away from you. We can work something out, right?"

"No Ryan, really. They'll be too much mess and the smell. This is your place now." Marty reminded him.

"Come on, it's not like its permanent. Soon as I get my own place-"

"What do you suggest, Ryan? We split a line down the middle of the room?" Marty asked, rolling her eyes. "It'll just be easier if I take my stuff out and move it to the garage," She grabbed the bin back and started throwing her brushes inside.

She stopped when she noticed the picture she had drawn for him was back up on the wall next the drawings of the rest of her family. A lump formed in her throat. He followed her gaze, but said nothing, just looked away as if embarrassed and quickly grabbed her bin back.

"Don't be stupid. You can come in and paint whenever you want. I'd kinda like to see how you do it, if you wouldn't mind. I'm just gonna use the place to sleep anyway."

"No, don't do that." Marty grabbed the bin and turned away from him so he couldn't grab it again. She gently placed a few small cans of paint inside. "We said you could stay here. This is your home now."

"Whoa, hang on. No. It's really not," Ryan insisted, his eyes almost panicked. "I'm getting a job and finding my own place. I'm not freeloading off your folks, Marty."

"Oh!" Marty waved his statement away and blew a raspberry at him. She grabbed for another jar but Ryan reached for the bin, stopping her.

"Seriously. You can keep your stuff here. We can just work out a schedule or-"

"Ryan, really. I don't want you to have to-"

"No it's no-"

Plop!

With all the jostling of the bin between them, a can of yellow paint slipped over the rim and landed with a dull thud on the carpet, sending a healthy splash of paint up against Ryan's black jeans.

Marty gasped and quickly set the bin down. "Oh no. Dammit. She rushed to pull out one of the rags in her bin along with the dishwashing detergent she kept quick spills. The water can she used was out of water so when she got on her knees to try and rub the stain out, she could only do a half ass job. The paint had splattered enthusiastically up to just near his upper thigh.

"Uh, Marty. It's okay. You don't have-I mean. I got it. It's all right." Ryan leaned down stop her but Marty felt guilty as hell so she pushed his hands away.

"Crap, it's not gonna get it all out. You're gonna have to get these in the wash quick." Then without thinking, she started unbuttoning the top of his jeans.

"Marty, you can't-" Ryan protested, his voice hoarse and Marty suddenly realized why. She blinked at the more pronounced part of his anatomy that was about five inches away from her nose.

She looked up at him in surprise. She didn't think she could duplicate that particular shade of red on his face with her paints if she tried.

She shouldn't smile, but Marty couldn't help it.

He looked down at her and his embarrassment grew, if the flush of his face was any indication.

"Margaret Rachel Cohen!" her mother's voice snapped through the room like a very angry elastic band in the back of Marty's head.

Marty looked over at her mom in confusion over why her mom sounded so pissed until Marty remembered she was on her knees, a mere hand's width away from Ryan's crotch. "Oh!"

She scrambled to her feet. Ryan reached down and gripped her arms to help her, sending a delicious shiver of lightening through her. But that would have to be enjoyed in her mind later. Getting middle named was never good. "I…he…paint…just…pants," Marty rambled, wondering if her face was quite matched Ryan's shade yet.

Probably not as his face seemed to be getting darker.

"Get in the house. Now." Kirsten ordered speaking to her daughter, though her eyes remained on Ryan as if she wanted to castrate him. With no anaesthesia.

"Mommy, you have a dirty mind and I resent that you'd think that I-" Marty thought it a stronger position to stand on if she took the offensive. Her dad told her, the best defence was a good offence.

"Inside," Kirsten repeated.

"Don't get mad at Ryan, please. We really weren't-"

Kirsten pointed a finger sharply towards the house. Marty took her time walking back into the house, looking back over her shoulder constantly to see if her mother was tearing Ryan a new one.