Rock Redemption #3: Rock Revenge Trilogy, page 23
I didn’t want to give her confirmation. Instead, I moved closer to her canvas, needing to get the scope. As I walked, the image came into brutal focus.
She’d been painting me.
“Christ, Magic. You’re angry I’m here yet you’ve made your own likeness of me?”
“I didn’t say I was angry.” She spun the canvas around until an innocuous blank one faced out. “And musicians are a dime a dozen. Don’t flatter yourself.”
“So, that wasn’t me? Those rings on his hands, the way he gripped the microphone—”
Seeing myself as she saw me was startling. Humbling. My head had been down, the spotlight above me giving me a halo effect I so didn’t merit. I’d clung to the microphone, silver rings winking. A flicker of hope in endless dark.
What she was to me. Still. Always. Even now that there was a hint of dawn on the horizon, she was still my north star.
And she said nothing. Nothing at all.
“I came here to tell you I made a mistake.”
Her snort of laughter didn’t reassure me. “Which one?”
“Innumerable ones, but in particular, my biggest was not fighting for us. You were right. I put too much on you. I can’t live for you. But I can live with you. These past weeks, I’ve made changes.” As if it was all the proof she could need to see I was trying, I held out my arm. The puckered flesh on my inner forearm was back to merely a scar. I hadn’t touched a cigarette since before we’d broken up. And even in the depths of my despair, I hadn’t touched a flame to my skin. “If you’ll have me.”
Her gaze dropped to my arm before sliding back to my face. “I’m glad to see that. I truly am.”
I waited for the but.
After a moment, she swore and whirled around, shoving her hands into her hair and ripping apart her braid. “I saw you.” Her voice was like a whip. “Dancing at some bar as if you were having the time of your life.”
“Everyone saw me,” I muttered. “Including your brother.” And God knows who else.
“You like the spotlight. Don’t lie. You enjoy being center of attention.”
“Why you put me under one. You wanted my narcissism on display.”
“Aren’t all artists narcissists? How else can you expect someone else to pay for your thoughts and hopes and dreams?”
I had no answer for that. For she saw too much, as always. But she’d missed one vital part of the picture.
“I wasn’t having the time of my life. For weeks, I didn’t touch a drop of liquor. I wanted to be clear-headed and to stop leaning on crutches. But that night, I went out with Flynn and Rory. I have friends now, love. Can you imagine? People who like me for me. Well, Flynn in any case. Rory, I can’t say for sure. He’s a contrary bastard.”
“People always liked you for you. You just couldn’t see it.”
“Maybe that’s my narcissism too.”
“Exact opposite in that case.” She turned back to me and took a deep breath that caused her breasts to rise and fall. I didn’t want to notice, but I was only a man.
A very flawed one.
“A woman behind the bar offered me a shot and her arm sprinkled in salt to go with it.”
Zoe narrowed her eyes, but she didn’t turn away. She was strong enough to face my truths, so I would give them to her.
And to myself.
“I couldn’t even do that much. Laying my lips on another woman’s skin felt like a betrayal. So, I took my misery and poured into a bottle. And then I climbed up on that table and danced around like a bloody fool. Do you know what happened next?”
At her silence, I walked toward her, my footsteps even and measured on the hay-strewn barn floor. Dimly, I was aware of more of her canvases surrounding us and a ladder that led up to a loft.
And the smoke in her eyes that didn’t lessen the impact of the fire in her gaze, just intensified it. I wanted to feel the burn. Her fury was a lit match that would set both of us ablaze.
“I imagined you. That first night you came onstage. When we came together in your apartment that day of our singalong on the beach. How I’d forgotten myself and drove into you without anything between us. The cries on your lips. The tears on them when you told me we were done.” I stopped before her and fisted my hands to keep from gripping her chin to lift her face to mine. “I couldn’t escape you even in a bottle. Do you really think I can find another woman? Is there a substitute for the sun?”
She shoved me back and I caught her fist in my hand, holding it against my chest so she could feel the wild thrum of my heart.
“You think you’re the only one who paints canvases. My paint is words. You’ll hear a song on the radio, if you listen. Those words are yours. And I won’t pretend they’re for someone else. They’re for you. Only you.”
Tears gleamed on her lashes, starring them for an instant before she blinked and the wetness vanished. “Nothing’s changed.”
“Oh, love, that’s where you’re wrong. So much has. I’ve gone to see my brother. I spent the night with him and his wife, and I have a chance. They might forgive me. God, his wife already has. But perhaps one day, Simon will too.” I swallowed deeply. “My brother. My family. It’s more than I could ever ask for.”
She curled her fingers into mine, her fist opening up just the slightest bit. The only softening she allowed herself.
Allowed me.
“I made friends. I’ve been writing songs. So many of them. You’re woven through them all, a perfect tapestry. Without your love, I wouldn’t have believed I was worthy of trying again with Simon. But it gave me a base to do the rest. And I’ve started to build. Today, the house is small and the foundation is slight. Tomorrow, it’ll be a skyscraper.” I lifted her balled hand to my mouth and kissed her knuckles as she let out a shuddering breath. “And the biggest change of all is that this time, I won’t leave. You can push me away, you can kick out at me and tell me to go. But this time, I’m fighting for us. Fighting for our fucking lives, and all that we can have.”
Much as it pained me, I released her hand and stepped back. “I’ll see you soon.”
Her brow wrinkled. “You’re staying?”
“For the whole of my life, if that’s what it takes.” I exhaled and felt a weight drop away as her eyes met mine one more time. She could lash out at me all she wanted, but she couldn’t deny the feelings that played across her beautiful face. “I made mistakes, and I’m still learning. But the best part of me is still in love with you.”
Her lips trembled, but she didn’t turn away as I backed out of the barn.
Finding the sunshine once again.
Twenty-Four
The man was going to be the death of me. He was freaking everywhere.
From morning to night, he always seemed to be involved with something in my family. My Aunt Laverne had welcomed him with open arms. I was fairly sure he was becoming her little pet.
And Ian would do anything for her.
I even caught him with a mop. I didn’t know he even knew how to hold one, let alone clean with it. And each day he’d do more chores and make more friends. His natural charm was like an aphrodisiac to whomever was around him.
Everyone loved him.
Even Hayes was laughing with him more than torturing him like Beck and Justin.
Ian never pressed me for anything. Just made sure to let me know he was around. Whether it was to bring me lunch from my aunt, or to wave at me when I came to visit the store.
He was always freaking there.
I tried to ignore him, but it was like ignoring a puppy. Everything seemed new and exciting to him. From learning how to drive a tractor with Justin—who tried to toss him off said tractor more than a few times. But Ian would just get back up on there and show him he was willing to learn about every aspect of the orchard.
Beckett used him and abused him for manual labor.
I swear they were testing him to see if he’d stick.
They didn’t know him very well.
Ian always stuck.
Like a fucking barnacle.
And each night I’d find him in the corner of the barn, curled in an old sleeping bag with one of my pillows he’d stolen.
The more I tried to ignore him, the more I couldn’t stop looking for him.
I’d go on my afternoon walks to clear my head and try to cool off and I’d find myself searching for him in the grove.
As the weeks flew by I painted my damn fingers off just to put him out of my head. It so wasn’t working. But I’d amassed so many canvases I had to do something with them. I could only ignore the germ of the gallery idea for so long. I went to the main house to use the computer, hoping I’d miss him since it was eleven in the morning. Surely he’d be in the grove with Beckett.
I sat down to research the galleries in Woodstock and heard his voice. He was in the next room, his British accent sweet and soft. I couldn’t stop myself from going to see what had him so enthralled. He was laying on his back on the big braided rag rug in the reading room, he was texting someone while a white kitten was curled on his belly and another one was curled by his side. Another black one was climbing up his arm to get to the phone.
Damn him.
How was I supposed to resist a grown man on the floor with kittens crawling all over him?
But I had.
I backed away like the coward I was and practically ran back to my barn.
I’d painted well into the wee hours of the morning after seeing that. And okay maybe a little white kitten with a black tipped tail had made it into my nine foot canvas. And maybe his long, elegant fingers had been curled lovingly around that damn cat.
I stared at the ceiling of the barn and listened to the night sounds of the orchard. The cicadas and the low hum of the Japanese beetles in the distance. I closed my eyes when I heard the door slide open and the soft mewl of the kitten.
“Shh, Lois. You’re not supposed to be in here.”
My lips twitched and I firmly ignored him softly crooning to the cat. I slept better that night than I had in weeks. All because his voice sung me and a freaking kitten to sleep.
Twenty-Five
Not that one.
Maybe this one.
I shuffled through my paintings like a deck of cards on one of those old Game Show Network programs. The oversized ones that were as big as the model.
Hmm. Okay, so maybe my paintings were more the size of mini billboards.
Too big.
What was I thinking? Why would anyone want to see these?
Martha from Songbird Gallery was just being nice. Probably felt sorry for me since I melted down in her gallery while looking at the Freida Kahlo exhibit. She probably thought I was just a crazy child with dreams of being an artist.
I should go back to the freelance work.
I had four requests in my email right now. It was easy money. I could do the contemporary gig in a few hours. It was even an interesting article they wanted me to illustrate.
Not as interesting as the painting on my make-shift studio. I’d spent hours hiding—I mean drawing studies—of my mom’s orchids. Just because it was the only place Ian couldn’t find me didn’t mean the studies hadn’t been important.
In fact, the diary piece was turning out more interesting by the day.
My mother’s hands caring for the blooms on her favorite plant. The plate-sized purple blooms of the Pachara glowed thanks to some cool luminescent medium I’d found. As if my mother’s touch made it come alive.
Add in a forest of blooms. Some blurry, some crisp, and it actually ended up being one of my favorites of the series I started since I’d been back at Happy Acres. Even if the orchids had replaced me.
“Wow.”
My shoulders stiffened. “Shouldn’t you be doing something? I don’t know, slurping moonshine off the floor with Hayes?”
Ian came through the door. “I’m trying to get along with your brothers, Magic. Moonshine was just a way to bond.”
“Like you bonded with the bushes the other night?”
“I was unaware of just how potent Hayes’s chemistry lesson would be. However, I have learned how to make his favorite Apple Pie version. Even Aunt Laverne liked it.”
“Good for you.” I slammed my palette on the table.
He leaned against the post just outside my work area. His shoulders had bronzed in the endless sunny days of the summer. Even Ian and his British skin had to brown or perish in the grove.
And it had definitely not perished. Rat bastard.
Nope, he was settling in just fine with the crew in the orchard. He’d gone from crying about blisters, and waking up at five in the morning to rolling out of his nest of blankets before his alarm chimed.
His riot of curls wouldn’t be contained in the bandanas he wore anymore. Now he had a stubby man bun going on that Justin teased him about mercilessly. But he hadn’t cut his hair again.
Because I’d taken such offense or just to be contrary, it didn’t much matter. It was growing and the silky curls were following me into dreams.
Bastard.
“Are we having a rough painting day, love?”
“Don’t call me that.”
“All right. Are we having a rough painting day, Magic?”
“Why does it have to be a nickname? Always. Can’t it just be my name?”
One ebony brow arched. “I didn’t come in here to be sniped at, lo—Zoe.”
“Well then why don’t you go?”
“No. I’d like to know what’s got you so riled up. Your painting is lovely. You even made some of the flowers look ethereal.” He took a step forward and I growled. He sighed and put his hands up, returning to lean against his post. “You should be excited, not upset about it.”
Why did he have to be so understanding? And always in my damn business. He’d been here for weeks and was always hovering on the fringes like a fucking puppy. Always watching me, as if waiting for me to kick him. Always ready to do something for me. To fetch and keep me happy.
Dammit.
He was being too…perfect.
It was pissing me off.
“I know the difference between when you’re not having a good painting day and not.” He tugged the elastic out of his hair and leaned forward to rake his fingers through the strands.
God.
He needed to stop.
It was so much shorter, but I knew just how silky it felt. I remembered how it tickled my thighs when he went down on me. How it mixed with mine when we slept. My almost white-blonde to his ink. The perfect yin and yang.
He flipped it back, totally unaware that I was mentally reliving half of our morning sexcapades. Because I shouldn’t be reliving them. I was trying to be strong. I didn’t know if I could walk back into the intensity of living with Ian.
And this new perfect gentleman?
Yeah, no.
It wasn’t right. It wasn’t him. Again, he was playing chameleon to be what he thought I wanted.
I grabbed the rag off the side of my scaffolding and stepped away from my canvas. “What are you doing here, Ian?”
“Beckett sent me out of the orchard. Something about me meeting with Laverne when she got back from town.”
“So why are you bugging me?”
He shrugged. “She’s not back yet.”
“And you couldn’t go take a nap or eat or something.” He was always freaking eating. And it was showing. Not in a bad way. No, he was filling out from all the manual labor and I was having a very hard time concentrating whenever he was near me.
And saying no to all the dates he wanted to take me on.
Wooing.
Who even said wooing anymore?
Ian, that was who.
“Maybe I should have. You’re being a right bit of a…” He swallowed and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, maybe I should head out.”
“Finally.” Relief poured through me at the fire in his eyes. I stalked toward him. “You’ve been so fucking polite. I can’t stand it.”
He fisted his hands in his pockets. “It’s called being a gentleman.”
“Shrug off the British, Ian. Tell me what you wanted to say.”
“No. I don’t insult women if I can help it. Especially when it’s the woman I love.”
I pushed him back a step until his shoulders slammed into the post.
Again the fire lit in his stormy eyes. “Watch it, Magic.”
“Why are you here? Why won’t you just go away. We aren’t getting back together. When are you going to get it?”
He pulled his hands out of his pockets. “I’ll never get it. I’ll never give up on us, dammit. We’re meant. Period.”
My heart raced. “We don’t work. Been there, done that.”
“We always worked.” He took two steps forward and loomed over me.
The skin between my shoulder blades zinged with awareness and my nipples pushed against the light tank I was wearing. It was so freaking hot even with my fan going. This summer had been a scorcher in every way.
From emotions to the endless lust that crackled between us. It would be so much easier if I could just turn it off. How the hell was I supposed to get on with my life—with this new life—if he was always here?
To go pour my heart out at the gallery and pray that my work was good enough. That someone would want to buy my paintings for their living room. My very personal diary pieces.
God, I was so stupid.
Who would want them?
He framed my face with his big hands. The new callouses zinging across my skin making it even harder for me to step back.
“What’s wrong? You’re intentionally picking a fight which isn’t like you.”
“How would you know? We barely know one another.”
His eyelids drew heavy and he peered down between us to my obvious reaction of his nearness. “Ah, love, I know all about you.”
I pushed him back and turned away from him. “No you don’t.”
“Oh, but I do.” He came up behind me, his long fingers curling around my upper arms. He drew me back against his warmth. “I can see the worry in your golden eyes.” He lowered his mouth to my shoulders. “You get this little line between your brows.”
