Читать книгу The Unusual (Eye of the Beholder) - Deepak Kumar Battini - Страница 1

The first time Lucy laid eyes on Desmond, she had been cross and cranky from hours of washing dogs and reeking of them. It did not stop her from literally staggering at the sight of him because he was that handsome. There were men who made you weak in the knees. Men who took you aback. Seeing Desmond for the first time felt like a hard punch to the gut.

The second time, Lucy was realizing as she stared wordlessly at his sketch of her then back at him, the effect was still as strong. The bedroom took up nearly the entire upper part of the loft yet now that Desmond was in it, it felt small and getting smaller. He stood right under the skylight, making his hair look like spun gold and his aquamarine eyes glow. The light loved him, touching reverently on the elegant, slim ridge of his nose, the faint afternoon stubble darkening the hard square of his jaw. His white t-shirt was frayed at the cuff of the right sleeve and it was now threadbare from age and many washings. His jeans had a well-worn look and the rips and snags by the sides of his thighs and on the left knee were real instead of something done on purpose. Lucy’s first impression of him was he had a lean figure. That was still the case. She just hadn’t noticed the hard bulges of muscles on his upper arms and the dark vein running down their long, firm length.

Their eyes met. His gaze was stunned and curious, hers, hurt and angry. Screwing her lips tight, she glared at the sketch then shoved it toward him. “What’s this?”

Desmond stared first at her then the sketch. His eyes seemed to glaze but it was a trick of light. He looked right back at her, steady and calm. His gaze washed over her like the gentle waves of the calm sea. It was all very mesmerizing and difficult not to submerge oneself in.“I told you I dreamed of you. What the hell are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?” She demanded, flinging the sketch away. She was shaking and it gave her satisfaction seeing his eyes follow the fall of the paper. He sighed and picked it up, and held it protectively to his chest.

“I live here.” He stared at the logo of Clean Co. sewn on the left pocket of her t-shirt. “You clean?”

“Not anymore,” Lucy muttered, trying to walk past him. But Desmond blocked her way and she hissed, for he had done it so easily. His hands cupped her arms and she shook him away. He quickly held up his hands. Lucy stepped away. She was taller, but not much. He could look at her easily in the eyes without having to strain his neck or raise his chin. He knew they were beautiful but it felt like he learned the fact anew whenever he looked into them. He tried to adjust his expression into an open and slightly inquisitive one, not enough to make her stonewall him but enough so that she would listen.

“Let me explain.”

“Why?” She cried out. “Why does this keep happening to me?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I know what I look like but that doesn’t give you the right!”

Confused, Desmond demanded, “What the hell do you think you look like?”

For the first time since Royce Reid came on to her in his office, Lucy felt tears prick her eyes. A sob popped past her lips, startling and making her red with mortification. Again, she tried to walk past Desmond. Once again he held her by the shoulders.

As her body heaved from another loud sob it strained to control, he spoke gently. “Lucy. What do you think you look like?”

He said her name as if it was something sweet. No mocking, no judgment. No nothing. She blinked back at him and sighed. “Look, you have to let me go. I-I’m not comfortable.”

She hugged herself and looked away. She almost looked like a child. Her behavior was certainly like one, how a child would comfort herself, rock into herself and shut the whole world out. Desmond, concern in his face, opened his mouth to speak but the rapid, light footsteps going up the stairs alerted them of another presence. Lucy brushed a fist across her eyes as Mariet reached the top of the stairs. Desmond had his hands in his pockets when Lucy finally lowered her hand. Mariet looked at her then at him, confused. “What’s going on? I heard some pretty loud conversation.”

“I was just telling Desmond here that we’re done cleaning.”

“You mean Mr. Gorman?” Mariet asked, frowning at Desmond.

Now Lucy’s face scrunched tight. “Mr. Gorman?”

Desmond shrugged helplessly. “That’s me.”

Lucy’s head was spinning. Gorman. The named pinged and banged in her head like an out of control firework let loose in a confined space. Faces scrolled through her mind as if swiping through a touch screen. Voice hit her all at once. Then one stood out. Scratchy. Sarcastic. Amused. Then Arabella Thorne, smiling in that gentle, playful, mocking way of hers as she told Lucy about Desmond being quite an idiot but at least he was handsome. And quite talented with the paintbrush. She remembered that night, when she brought chicken dinner over and they watched the news of Desmond’s accident. Orissa had to leave suddenly before they could eat.

“Your brother is married to Orissa. She’s my neighbor’s granddaughter.”

“Arabella Thorne?”

She nodded.

Desmond let out a snorting sound, first looking at the ceiling and a rough chuckle issuing from his lips. Damn. Even the man’s throat was beautiful and golden as the rest of him. He really was gorgeous in a way that seemed both easy and impossible. She envied how easy it was for him with his effortless beauty. Then he lowered his head back down, first glancing at Mariet before his eyes rested on Lucy.

“Arabella told Orissa about Clean Co., who then recommended I hire them. Well, I guess the world really is that small.”

“Small as it is, time is still running and valuable. But I’m really not. . .comfortable, Mr. Gorman.” She stared pointedly at the paper he held. The distress was still on her face but there was a defiance in her eyes now. She turned to Mariet. “We should go.”

“Lucy, we’re not-“

“We’re done. Don’t worry.” Lucy assured her.

Mariet still looked unsure but nodded. This time Desmond didn’t stop her.

They quietly packed up their supplies, Mariet shooting Lucy questioning, furtive looks. Lucy put the keys on the counter and looked up. Desmond was descending the stairs.

“I don’t mean any harm by it, Lucy.”

She shook her head. “I’m a complete stranger. You don’t do that-“

“What? Dream?” Desmond asked. “Fantasize?”

This time, Mariet spoke up.

“Alright. Someone better tell me what’s going on. I just spent over an hour cleaning up here. I am not going to let that pass unnoticed or unappreciated.” She looked at Lucy for answers. When her friend was not forthcoming, she turned to Desmond, crossing her arms. “What did you do?”

“We’ve met before.” Desmond replied after a moment. “I asked if I could paint Lucy.”

As Lucy squirmed and shifted her weight from one foot to the next, Mariet squawked. “What? That was you? You’re the guy with the dog named Daisy?” Her blue eyes narrowed at him. “You’re the guy who was hitting on my friend here.”

“What-No!” Desmond looked aghast. “I didn’t.”

“Oh please.” Mariet smirked and propped a hand on her hip. “`I dreamed of you’, `I want to paint you,’ and all that crap. You don’t look like the sort who needs to refer to the dumbest handbook around for picking up women. Unless you're just good-looking with nothing between the ears.”

Lucy, really needing to leave because the loft was beginning to feel too small and hot, said, “Mariet, we should leave. Now.”

But Desmond and Mariet were on a roll. The once-over Desmond gave Mariet was mocking and condescending-hardly the kind the younger woman often received. “Look, princess, you’re clearly too young to have heard about me. But I’m an artist. Not as well-known now but well-known years ago. Ask your parents. I didn’t hit on your friend here. I asked to paint her and that’s exactly what I meant. It wasn’t a ploy to get her to come here and have her take off her clothes.”

“Yet you drew me,” Lucy gulped, “nude.”

Desmond’s answer was to give her a too-lingering look from the top of her messy hair down to the tips of her sneakers. In between, he stared in her eyes, licked his lips as he looked at her mouth. He gaze was caressing as they lingered on her broad shoulders before continuing the rest of the way down. His gaze was almost like a physical touch, so close and intimate that she could almost feel it. Sudden;y she wasn’t sure how she felt about it.

“Let me paint you, Lucy,” he asked, his voice husky.

“Alright. Enough. Look, Mister, I don’t care that you’re sort of connected to Arabella but you don’t ever come up to women you don’t know and asking to paint them! And now you have a nude drawing of her” Mariet shook her head. This time, her motions were frantic as she threw the rest of their supplies into the bag before grabbing Lucy by the wrist. “No need to pay us. But we can tell you for sure that this is the last time we’ll be here.”

They let themselves out. As Lucy took a deep breath of the dry, summer air, the door suddenly flung open. Mariet shrieked and Lucy quickly threw an arm out to protect her. But Desmond moved no further from the door. His eyes searched her face.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he said. “What did you mean when you said you know what you look like?”

Lucy was so distraught over what happened that though she hated to lie, she went along with Mariet’s suggestion that she lie about getting sick so Adrian could immediately send a replacement. She hated to lose a day’s wages when she wasn’t physically ill but she had just about had her fill of men thinking they could take advantage simply because she was ugly.

So she went home, barely paying attention and moving by rote and body memory. By the time she arrived at her apartment, she felt sticky and dirty from the day’s events and the city grime. She locked herself in the shower, shrugged off her clothes and cried. The water was barely warm and it mingled with her hot ears as they both ran down the shower drain. She tried to wash away everything she was feeling but that was not how feelings worked so she cried.

And cried. Hard, heart-wrenching sobs. Sobs that wracked her entire body and left her hiccupping and breathless.

Abuse was nothing new to Lucy. Her looks had made her a target for bullying from the first day of school. Children stuck gum in her hair, stuck their feet out so she would trip, or straight up called her an ugly freak to her face. The onset of puberty only worsened things. In less than two years, she shot up to nearly seven inches in height, towering the rest of her class and nearly the entire student body of the local high school at six feet tall when she was only fourteen. She stood six-foot-three come graduation, and this had been her height ever since. It was never easy being different in some way but being different in all the was that Lucy was, was agony, especially as a child and teen.

Lucy’s solace was music. In the marching band, she really wasn’t ridiculed but the kids there kept to themselves. If there was a clique, she wasn’t part of it. Being part of it should have given her some protection from bullying but as with everything, just made things worse. She was the happiest when high school finally came to an end. But that only lasted a short while. She should have seen it coming. Life wasn’t going to let her escape that easily.

Abram’s death had not only made her orphan. He took with him any semblance of security and safety Lucy had. Her father was a quiet man who kept to himself but his presence was a reassurance. She knew that no matter how mean kids got, at the end of school there was hot chocolate waiting for her, and her father waiting for when she would play the cello for him. He didn’t encourage her to play but when she discovered her Mom’s old cello when she was eight, she had been eager to share something that had been a part of a person she never knew. Abram never stopped her. He let her do as she wanted and was just there for her. It was the most love that Lucy had ever felt in her life and losing it was almost more painful than she could bear.

Since his death, her world had been on a tailspin. The problem of money would never go away. After settling the hospital bills and outstanding debts and losing the house over missed mortgage, there was hardly anything left. It was just enough for the apartment she bought and several thousand dollars to keep her from starving for another six months. Lucy had been working like a dog ever since.

Despite wanting to concentrate only on work, part of her still longed for companionship. Friendship. She was so used to being alone that she didn’t really have a good judge of character. One of her first jobs was a waitress in a diner. One of the chefs there, Lawrence Brown, had been friendly and she went to the movies with him. He was shorter and more plain-looking than handsome. He kissed sloppily and groped her breasts in the cinema but he didn’t call her a freak. Or any of the mean names she was used to. She thought she could care for the man.

All that ended when Julie, one of the quieter waitresses, alerted her to a pool Lawrence had with the other chefs. Lucy had told him she was a virgin so she wasn’t ready. Never did she think that he would pretend to like her just so he could win the bet. Lucy quit, but not before confronting Lawrence in the kitchen and giving him a black eye. On her way out, one of the waitresses sneered, “What the hell’s her problem? Ugly broad like that should at least be grateful someone wants to fuck her.”

Since then, she looked for jobs where there was minimal interaction with other employees, where she could pass unnoticed, ideally. But working at the docks just about killed her and left her too exhausted to practice the cello. Cleaning houses and garages, mowing lawns, paid but not a lot. To be a babysitter these days required all these certificates-money that she’d rather spend on something more sure. She had only a high school degree and a year of college in a music school. There was little to offer employers but she wasn’t completely zero either. She used her friendship with the Lowells to get her first cello teaching job. Other jobs followed soon after.

Teaching music was seasonal, and cleaning for Clean Co. was only great during the summer. When she was lucky, there were summers she got work as a camp counselor so she was able to lease her tiny apartment for the season or at least rent it out. She had to be creative, to be greedy about work and really put herself out there but four years later, she not only had another shot at school, she could pay for it.

But Royce Reid. And Desmond Gorman

Lucy rinsed her body and toweled herself dry. In front of the mirror, she stared at her swollen eyes and tear-stained face. She knew she was ugly. But no matter how much she fought that it didn’t give people the right to abuse her, she was getting tired. She splashed cold water on her face to lessen the swelling of her eyes then threw on a ratty tank top and shorts. She took her cello and sat down, cradling the instrument gently on her thighs, bow positioned firmly yet in a relaxed way. With a deep breath, she started playing the Double Time Concerto.

She lost herself in the soothing strains of the music. The cello was always a source of comfort and strength, promising that no matter how bad things got, everything will always be okay. As she played, she remembered a story of the composition’s probable origins. Double Time Concerto was a popular classical piece but also one of the most difficult. She picked it as her audition piece because she loved the story behind it, and the rigor demanded to play it well her second reason.

She was still playing long after the sun had sunk down. She had gone through several versions of the piece, just for funsies. Now she collapsed on her chair, spine sinking deep while she hugged the cello to her chest. Her legs fell open.

Lucy had no idea how long she sat like this, the cello held gently against her chest, half-sprawled in a chair. She would be content to pass the night here if not for the doorbell suddenly ringing. She frowned, turning her head slowly to stare at the source of the sound before getting up.

“Did you forget the keys?” She asked, shuffling barefoot towards the door. Mariet should have been home earlier. It made Lucy feel guilty that her friend was probably coming home late to do her work. She should have at least made something nice as a gesture of thanks to Mariet.

“Say, I was thinking- Holy shit.”

Disbelievingly, Lucy could only stare at the man standing at her doorway.

“You,” she breathed.

“Yes.” Green eyes looked into hers. Desmond Gorman cleared his throat. “Me. Can I come in?”