Page 46 of Break Me Beautifully
But watching Marshall work,
I get it.
His body rolls in elegant waves. There's power in his masculine slicing of the air, his jugular taut as he controls his breathing. His energy doesn't fade, not even when an hour rushes by, followed by another. I'm not thinking straight as I watch him paint. Strictly fascinated, I sit on the floor nearby and watch.
This part is easy for me. Watching silently is my honed skill;all my memories of my famous family nickname ofmousecome rushing back. Neither of us interact, and yet I feel like we're part of the same experience. Marshall said he hadn't painted in a long time. I'm so damn lucky to get to see him in action.
A siren blares through the air outside the building.
Marshall jumps, ripping away from the canvas, eyes darting around like he just realized where he was like a man waking from a dream. The sirens fade, the police hurrying off to a location far from us.
"Are you okay?" I ask, my voice sounding too loud after our long silence.
"Yeah," he replies, shaking himself. "How long have I been painting?"
Grunting, I stand carefully, shaking out my sleeping legs. "Hours. I didn't want to interrupt; you were so wrapped up in it. Marshall, you're amazing."
He narrows his eyes, then faces the canvas. I can tell he's judging his own work critically. It's a habit I know too well. "Watercolors aren't my medium," he says.
"We'll get you oils next time."
"What makes you so sure there'll be a next time?"
My feet are still tingling with pins and needles, but I make myself walk to him, closing the small gap, grabbing the front of his shirt. "You didn't see it. I did."
He inhales the air around me, his eyes fluttering, voice a throaty sound. "See what?"
"How happy you looked." On tiptoe I kiss his frown, washing it away until it becomes something tender. Through half-lids I look up at him, my whole body heating rapidly. "I enjoyed it too much to never see it again."
"You want me to look happy?" he whispers.
"Of course I do. Did you forget I love you?"
"No." Nuzzling my temple, then my throat, he groans and the paintbrush clatters to the floor, his fingers all over my body. "But I like the reminder."
****
We're wrapped in hisjacket on the concrete floor of the studio. It should be cold and uncomfortable, but with his body cradling mine, my head in the nest of his shoulder, it's not. My arm rests on his chest, fingertip idly tracing his tattoos.
I'm looking across the room at my art, at his art, when I feel one of his scars. It's a large one, a strip of raised skin that I follow towards his ribs. I want to ask about it, about all of them, but I'm afraid to ruin the mood.
"A glass bottle," he says under his breath. I lift my head enough to see him looking down at me. "I was at a card game. My job was to watch for cheaters. Caught him, and this is how he paid me back."
"Oh my god," I mumble. "That's awful."
"There are worse things." His arms are folded behind his head to make a pillow. He moves one away so he can stroke my shoulder, pulling me tighter to him, and I get the idea he's suddenly afraid I'll vanish.
"Your dad," I start to say, unable to keep my question at bay. Marshall tenses immediately. "You know how he died. The shoot out."
"Yes."
"Did your boss ever get you any information about who was responsible?"
I'm close enough to see the fine lines that erupt on the ridge of his perfect nose. He looks up at the ceiling, sunlight casting along his cheekbones and forehead, turning his skin moon-white. "Not yet," he whispers. "But I'll figure it out soon enough."
I scan his face. He hasn't blinked in far too long. "How can you be so sure?"
Turning just enough to regard me from the corner of his eye, he reaches to stroke my cheek. "If someone dear to you was hurt, would you stop hunting their attacker? Would you give up on revenge, even if it took years?"
