Lace and Paint (True Colors Book 1) Page 5

  I have to admit that the only interesting thing about football is the players—panting men in sweaty shirts.

  Just like the men playing before me on the lawn, especially one green-eyed man, tall with broad shoulders, wearing a white shirt that clings to his muscular chest. I love men with broad shoulders. They make me feel safe when I’m around them. But nothing this man does makes me feel safe and protected. He’s so beautiful and he’s so off-limits. And God, is he irritating!

  So the only thing I can do is watch him from afar, sweating and panting on the lawn, and hope he’ll never find out how messed up I am…

  “Beer break!” A sudden call breaks my attention and I look up. Before I can grasp what’s happening, a group of sweaty men crash down on the grass around us.

  With a chuckle, I close the computer so no one can see what I’m writing. It could be embarrassing, and cause problems. Again, I try to steal a glance at him, my eyes seeking him out.

  He’s lying on the grass to my left, not too close, luckily. I can only imagine what he must think of me after yesterday’s fiasco.

  “Hi, lady, having fun?” Danny lies down on his back next to me, while trying to catch his breath.

  “I am. You’re providing me with lots of good material,” I giggle. One of the guys opens a big cooler and bottles of cold beer exchange hands.

  Perfect weather, cold beer, and my blog. I could easily get used to this.

  “Do you want one?” Adam hands me a bottle of beer with a pleasant smile and red cheeks, which look even redder against his pale white skin. He won’t have anything to do with me, that’s for sure, Danny’s warning was crystal clear.

  “Yes, thanks.” I smile, take the bottle, and place my laptop inside my bag to be sociable.

  “What are you writing there?” A middle-aged man points at my bag and the laptop.

  I smile self-consciously and place a hand on the bag. “Oh, it’s just my blog.”

  “You write a blog?” He grins. “My wife also writes a blog. Ever since our little one was born, she writes about her experiences as a mother. You know, bottles and nappies.” He rolls his eyes, and I assume he doesn’t read her blog. “Is your blog the same?”

  I swallow. Not really. More about drinking, men, fucking, and psychiatric pills.

  “I don’t have any children, so it’s not really like that.” I choose my words carefully, blushing slightly.

  “What do you write about?” I hear a familiar voice to my left, and turn my head to it, aware that I am blushing as I meet Ben’s eyes again.

  He smiles at me impishly and takes a sip of his beer.

  “You know…a single girl’s experiences in the world,” I continue evasively.

  And if he carries on like this, I’ll find myself writing a real hot piece about him.

  Ben stares at me, then smiles a gorgeous curve of his lips. My stomach is in knots…I need to watch out for his smiles. Nothing good will come of them.

  “So do you write about boys?” he asks.

  Does he realize how close he’s sitting to my brother?

  “Only about the annoying ones,” I retort sharply.

  “Funny and little,” he murmurs tipping another sip of beer into his mouth. I narrow my eyes and fake a smile.

  I heave a sigh of relief when he doesn’t mention yesterday. I’m coming to realize he’s unpredictable. You never know what he’s going to say.

  “Let’s get back to the game.” Danny jumps up and then all the men get up from the grass, leaving empty beer bottles behind them.

  My eyes follow Ben, as he walks away. I sneak another glance at his broad shoulders.

  Stop thinking about him that way!

  I can totally see what Danny meant when he said it might end up in bloodshed. Someone scores a goal and Adam’s cheek’s color a deep red as he raises a fist and connects it with Ben’s eyebrow. Danny grabs Adam from behind while Ben covers his eye and utters a juicy curse.

  Holy crap! My heart pounds with fright.

  “Fuck! Adam! Can’t we have one week without any violence?” Danny swears and Adam shakes him off, stalking away in anger and leaving the group in shock.

  “Are you okay?” John tries to look at Ben’s bleeding eyebrow, but Ben just shakes his head and curses again.

  “I think I’m going to go home,” he mutters.

  Damn. Even now, with a bleeding eyebrow, he looks good. Seriously. I catch him looking back at me, sneaking a smile my way. Seriously? Even now, with a bleeding eyebrow, he smiles at a girl sitting on the grass?

  He turns away and starts walking toward the path as Danny approaches us.

  “You all okay here?” he asks, making sure no one got too much of a fright.

  “We’re already used to your drama,” Dana laughs. Danny turns to me.

  “I’m fine.” I try to calm my pounding heart.

  My thoughts wander to the gorgeous guy leaving the park.

  “Don’t worry, we’re used to it by now.” Danny is amused, unaware of my feelings.

  “Are you carrying on with the game?” I glare at him, stunned, once I realize the game is carrying on.

  “Yes, nothing happened. We’re all big boys,” he laughs.

  I roll my eyes. Men and football…

  “Will he be okay?” I look in Ben’s direction. He’s moving further down the path and disappearing around the curve.

  “Ben? He’ll be fine. He’s been through much worse. Carry on writing. I’m sure you have plenty to write about.” Danny grins and runs back to the group, who’ve resumed the game as though nothing’s happened. And I have so much to write about.

  Saturday

  May 19th 2012

  Why should I care? I’ve barely unpacked my suitcase. My life isn’t back on track yet. And yet, my heart insists on doing tiny leaps, reminding me of a distant happiness.

  He’s a good-looking guy with green eyes and an attractive smile—who knows exactly how good-looking he is. I’m so stupid.

  Why would he even look at me? I’m only the baby sister. Give him two days to figure out how messed up I am, and that will be enough to change his smiles to pity. No one can really want me, and certainly not this guy. He’s not looking for something serious. He’s a player, which just makes it even more fucked up.

  But I get carried away quickly, giving away my heart again and again. If I can’t have something, my desire for it grows. And this guy is so off limits. He’s trouble with a capital T. Not that he’d ever want me with all my fuck-ups. What’s in it for him? A stroke to his ego, nothing more.

  No. I have to stop thinking about him. We’ve only exchanged a few words. He probably has me figured out already. And now I’m going to go to sleep, and hope to forget those green eyes ever looked my way. It’s not going to happen. Enough with the bullshit.

  Talula

  Loud music blasts through the speakers. Bright lights flash, making me dizzy. I have to close my eyes. A small, dark basement, late at night, filled with a few dozen people. Alcohol is coursing through my blood; my thoughts are fuzzy. My body dances slowly, in sync with the music. Swaying from side to side, floating in a world of my own. For a moment, I can let go of the destructive thoughts. For a moment, I can stop worrying about everything that’s going on around me, of what people think of me, what they want from me. For now, there’s just the rhythm of the music and my body moving to it. My head is empty of the constant wondering—am I loved?

  Familiar hands wrap themselves around my waist, dictating a strange, different rhythm. I recognize the lingering tang of the aftershave. I don’t need to open my eyes to know who it is. I allow the hands to wrap themselves around me and pull me into the sweat-soaked T-shirt. The hands climb up to my hair, pulling it back slightly, raising my chin. Seductive lips cling to mine and a tongue, tasting of alcohol, investigates my mouth. My pulse is fast as my hands stroke his sweaty back. He’s drunk, like me. I can sense it in his loose kiss and taste, beer and cheap tequila. But none of that matters. When I�
�m in his arms, I can deceive myself that someone actually wants me, that someone cares. Even if it’s just for the night, even if it’s just the alcohol. Clinging to him, I can lie to myself that there still may be a chance. Lie to myself again. At least until the morning.

  I wake up in bed. The dreams had come to visit again. At least I didn’t wake in panic, covered with sweat. I glance at the clock. Five thirty. Sunday morning. I need more sleep.

  I open my eyes again at nine, surprised I didn’t sleep until late.

  A quick shower, coffee, and a cigarette before going down to the basement.

  I’m taking advantage of every minute here, as I know it’s only a matter of time before Danny starts looking disapprovingly at me and I’ll have to find a job. The thought of waitressing doesn’t improve my mood.

  I start painting, allowing my thoughts to soar. Pearl Jam’s song is playing again, and I allow the sounds to engulf me.

  “Hello.” A familiar voice at the end of the room startles me. I look around, stunned, every muscle in my body alert.

  Ben Storm is standing there in a black T-shirt, faded jeans, and Adidas sneakers. And he looks…well, he looks delicious. Above his right eyebrow there’s a souvenir of his run-in with Adam yesterday.

  “Hi.” I try to calm my pulse, which is hammering away.

  He comes closer, stands next to me, and checks out the painting I’m putting finishing touches on. I can smell his aftershave, seductive and intoxicating.

  “Danny said you’d be here. You didn’t tell me you were talented.” His eyes check out the canvas, while mine check him out. He looks…enchanted. From my painting?

  “How’s your head?” I point toward his eyebrow. It looks a lot better than I thought.

  He touches his eyebrow with long fingers.

  “This? It’s nothing.” He smiles self-consciously.

  Ben Storm is embarrassed. That’s something I didn’t expect to see.

  “What are you doing here?” I can’t help but wonder.

  Causing me trouble, that’s for sure.

  “I dropped by to give John some documents. I thought I’d come and say hello.”

  “On a Sunday?” I roll my eyes unintentionally. Luckily, he’s not looking at me. His eyes are still glued to my painting. But seriously, who works on a Sunday?

  “Yes.”

  “I still owe you an apology,” I stammer, hoping he won’t see how I’m blushing. The last time he was here, I left the patio in anger and I’ve no way of knowing what he thought of the entire situation—or of me.

  “Rubbish,” he says, his eyes still on the painting. “You’re good.”

  Does he really like my smudges?

  I glance at him again.

  I see his straight nose, his perfect features, and sharp cheekbones. And his stubble. But it looks soft, really soft and like it could tickle my skin. And those lips…

  “I need to wash my hands.” My voice wavers. I have to get away from him.

  I enter the bathroom and close the door behind me. Fuck, Talia! Get a fucking grip! It’s not going to happen. The guy is a player. And annoying. Remember?

  I scrub my hands, trying to get the paint out from under my nails, then walk out of the bathroom silently, cross over to the stereo system, and change songs. His presence here, in this closed basement, causes butterflies in my stomach. The hint of his aftershave wafts in the air, sending surprising signals to my brain.

  The stereo starts to play Love the Way You Lie by Eminem and Rihanna.

  Ben stares at me with a smile. “From Pearl Jam to Eminem. I’m afraid to ask.” He doesn’t take his eyes off me. Once again, I feel as though he can see right through me. If he could see inside, into the mess, he would turn tail and run.

  “It’s better that you don’t know,” I murmur.

  “Your painting is excellent,” he nods slightly toward the canvas.

  “I’m finished. You can have it.” I stand motionless. I’m entirely focused on trying to calm down.

  He’s Danny’s boss! Stop thinking whatever it is you’re thinking!

  “Really?”

  “Sure, why not.”

  We stand there, me with my wildly beating heart and him with his goddamn smile. We don’t say a word.

  “Well, my coffee’s getting cold.” He’s first to break the awkward silence between us. He smiles one last time, turns around and lightly climbs the stairs, taking them two at a time. My eyes follow him until he opens the door to the kitchen and disappears. I crash onto the sofa.

  Fuck!

  Is this what you want? Haven’t you had enough of men like him?

  Fifteen minutes later, I quietly go upstairs. I know Danny will be unhappy if I stay downstairs all day. As I open the door and walk into the kitchen, I can sense a pair of green eyes staring at me, and my heart misses a beat. Hasn’t he left yet?

  “Where are Danny and John?” I ask, as I notice the empty kitchen. My body tenses. There’s no chance of me relaxing around this guy.

  “Danny must be getting dressed, and John went out for a run,” he answers. “What are your plans for the day? To hide away all day in the basement?” He smiles his irritating smile again.

  “I thought I’d go to Camden Market,” I say the first thing that comes to mind. The truth is I hadn’t made any plans. But I’m positive that had I said that, he’d find a way to insult my bumming around.

  “Camden?” He sounds interested.

  “Yes. There are a few art shops there I’d like to see.”

  “Sound nice. I like Camden.”

  “Good for you. I’m going to take a shower.” Without a backwards glance I leave the kitchen and go into my bathroom, shutting the door behind me.

  Damn it! Why does he have to be here all the time? With those smiles and that rough stubble he still hasn’t shaved. Ugh! Why does he have to look so good?

  I take a quick shower, trying to sort out my thoughts. Maybe it’s not such a bad idea, going to Camden. I stand in front of my closet, pick out a pair of black skinny jeans and a thin black sweater. Camden Market isn’t the place to wear my favorite high heels. I slip my feet into a pair of black flats, hastily put on some makeup in the bathroom, take my backpack and laptop, which go almost everywhere with me, and head back out to the kitchen.

  “You’re still here?” I mumble at Ben with undisguised displeasure. He’s still sitting by himself at the island.

  What the hell, Danny? How long does it take him to get dressed and fuck around with his moisturizer? I could’ve showered three times.

  “So how are you going to get there?” Ben wants to know.

  What do you care?

  “The tube.” I force a smile.

  “No way. We’ll take my car,” he offers, and my jaw drops.

  “What?”

  “My car,” he repeats the offer.

  “Why do you think I’d go with you?”

  “Cut the crap. My car’s outside.” He sounds amused. Do I amuse him?

  “You want to come to Camden Market? With me?” I ask with disbelief.

  “It’s Sunday. I don’t have anything better to do.”

  Well, going in his car does sound better than the tube. I mean I love taking the tube, but seeing as it’s Sunday, it’s probably packed with tourists.

  “Okay, if you insist,” I answer, and my heart starts to race. I really hope he’s not going to ruin my whole day.

  Ben slides off the high bar stool, giving me another opportunity to see how tall he is. He pulls a brown casual jacket from the backrest and carelessly throws it over his shoulder. As if he just stepped off a GQ cover. Fuck me! He opens the door and holds it for me.

  “After you, Miss.” He laughs a lovely, tiny laugh, and I go outside.

  Ben takes a key fob out his pocket, and an amazing silver sport car comes alive.

  No. Fucking. Way!

  “So obvious.” I roll my eyes. “You have a Porsche.”

  What car did I think he’d have? The guy’s a playe
r. And a professional player needs a car that’ll do his dirty work. This vehicle certainly meets the criteria.

  “It’s just a car,” he answers nonchalantly. I throw him a who-are-you-kidding look.

  “It’s a fucking Porsche!” I exclaim.

  “And it’s still just a car, last time I checked.” He sounds amused. “Well, are you getting in or what?”

  Ben holds the door for me. I get in and sit on the low, leather seat. He closes the door after me and, a second later, he’s behind the wheel. My heart makes a serious effort to calm down. I look around, checking out the luxurious interior of the car. He starts the engine and the Porsche purrs elegantly, ready for him. He puts it in gear and joins the traffic.

  “So, what’s the deal?”

  “The deal?” He turns on the expensive stereo.

  “With the car?” I try to act indifferent, although even I find it hard. And I really don’t understand much about cars. I hate driving and hardly do it.

  “No deal. It was a dream of mine since I was a child and I decided to fulfill it.” His smile widens.

  “When you were a child? And what are you now…running around the city in this chick magnet…”

  “Chick magnet?” He bursts out laughing.

  “Oh, come on…”

  “What do you feel like listening to?” He changes the subject. We’ve spoken enough about his amazing ride.

  “I don’t care,” I shrug, but I’m far from relaxed.

  I’m with Ben Storm, on the way to Camden Market, one of my most favorite places in London. Not exactly what I imagined when I told him I was thinking of visiting the market.

  “You seem like someone with very distinguished taste in music.”

  I don’t respond. In any case, I don’t think he’ll have anything I like. Danny’s been laughing at my taste in music for years. I can start crying from songs at the drop of a hat; it’s embarrassing. I can fall apart if I hear a song that burns my insides. And sometimes a song gets stuck in my head for days and I get the feeling everyone can see inside my soul, and I want to bury myself in shame. I manage to hide it, when all I really want to do is scream out the madness, and the crap, and the fears, and escape the prison I’ve been living in for so long.