Chapter summary: "I want everything," he says, and his expression is as serious and solemn as I've ever seen it. "And then I want even more."
Acknowledgements: lotus11 is my lovely pre-reader and cheerleader, and BelleBiter is my beta, sounding board and whip-wielder.
A/N: I've listened to Suddenly, Magic and I'm Alive from the Xanadu movie soundtrack numerous times while writing this story.
If that's not your thing, maybe the group Psicodreamics might be—it's ambient music inspired by mythology and fantasy.
At three in the morning on a Sunday, even the Venice Canals in Los Angeles are quiet.
In the back of the house where I live with Alice is my studio. Canvases I have yet to sell sit on the floor against three walls, and in between the floor-to-ceiling windows on the fourth. I've got two tables covered entirely with paint tubes, scattered around glass jars full of enough brushes to share with an art class. And before I switched on the light, the moonlight was casting rays against the canvas of my sunflower—which makes me want to paint a new one exactly like that.
Only there is another, more troublesome kind of want driving me this time.
This room, with its scent of turpentine and musky alchemy of paint, is where I am at home the most when I can forget where I am and what I'm doing; yet, it's also the place where I can be at home the least - when things sometimes don't go so well… and I am all too aware of where I am, and what I'm doing.
Which is the case now, because the subject I'm trying to create is consuming both my awakened and sleeping consciousness. And like most things that obsess my mind, I have to create his likeness to get him the hell out of there.
He touched me.
His likeness is eluding me, though. Each sketch I render is wrong in one way or another. No matter how hard I try, I can't seem to capture the alluring features that cause such turmoil inside of my heart. But maybe that kind of perfection should be impossible to replicate—it would probably just look fake.
Or maybe my mind is just rejecting the idea.
Or maybe my imagination is failing me.
Why do I feel so drawn to him?
It's his eyes that are giving me the most trouble: how he can look both intimidating and sensual, and how he can seem both enigmatic and joyful. What expression do I work to capture for someone with a chameleon's eyes? Every time I try to imagine the way he looked at me, it feels like my insides are being wrung dry, and I can't concentrate.
I'm afraid.
I growl and tear the paper away from the easel, wadding it up furiously. It's impossible, at least right now. I might as well sit in the corner and bang my head against the wall for all the progress I seem to making.
It seems like he is going to continue haunting my dreams until I am finally satisfied with his likeness on the page.
Or until I go crazy.
I think I'm already eighty-percent there.
It's not a bad feeling, exactly, except for the damn confusion. The lies. The omissions.
I would happily go crazy with him if I knew what I needed to know.
I walk over to the window to look out at the back of the house across from me. Their windows are all dark, but there is a gnome squatting and staring out from the edge of their back porch balcony.
Maybe it's on the look-out for would-be burglars. And maybe it's my imagination that the eyes flash violet, or maybe not. I have trouble deciding lately.
My life has never seemed so uncertain or so exciting.
It might even be wonderful for someone less cautious than me.
But I'm tired of being scared, of being careful… of being boring. It's definitely something to consider.
With a sigh, I turn back to my easel and I start sketching the impossible man again. I decide that I'm not going to focus on his eyes this time. No, I'm going to imagine that lovely force field around his body, and I'm going to sketch the idea of it behind every line.
And when I'm done, he's going to leap off of the page.
. . .
"Isabella Marie, have you been up all night again?"
I slow-blink at E's face in front of me. His mouth is closed. He can't be speaking.
Then I notice that the sun is hot and bright against the north wall, which is where Alice is standing with her hands on her hips. She's in shorts and a bright green halter top, and her expression is one of amusement and expectation.
"Oh," I startle and jump a foot. To say I wasn't expecting to see her there is the understatement of my world. I thought I was alone. That it was still night. And, okay, that at first E was the one who might somehow have been speaking to me.
"Oh is right," she says, and walks barefoot into the room. "You look like you've been dragged through a bush backwards. What's up?"
Alice gasps as she steps up beside me and sees the painting I've done.
E is in jeans that are low on his waist, revealing a prominent V.
Oh my god. Did I—
The last I knew, I was just sketching him.
I drop my paintbrush into the nearest jar with numb fingers.
Where on earth did all of this come from?
He's bare chested with a six pack and a light trail of hair that leads my eye down to the button-fly I gave him. One of his arms rests casually at his side, but the other is raised, his palm held up as if to push outwards against the page on which I am painting him.
"So this is what's up. It's him. The Good Myth guy. God, he is gorgeous. You're truly obsessed with him, aren't you?"
I shrug and then nod. Because obviously I am.
"This is sex," she drawls as her gaze sweeps him from head-to-toe. Again. "Can you do the blond guy, too?"
I don't like her looking at him the way she is. It makes me feel bad for painting him like this, like I've somehow stolen something from him. Like we're… objectifying him.
Which we totally are, but I didn't mean for this to happen. Obviously my subconscious is uncontrollably horny.
"I didn't see the blond guy," I tell her. And besides, he's not the one maybe-possibly stalking me. Something I have yet to tell Alice about, once I figure out what he's really doing myself.
"Blond wavy hair, high cheekbones, a wide-shaped mouth," Alice intones, as she describes her own obsession.
"Sorry," I say. "I can only handle one sexy man at a time."
She blinks and steps away from my painting, then looks at me askance when I don't do the same.
"Are you finished for now? Are you hungry? Let's go get some sausage at Jodi Maroni's."
I wince. "You did not just say that."
But I like the idea of getting out of this room and going for a walk. My whole body is stiff and achy, and my head is fuzzy.
Our walk to The Boardwalk is slow and ambling because like almost always in Los Angeles, the sun is shining and it's beautiful. I tip my head back and let the rays kiss my face, and sigh with contentment.
I haven't felt this way in a long time. The feeling of restlessness has been replaced with satisfaction because hours ago, I was doing something that I feel I was born to do: to create. I got lost in my subject, it consumed me wholly, and I remember the magic of it from toe-to-fingertip. Actually, I feel kind of invincible right now.
"You're smiling," Alice says, and I can tell by her voice that she's smiling, too.
"Is that so unusual?"
"It's a bit unusual for you to smile at nothing in particular. You're kind of slow to smile, you know. What's going on with you?"
The Boardwalk is only pleasantly busy in the early morning, and the pathway is wide open ahead. As the breeze kicks up into wind, I see a couple of sea gulls drop and circle as they fight against it. Their cries are like music to my ears.
"I always feel my best when I'm creating."
"Mmmmm," she says suggestively. "And what a creation it is. What are you going to do with it? Are you going to try and sell it?"
She stops abruptly and grabs my arm. "If you sell it, I'll buy it. I want to show it to Tanya. Once she sees him, she might give me more time to locate Good Myth. Elusive Myth," she finishes dryly.
It still bugs her that she hasn't been able to find the group. After hearing about the power and effect Good Myth had on its audience, Alice's boss at Eclipse is outraged at the idea that the group has seemingly slipped through their fingers.
And here is where I should probably confess that the group's lead performer is even closer than Alice thinks. However, he's also absolutely elusive. But that doesn't keep me from looking for him behind every corner we pass.
"I'm not going to sell it," I say, and start walking again. On the right, we pass the It's Sugar store and its colorful windows. Up ahead is Jodi's. My stomach growls as I catch a whiff of food.
"Why not? You'd probably make a good sale."
I shrug. "Feels too private."
She laughs. "You're in love, you dirty girl. You'd probably make a fortune if you painted him in the nude."
I go red at the suggestion.
Jodi Maroni's is a Boardwalk favorite, and there's a couple of people already standing in line at the window. I smell meat sizzling on the grill and hear the faint tune of The Beach Boy's Kokomo playing in the background. It's a perfect meld of scent and sound for the beach.
"I love this place," Alice tells the guy at the window. He's wearing a Dodger's baseball cap and a red apron.
"Whaddaya want?"
Alice tries something new every time we come here. Today, it's the Toulouse Garlic. I always get the same thing because we don't come here often, and whenever we do, I'm always craving my favorite.
I turn red again when I'm faced with my Hot Italian in a roll. I can barely fit it in my mouth.
As soon as I have the thought, I'm choking.
"One bite at a time, Bella," Alice pats my back.
We continue along Ocean Front as we eat our sausage rolls, and I hem and haw on telling her about E.
She'll want to meet him, but I don't even know where to find him. I don't know his last name. I don't know where he lives, and I'm almost certain that he's a stalker. A beautiful, talented one, but a stalker nonetheless.
But what if I don't tell her and she finds out I've been in contact with him? While he's been, um, stalking me?
"You know," I say, and dodge a boy on a roller board, "I think I've seen someone in our neighborhood who looks a bit like Good Myth's lead performer."
"No shit," she exclaims with a mouthful, so it comes out sounding more like nocht. I watch her hurriedly chew and hear her gulp.
"Where? When? Here?"
"Last week. He was jogging along the canal. Right beneath our balcony."
"Get out!"
She steps ahead and turns to walk backwards in front of me. "Well? Was it him or not?"
He knew my name.
He left violet sparks in his wake.
It was definitely him.
"I don't know," I sigh.
And I feel like an idiot. I'm as bad as E.
But what could I tell her?
Oh yeah, it's him, but he's strange and lies and might be a criminal.
"Liar," Alice breathes.
"What?" I gasp.
"I can tell you're lying. You fidgeted and didn't look at me when you answered. Which means it is him," she squeals, and grabs both of my upper arms. "Where is he?"
I groan. "I don't know, Alice. I don't know if it's him, and I don't know where to find him."
"What time was it when you saw him jogging?"
"Um, maybe six-forty-five."
She's aghast. "In the morning?"
"That's right."
"Darn. That means I'm going to have to get up before the rooster crows."
"I don't know if it was him," I say again. Lie again.
"Well, we're going to find out."
"We?"
"Yes, we. You're coming with me."
But I don't run. I sketch. I paint. I might do a sit-up or two on occasion.
"Tomorrow morning, six-thirty, you and I are going running," she says.
"How about we do a fast walk instead?"
"Whatever. As long as we're there when he comes by. I've got to get that group, Bella."
She's acting nuts.
"You haven't found anyone promising lately?" I ask as we turn around at the Poke-Poke place, heading back the way we came.
"Tanya likes the art performer I found—Oh! Hey, Bella! Maybe you should try and learn how to create a picture to the sound of music. That's really popular right now, you know."
"No," I roll my eyes. "I'm not painting a dog face to Ellie Goulding's Anything Could Happen in front of an audience."
"Too bad. Anyway, the art performer is interesting, but it's sex that sells. And that group was sex."
I remember.
"That's why your painting would sell," she adds.
But I'm not selling it. I can't.
I keep my eyes open on our way back to the house, but if E's around, he's keeping out of sight.
. . .
Alice and I go fast-walking on Monday morning. And on Tuesday. And bright and early for the rest of the week.
"Are you sure it was six-forty in the morning?"
"Positive, Alice. I'm not so out of it that I can't tell morning from late afternoon."
She makes a sound of frustration.
But E doesn't turn up again until Saturday night - when, of course, Alice isn't around.
I'm holding my breath while heaving a bag of trash into the bin outside the garage. When I release the cover, there he is, eyes twinkling and smiling widely at me like he's so happy to see me.
"Where have you been?" I ask with a pounding heart.
"Close," he says, and raises his hand to touch my face.
I'm frozen, waiting for the touch, craving it, when a window across the way is slammed down. He blinks, I blink, and then I remember where I am and what I'm supposed to be feeling.
Anger.
"You lied to me again," I say, and it comes out all wrong, like I've got tears clogging my throat. I don't sound angry at all.
"I didn't," he says, and takes a step closer to me. Between us is the smelly garbage bin.
Good. Maybe the stink of it will help me to keep my common sense.
"I told you I lived in the tan house," he says in his silky tone of voice. "I just didn't tell you which one."
He seems both apologetic and amused, and I feel my back stiffen in outrage.
"And I told you I didn't want to be played with," I grate and look away from his green, green eyes. "Nothing's changed. What do you want from me, E?"
My skin tingles where he touches it; his fingers wrap around my wrist and pull me to the side and several steps away from the bin. There goes my common sense, I think, as my gaze drops to where he's touching me.
His fingers tip my chin up to look at him. And his eyes, which were just green a moment ago, now flash gold.
"I want everything," he says, and his expression is as serious and solemn as I've ever seen it. "And then I want even more."
I gulp. He what?
"I want your sense of adventure to meet mine. I want your courage, your passion, your joy, and your love. I want to help you transform your life, Bella."
I stare at him with a knit brow. "Are you a self-help coach or something?"
His eyes smile at me. "In a sense, I guess."
I pull my arm away from him. "I don't need any help, thank you."
He pursues me to the foot of the stairs. "Don't you?"
"Not from you," I say and whirl on him. "I don't know who you think you are—a singer, an artist, or self-help coach—but to me you're just a beautiful liar! And you can't play with me like you have been."
Because it hurts. I like you too much.
And I shouldn't.
"I want to give you the moon and the stars, Bella. You deserve them."
"People don't always get what they deserve," I say.
How can he sound and look so sincere?
"They do when I have a say," he responds.
"What say do you have?" I scoff. I try to look away from him, but I can't. His eyes seem to hold mine.
"I'm here for you. I know you feel it, even if you don't believe it."
"But why? Because I deserve it?"
"You need a little inspiration. That's where I come in."
"You inspire me to anger," I bite out, and there are tears in my eyes. Dammit!
"I also inspire you to feel. To want to love. And to paint, do I not?"
"I painted you," I tell him, and watch his eyes fly open in surprise. "But I think I'll have to destroy it because I can't have you consuming my time and thoughts like you have. It's not healthy."
Now I think there are tears in his eyes. But that can't be.
"You can't forget me," he murmurs. "Not any more than I can forget you. Don't you see? We're attracted to each other. And because we are, you felt the need to paint."
I shake my head, but he's not through speaking.
"Don't turn away, Bella. This is how it works. Love and beauty inspire creation. Feelings inspire creation."
"You confuse me," I whisper fiercely.
"I make you feel," he says. "In order to create, you have to have powerful feelings… and you haven't for so long."
I am unable to hide the lance of pain his words cause. Stupid, really. He's a stranger, and an unreliable one, but he seems to know me better than I do myself.
He steps close to me in the heavy silence, and his fingers are warm and soft against my cheek.
"Don't be afraid."
I look up at him in disbelief.
"I'll do everything in my power to help you succeed," he murmurs.
His eyelashes are creating shadows against his cheekbones, and he's wistfully beautiful. Dangerously so.
My stomach is in knots, and my fingernails are biting into the palms of my hands. "Can't you tell me who you really are?"
He bends forward and brushes his lips against my cheek. I gasp and turn my mouth to his, but he's backed away.
"I hail from the highest mountain in Greece, otherwise known as Mt. Olympus." He pauses and gives me a look that singes me from the inside out with its power, then he bows to me.
"I am the Muse of Dance, Bella."