Page 124 of A Dirty Business
“You’re lying.”
He paused, frowning. Then, a small laugh left him. “We’re in kindergarten?”
“You’re in kindergarten.” So stupid. I didn’t care.
I turned back to the canvas, and that storm wasn’t dark enough. There wasn’t enough texture on it. I was tempted to dip my hand intothe entire paint can and start flinging it on the canvas. Over and over again. I wanted it covered in black paint.
He sighed. “You’re quitting the nightclub.”
I had my back turned to him. “I’m quitting you. You’re just attached to the nightclub, so I’m leaving.”
“I couldn’t contact you.”
“I don’t care.” Still going with the childish theme here.
“Yes, you do. Jess, my father knew about you. My uncle. My sister. You were becoming a target. I couldn’t have that. Especially if we’re going into a war.”
I turned back now. “A war?” I remembered the article. “They said there were shots fired at your warehouse.”
He nodded, looking grim. “There’s a family pushing in. That’s another reason I stayed away.”
I got that. I did. Logically, I got all of it. It made sense, and my god, it’s what we had both been trying to do for so long.
Logic went out the window when the heart was involved.
The dangers aside, I couldn’t get the pictures of those women out of my head.
My heart was back to feeling squeezed.
Why the women?
“Did you touch them?”
“Who?”
“Those women.”
“No. I didn’t even want to. It was all for image.” He stepped up behind me, so close that I could feel his body heat.
“Jess.” His voice dropped low, raspy.
“What?” I didn’t turn around. God. I wanted to ...
“Why do you paint? Why do you come here and do this?”
“I’m not a parole officer in here. I’m not Chelsea Montell’s daughter or my brother’s sister in here. I’m no one. Painting takes it all away, and it lets me breathe.” My heart was pounding. “I paint because I have to,and when I wasn’t—I can never return to that again. I’m not naturally an artist, but I think that somewhere deep down in my soul, I am. Painting is helping bring that part of me back.”
I wanted to close my eyes, lean my head back.
I wanted to rest against him, let him hold me. The ache was so strong, so fierce, but I couldn’t. We were back there, all over again. The same woes and feelings. All angst and drama and yearning.
The same hurt, but I just wanted to touch him.
He dropped his voice and his head. I felt his lips almost grazing my shoulder. “I want to talk to you about it. I’d love to be able to do that, but I can’t. You know who I am and what I do, and there’s no getting around it. Even if I wanted to leave that world, there are steps I have to take in order to do that.”
He was right. All of it.
Why did I feel more alive in the last few minutes he was here than the three months he was gone? And why did I feel the pain that came with him too?
