Chapter summary: He makes me feel more wondrously alive than anyone else ever has before.
Acknowledgements: BelleBiter is my beta and sounding board, and so much more. This story wouldn't be what it is without her. lotus11 and SunflowerFran are my pre-readers.
A/N: There's some sexy-looking Latin in this chapter, all thanks to BelleBiter.
My stomach is full of knots as I follow E up the sidewalk to the brown and tan-colored house where he lives. Just as he said, it's the last one on the street. A low, black wrought iron fence surrounds the lush yard, which looks as though someone routinely over-waters in spite of California's drought. There's a swing on the front porch, with potted plants and a welcome wreath on the front of the door.
It looks like a family's home.
Even though it felt like he was light years away from me both mentally and physically, now I realize that he's been right down the street from me. And he has been, all along.
I don't know how I feel about that; I'm confused, maybe a bit angry. But I'm also relieved and kind of glad, because it turns out that he's within reach. Now I know where I can find him.
One of the knots in my stomach eases.
We don't take the steps up to the front porch, though. He veers to the right, following red pavers set into the ground to the side of the house, where he stops in front of a weather-beaten, window-paned door. A dead, forlorn-looking potted plant sits just to the left.
So he doesn't have a green thumb. Apparently, he's not good at everything.
He turns and flashes me a sheepish smile. "This is me."
But before he opens the door, he pauses and murmurs something too low for me to understand.
And I have to smile, because I'm sure he didn't expect to bring me back here today. Did he leave his place a mess?
"I don't care what it looks like," I say. "I just care that it's yours."
I meant to reassure him, but his back goes stiff – like I've said something wrong – before he slowly, visibly exhales. It makes me want to step closer to him so I can feel his heat, so I can feel the muscles under his skin. His words don't give much away, but his body language is easy enough to read.
What on earth did I say to make him go tense like that?
But then the door is open, and he's urging me inside with a gentle smile. Wrapping my arms around my waist, I step inside. It's cool and dark until we reach the living room – which I see is also his dining room and bedroom.
My stomach drops.
I try to avoid looking at any one thing in particular, while simultaneously trying to take it all in. It's a sparsely decorated studio with white-washed walls and gray tiled floor. There are no wall hangings, no candles, no homey rugs on the floor. It doesn't even look lived in. The windows are high, hiding any outside view, hiding the sun. I don't even see a stove.
And suddenly, my heart jumps into my throat, and I have to blink back my tears.
He's… so incredibly talented. He could be making thousands of dollars a night if he and his group signed with Eclipse… and he's living in someone's spare utility room?
"You live here?" I ask in a voice I barely recognize as my own.
His eyes scold me playfully. "I don't need much, Bella. Especially here in Los Angeles. The beach is just down the street."
My heart feels painfully big in my chest as I look at him. The smile on my mouth trembles, and I have to swallow back the tears again.
I want to hug him. Just hug him.
As we stare at each other, I see him take an unsteady breath before he shrugs helplessly at me. Then he takes a step towards me and stops, brows furrowed, looking uncertain… and almost even scared.
Wanting to touch him feels like a physical ache.
Hesitantly, I take a step closer. "Come with me back to my place. Let me cook you dinner," I say.
"Dinner?" he croaks.
I reach for his hands. Warm, big, they encase mine firmly.
"Whatever you want," I say.
"Peanut butter and jelly?"
I laugh, and his eyes crinkle. "Something better than peanut butter and jelly. How about a juicy steak, baked potatoes and corn on the cob?"
"Yes?" he breathes.
I pull him to me and he comes readily, wrapping his arms around my waist and laying his face against my shoulder. My entire body is a sigh against his. It's an exhilarating relief, and I hold on to him as my head and heart spin.
"You deserve the best," I murmur. "Especially after today. You helped me sell two paintings. It usually takes me months to sell anything."
After a few moments, we pull apart slowly.
"That was nice," he says. His eyes are sleepy looking pools of green that jump-start my pulse. "You may do that any time you like."
I am so his.
We trade soft smiles, and I gently begin swinging our joined hands to and fro. "It's a deal."
. . .
Watching E eat is a sensual experience in itself, because he takes it all in with every fiber of his being. He hums as he chews, his beautiful eyes wide and glowing in amazement as he swallows. His eyes continually dart between his plate and my face, as if he can't decide where to look.
Of course, looking the way he does, he could probably arouse me just by brushing his teeth.
"Try a sip of your wine," I tell him.
Bringing the glass to his nose, he inhales. Right after he takes a sip, his face goes blank… and then his expression morphs into delight, and I can't contain my laughter anymore.
"This is all so good," he says.
I'm not the best or the most patient of cooks, but I'd definitely wine and dine him every day just to see his kind of enjoyment. He makes me feel like I can do no wrong. He makes me feel accomplished and beautiful, homey and appreciated.
He makes me feel more wondrously alivethan anyone else ever has before.
Which also makes me feel both terrified and excited.
The sun is steadily crawling across my rust and brown-colored medallion rug in the living room, showering the edge of the table we're eating on with golden rays. I watch it languorously linger before it glides up E's arm, his shoulder, and along the side of his face, until he's completely bathed in it and looking like an angel come to life under its light.
I should get up and go draw the curtains, but find I am rooted to the spot.
"E?"
In the midst of raising the glass of wine to his mouth, he halts and gives me his undivided attention.
"Yes?"
"Who are you?"
He takes another slow sip of wine, then deliberately cuts and forks another bite of steak. His eyes, when he peeks up at me, are bright and intense. Then they dart to my hands, which are wringing together on top of the table.
"I just… I don't feel as if I know you very well, that's all," I add. "And I want to. Know you, that is."
I flush as I realize how suggestive my last words sound, and my gaze drops to his mouth. With that strong, chiseled jaw of his, even chewing looks sexy on him.
"What do you want to know?" he asks lowly, and I see his own gaze drop to my mouth.
It's suddenly hard to breathe.
"Everything," I say. "I want to know your full name, where you grew up, what kind of a kid you were, your least favorite thing to do, who your parents are, if you ever had a pet... just everything."
And… do you like me the way I like you?
The sunlight fades, and I see a storm gather in his eyes before he looks away. I suddenly remember how he dislikes direct questions. How he ducks them.
"Please. Aren't you tired of hiding from me?"
He fingers the stem of his wine glass while giving me an intense look that shoots a jolt through my body. Those eyes of his are powerful; they're shimmering and carefree one moment, then inscrutably dark the next. I feel like I'm always reeling from the way he gazes at me.
"I'll answer a question for every question you answer," he murmurs. "And I get to go first."
My fork clanks louder than I meant it to against my plate, and I cross my arms. "Why do you get to go first?"
His mouth curves into a delicious grin. "Because this is my idea."
"Drink some more wine," I say. "You need to loosen up a little."
He drains the glass. "I can't get drunk," he tells me, as I pour him a refill.
"Really? Why not?"
"Is that a question?"
"Is that?" I parry.
He laughs gently, then pops another bite of steak into his mouth. As he chews, he studies me, until my foot begins to twitch uncontrollably under the table. I feel the worst urge to glance away, but am unable to do so because somehow, he is commanding my gaze.
"Are you ready?" he asks, and his voice is as soft as a caress. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was trying to seduce me.
I have to swallow before I can respond. "Is that your question?"
"You're quick, I'll give you that," he says. For a moment, I think he looks almost regretful. "Alright. If you could bring anyone back to life, who would it be and why?"
Mom.
My breath catches in my throat, because I didn't mean to think of that. And because his gaze is both sharp and soft, and because he knows exactly what he's doing.
He's trying to knock me off kilter so I won't ask my own questions.
Uncrossing my arms, I take a couple sips of wine to help alleviate the tightness in my throat. Then I have a couple more for courage.
"You don't pull any punches," I say with a sigh. "Fine." And my gaze drops to my plate. I've barely eaten anything, and the wine is warm and singing in my blood.
"I'd bring my mom back because she died too young. Once she found out she had leukemia, it was like all the life went out of her in that moment."
Thin as a rail, broken-hearted face, soulless eyes. No longer my mom. No longer much of anyone. Just a shell. Just sallow skin pulled tight across jutting bones.
"She accepted it as a death sentence, and she… just gave up. So… I'd want… I'd want to give her another chance."
He's kneeling on the floor beside me, gently taking my cold hand in his.
"I'm so sorry, Bella," he says, and the tender look on his face reaches inside me and squeezes my heart.
But I don't know what he's doing down there. "I'm okay."
Then he's pulling me out of the chair and into his arms, and these weird sounds are coming from deep inside me. They rip up from my chest and through my throat, and they won't stop.
"Th-This wasn't supposed to happen," I stutter-gasp. His arms are hard and tight around me, and just what I need, even though I didn't know I needed him to hug me. Or, that I needed to talk about or cry about Mom. She was supposed to be part of my past. And this pain? I thought I'd dealt with it years ago, but here it is, tearing me the hell apart again.
His hand comes up to cradle the back of my head, and he's rocking us back and forth.
"Please," I choke against his neck. The word comes out just as uncontrollably as the other sounds I'm making. I wish the awful sobs would stop, they're embarrassing me. But at the same time, I don't want him to let me go. My fingers are wound tightly into the fabric of his shirt.
I don't know how long I'm a mess in his arms, but when I finally get control over myself, I'm weak with relief. He's whispering a steady stream of words I don't understand in my ear, still rocking me.
"Curae leves loquuntur, sed ingentes stupent. Memento creare atque vivere. Vos es non unis. Ego sum hic, mea Bella, ego sum hic."
The sound of his warm, silken voice is heaven.
I'm melting.
I have to blow my nose.
I sigh and release him reluctantly, and his hands slide down my arms in a slow caress. His face is all beautiful, tender sympathy, and seeing it tightens my throat again. So I push to my feet and run for the bathroom, where I snuff into a Kleenex and splash my face with water. My eyes are red-rimmed and the tip of my nose is pink. I look awful, but I somehow feel lighter.
He's waiting for me outside the door, tall and reassuring. My heart leaps.
"I'm okay now," I tell him, as his hands come to rest on my shoulders. "Really. And I'm sorry about that, but I think you did that on purpose."
Gentle regret washes over his expression. One of his fingers brushes my cheek softly. "I did. And I'm sorry, too, but I needed to hear about your mother. You needed to tell me."
How did he know that? I didn't even know it. Sometimes, his perception really scares me.
I take a shaky breath. "And now it's your turn to tell me about your mother."
"Fair enough."
He takes my hand and leads me to the couch, where he tugs me down to sit against his side. Since he pulled me sobbing into his arms, he hasn't seemed to want to let go of me. I'm more than okay with that, and snuggle against his warmth with a newly shy smile on my face that I am helpless to erase.
"So. My mother." As he talks, his fingers caress the bare skin on my arm. "If I wanted to find her as a child, I'd just follow the trail of dirt through the house."
I laugh. "What?"
"She spent most of her time—still does, in fact—in the gardens. She was always pulling roots from one pot and squashing them into another. My father calls her a grubby little urchin," he says, and chuckles. "But nothing ever gets past her. She rules the household. Him, too."
For long moments, I daydream about a woman in a garden surrounded by roses, chrysanthemums and daisies, as she pats the earth down around their stems. There's a little copper-haired boy beside her getting ready to drop a worm down the back of her neck.
I giggle and tighten my fingers around his forearm. "She sounds lovely. What kind of a boy were you?"
He gives me a look and taps me on the nose. "Obedient. But very rambunctious and prone to using my status as the youngest to get my way. What kind of a little girl were you?"
I can't look away from his eyes again.
"Shy. Always had a sketchpad in my lap. I used to draw the friends I wished I had. There was Penny the pig, Roxy the hamster, and Stuart the owl. Penny was the brave one, Roxy could run and hide, and Stuart, since he was an owl, was the smart one. He helped me with my spelling."
The tip of his nose brushes against my cheek. "And Bella? Which was she?"
I watch goosebumps rise all along my arm and fight the urge to shiver. If he's not aware of how close we are, or what he's doing, I don't want to remind him.
"Just plain Bella," I say. "Mom used to braid my hair in the morning because otherwise it would just be in my face and get dirty. I was always in the woods behind our house, looking for a real-life Stuart or a Roxy."
"She was a good mom to you?"
I nod. "She was the best. Until…"
Until the day she just couldn't get out of bed because she was too tired. That's when Dad took her to the doctor and they found out she had leukemia. I was ten years old when our positions kind of reversed, and I took over caring for Mom during the summer months. I did the laundry, made the meals, and held her when she got sick and cried.
And Dad held me.
I tried to hold him back, but I knew even then that it wasn't the same for him. His wife was still alive, but she was already gone, and his little girl had to be the brave one.
"You're beautiful and strong," E says. "You can do anything. You believe that, don't you, Bella?"
It's hard for me to accept compliments, and I want to look away from him, but he doesn't allow me to. His hand reaches out to tilt my chin up, and those eyes of his, they're dark and fierce now.
I turn red and swallow. "Sometimes," I say.
"Would you do something for me?"
His fingers are dangerously close to my mouth. Mere inches separate us. Is he going to kiss me?
Please kiss me.
"Bella?"
"Yes?"
"If I asked you to draw your mother's spirit, would you?"
I blink.
He's not going to kiss me.
"What?"
"When you remember the best of your mother, what colors do you see in your mind?"
"I… I don't know."
His fingers leave my skin and my face lurches an inch forward before I catch myself.
"Think about her. Okay? I want to see her spirit as you see it. I want you to paint it."
I'm this side of disappointed and taken aback. He wants me to paint my mom's spirit? Nobody's ever asked such a thing of me before.
"You want me to paint her spirit?"
Seeing my hurt and confusion, he brings both hands to frame my face. "Yes. I want you to paint your mother's spirit. For me."
"Okay," I breathe shakily. "Will you please kiss me now?"
His eyes crinkle with laughter, and he brings his face closer to mine, until his warm lips touch my cheek. A tingle of awareness shoots through my body, even though his lips aren't exactly where I'd hoped they'd be.
"Paint me the picture," he whispers. "And I'll kiss you."
Blackmail.
I exhale in disappointment, and he brings me close in a hug. Sagging against him, I breathe him in. He's all sunshine and clouds and stars.
What a day of ups and downs this has been. My body feels like it's been strapped to a roulette wheel and spun round and round. I'm still not exactly sure which way I'm facing yet.
Shortly thereafter, he leaves, but not before touching all exposed areas of my skin. My arms, my hands, my face. He even brushes his thumb against the pulse in my neck.
He's driving me insane.
. . .
I'm out on the balcony late Sunday afternoon, during the time of day when everything is showered with a dusty, golden cast. Teardrop by Massive Attack is playing on my iPhone when the colors and shapes suddenly burst into my mind. They hit so suddenly that I drop my cup of coffee at my feet.
The beginning heartbeats of the song are rings of pink that gradually grow darker and wider as the beats go on. When the singer begins, I see a sunburst of texturized aquamarine against midnight. Smaller beats of silver, white and lime land with little pings on the sheet in my head. There is a flame behind long teardrops on fire, dripping their colors, leaving shimmering arcs of pale silver-blue behind.
Then it all disappears in the dark, just like the singer says. The edges of my sheet turn black, slowly encroaching on the colors in a reverse blast.
It's Mom. Shining so bright, so on fire with life until the black fear came and turned everything dark.
And I stand from where I'm sitting, suddenly galvanized to capture it all.
. . .
I paint the canvas black. It's going to be the first color, not the last.
Never the last again.
Because it is my choice.
Translation of what E said to Bella:
"Slight griefs talk, but great ones are speechless. Remember that you have to create and to live. You are not alone. I am here, my Bella, I am here."