Page 59 of Tru Blue
She slid her hands up the back of his head and pulled him in to another kiss. He smelled like sea and sand carried on the wings of desire, and she wanted to drown in him.
“Come with me,” he said against her lips.
She’d go anywhere with him. Do anything with him.
If only her legs would move.
His mouth curved into a gratified grin. “God, I love when that happens to you.” He wrapped an arm around her waist, his legs becoming hers. “Come on, sweet girl. I want to show you something.”
He grabbed the baby monitor, locked the doors, and led her outside, kissing her again before heading down the back steps.
“Does the one-eyed python want to play in the grass tonight?” Getting down and dirty outside had been hot the first time, and the heat between them had only amped up since.
Crushing her to him, he pressed his mouth to hers again, showering her with the most exquisite kisses.
“My snake always wants to play in your grass.” He rubbed noses with her and her heart soared. “But I want to show you something before I tear those clothes off and have my wicked way with you.”
“Mm. I like that ‘wicked way’ idea.” She followed him through the gate and into the junkyard, holding him a little tighter. She’d never been back there, and it was pitch-dark.
Truman dug his phone out of his pocket and turned on his flashlight app, illuminating the mass of rusted and mangled cars she’d seen from his deck.
“Stay close,” he said, holding her against him.
“Why? Is something going to come out and bite me? Because it feels like there might be monsters down here.” She clutched his arm, and he chuckled.
“No. Because I want you close to me.” He grinned down at her, aiming the flashlight at the ground. Even in the darkness she saw the heat in his eyes. He kissed her again, long and mind-numbingly slow, successfully kissing away her worries.
He guided her around a van, and when he lifted the light, a sea of ghosts came to life. She clutched him tightly again as she took in the frightening images. Dark eyes shadowed with tortured dullness, claws and fangs and skeletons pushing out of doorways. Men’s faces, gaunt and glassy-eyed, had swirls of smoke drifting upward from evil-looking, twisted mouths. Every car in sight had a different scene painted on it. And she knew they were ghosts of Truman’s past. She moved on shaky legs, less from fear than from the harsh reality of the poisons of his past surrounding them. Horrific, incredibly detailed, and artistic images came to life on car doors, across hoods and side panels. Villains painted on the inside of the windows, clawing to get out. She’d never seen anything so alive with fear, hate, and vulnerabilities. Like his sketches, they were all done in shades of blacks and grays, the nuances so slight and yet so real, she could feel the pulse of breath coming from them.
“Tru.” She must have let go of him without realizing it. His arms circled her waist, then shifted, tucking her safely against his side, and together they continued walking through the maze of Truman’s life.
Faces with bushy brows and scraggly beards leered with unseeing eyes. She stopped behind a van, taking in the image of a little boy curled into a fetal position within what looked like a giant bird’s nest. A bird with long, jagged talons swooped from a dark cloud above, so vivid and real Gemma sucked in a breath and stumbled backward into Truman. Holding her close, he stepped around the van to a long dark car with a missing hood. On the side panel was an unmistakable self-portrait of Truman, standing tall, wearing denim pants—not black. A ray of yellow sunlight shined down like an arm reaching from the upper edge of the trunk, forming a hand at his back, as if it were urging him forward. His legs were painted midstride. Gemma lost her breath at the torturous beauty before her. This was the only color painting amid a world of angry, haunted images. On the door panel was a picture of a baby, his arms and legs stretching upward, a smile on the baby’s lips. His tuft of strawberry hair brought a lump to her throat. Lincoln. Crouched beside him was a little girl—Kennedy—wearing a pink dress, one tiny hand reaching for Lincoln, the other reaching across the seam of the front panel toward…me.
