Читать книгу The Unusual (Eye of the Beholder) - Deepak Kumar Battini - Страница 2

For the first time in years, Desmond faced the new day not only with a renewed sense of purpose but he also felt alive. It was like being able to see everything for the first time yet also seeing a lot more clearly. The white walls of the loft, he discovered, were actually brushed ever so slightly with gray. The sun outside was the color of a wobbly egg yolk and the sky was a series of shades of blue piled on with divine brushes to create such a color. He saw color palettes, saw everything begging to be rendered on canvas.

He put Lucy’s sketch in the drawer before heading off to the bathroom. The shaving kit was left untouched in the cabinet behind the mirror so it was off to the shower straight off. There was no embarrassment in washing off the sticky stripes of his come from his thighs this time. He shampooed and soaped, scrubbed until his skin was pink.

There was no Orissa to bother him today and he wondered how much better things could get. The vigor thrumming inside him was pushing him towards activity, to lose himself in concentration, motions, towards creation. Or creations, he thought, cracking an egg over a pan where bacon was frying to a perfect crisp. He put bread in the toaster, brewed coffee. The drive that put him off his ass so early in the morning got all the more amped up as he devoured the food.

He spent the rest of the morning in the studio, sketching Lucy one after the other. It wasn’t easy because she wasn’t there but he could remember. Remembered everything. The messy blonde hair. The wide, full-lipped mouth. Freckles. Those eyes. Above all those eyes. Damned if they weren’t the most perfect things he had ever seen. He dug out what little paints he had because a lot of them had dried off already in their tubes. Blues upon blues were blended, mixing a dollop of white, then more blues. It was frustrating to work from memory. Even more that he knew that there was no way to capture the aquamarine color of her eyes without her right in the room with him. He needed her.

How the hell was he going to convince this woman how much he needed her-how important she was to him? She was a skittish, resistant, stubborn thing. It was like dealing with an unyielding door, built to withstand all the force and violence upon it. He thought about calling Gareth and hiring a detective to cough up records on her. He still couldn’t believe that she was real. It was highly preferable that she was a lot more pleasant than how she came across but over time, he thought, over time he’d wear her out. No one could be so against being painted, right?

Now that he knew where she was employed, it was only a matter of time before he got something more concrete about her. Didn’t mean he couldn’t start preparing now, however. So Desmond made two charcoal sketches of her. The first was of her scowl after he said he dreamed of her. There was no forgetting that-her eyes had darkened to near-black and she looked ready to kill him with her bare hands. The second had her wearing an expression of doubt, with eyebrows drawn together, full lips pursed. It didn’t make her any more attractive but Desmond thought she looked ready to give an angry kiss. She was uglier, true, but his cock disagreed. So he was grateful that she’d slammed the door to his face and threatened to call the cops on him when he insisted on speaking to her.

The angry growling of his stomach alerted him to lunch. Desmond put away the sketches in a drawer with care before closing it. Then he gathered up his supplies and put them back in their shelves. Usually he just ate a salad and a sandwich but his body demanded something more substantial today. He went out to get a meatball sub with four different kinds of cheese.

While he was out, he went to his favorite art supply store. He stocked up on paints, paintbrushes, paper, charcoal. Desmond ordered by the bulk, quick to surrender his credit card and signing his name on the slip without even glancing at the amount at the end. He would have to wait three days but the store promised to rush some of the items. It felt good knowing he was sure to do something in the following days. The better feeling was knowing he was actually going to see it through the end.

Desmond went for a walk around the city before deciding to turn towards home. His earlier euphoria had wiped his mind clean of what today entailed. As he opened the front door of his loft, he heard music. His face was grave, anticipating that intruders had broken in, when a dark haired woman walked right in front of him, holding a mop.

From an early age, Desmond had trained himself to see and observe. The woman’s profile faced him but it was enough to confirm that she was pretty. Thick, brown hair in a no-nonsense ponytail, high cheekbones, a soft, gentle arc formed where her jaw connected to her throat. She was slim but her black-and-navy uniform looked good against her. Desmond realized that this was the cleaning service Orissa had hired. He was supposed to be out while they worked. He closed the door, the sound quiet, but the girl’s head turned toward him, pale blue eyes widening when she was him by the door.

He held up his hands. “It’s okay. I’m Desmond. I live here.”

She was young. In college most likely or in her early twenties. Her loveliness may have incited attraction and lust from men but not Desmond. There was no denying that she was one of the more beautiful faces around, and despite the t-shirt and shorts, he could tell she had a good figure. Full, thrusting breasts, a narrow waist, curving hips, slender, long legs.

After Desmond had looked his fill at a person, the next question he asked himself was whether he wanted to render him or her in a painting.

No for this girl. She was. . .generic. Boring. Predictable.

Now she was frowning at him and she pulled out a sheet from her pocket, reading it. “Desmond Gorman?”

“That’s right. That’s me.”

As she put it back in her pocket, she said, “You’re not supposed to be here. It’s okay, but we still have quite a lot of work to do.” He had to smother a chuckle. This girl was implying with smooth subtlety that though he was paying them, while they were working, he was in the way.

“I understand. I’ll just need to get some things from my room then I’ll be out of your way,” Desmond said, walking past her and launching up the stairs.

“My partner’s there,” she called after him then resumed working.

When Desmond reached the bedroom, his heart dropped to the floor. The girl’s partner had turned out to be her. The ugly blonde with the awful pink uniform. She was wearing a black t-shirt and navy shorts now and they looked better on her. He froze seeing her staring at a piece of paper. Despite realizing the wrong impression she was taking from that drawing, he couldn’t look away from the remarkable changes of expression in her face. Surprise, with her eyebrows shooting to her forehead and aquamarine eyes getting big. Followed by the grim realization that she was staring at herself, and her nose reddened as if burned by the sun. When she looked up and saw him, the betrayal and hurt were in the blush getting more vivid with each passing second and the violent wobbling of her chin.

Still ugly. Uglier in the daylight but he couldn’t tear his eyes off her. Those eyes.

Lucy looked hurt and Desmond stepped forward to reach for her. But she refused comfort, refused to hear any of his explanations-not that he tried hard enough. He was too caught up by changes in her face, the emotions flitting through her eyes. Then when her broken voice uttered that she knew what she looked like but he had no right, it was like breaking through the surface. Desmond didn’t realize just how hurt she was until that moment. “What do you think you look like?” He had asked. But Lucy’s partner showed up and there was nothing more to do. Even when he chased after them and asked again, Lucy refused to answer. Instead she gave him her eyes again, breathtaking aquamarines shining with her distress.

Right now she was standing in front of him, her big hand grasping the doorknob like it was a lifeline. The sight of her was an attack to his senses, his thoughts. Seeing her so close was doing things to him that shouldn’t happen-knees weakening, cock thrusting stubbornly against the limits of his underwear, his pants. I’ve been without a woman too long.

But he couldn’t stop drinking her in and there was so much of her. The mess of her hair that he realized now was more straw than pale blonde. The freckles splashed from her forehead down to her legs-Desmond had never seen anyone covered in so many freckles. Her shoulders were broad, wider than his. As he had guessed, she had small breasts-more breasts than breasts, really. He was confused about his reaction to such an ugly creature but his mouth watered at her nipples pressing against the white fabric. It wasn’t cold in her apartment. Desmond had to take a deep breath upon wondering if her nipples were so prominent, if they were often hard. Her drawstring shorts revealed thick but firm-looking thighs. And the legs. How was it possible to have such long legs?

He looked back at her face, focusing on her eyes. Finding his voice, he held up a box of pizza. “I come in peace.” He held the leather portfolio under his other arm.

She frowned. “What do you want? How did you know I live here?”

“You said Arabella’s your neighbor. That didn’t need a lot of math.”

“Oh.” Her eyes dropped to her feet and a blush swept from her face down to her chest. Desmond shuddered, not from revulsion, but the overwhelming urge to press his tongue on each spot. I need to fuck a woman soon.

“Lucy,” and he liked saying her name. “I ask again, can I come in?”

She worried her thick lip until it was red and wet. Desmond clutched the portfolio, glad his hands were full. He wouldn't be able to resist touching the slick, swollen flesh. Then she nodded, stepping aside.

As he walked past her, he caught the scent of oranges-clean and fresh, vital. It was so much better than the dog stink she carried with her the first time although, he amended to himself, if she was wearing the tank top then he wouldn’t mind so much. Lucy closed the door.

Her apartment was a humble studio. He saw everything at once: the half-pen curtain that served as a partition between her bed and the rest of the space, the loveseat by the window, with a pretty, blue cello resting against it. A dining table for two against the wall and the kitchen, with a sink and about a quarter of the size of a regular counter. Desmond’s closet was bigger but there was a cozy, intimate feel to the space, rather than pristine and elegant.

“You can put the pizza there,” Lucy pointed at the dining table. She walked toward the fridge then paused, blushing. Staring at him then back at her feet, she mumbled, “Um, I don’t have anything to drink. I have water. But no beer. I have one can of soda and it’s yours, if you want.”

Desmond gave her a pleased smile. “Water is fine.”

She looked at him questioningly.

Flushing, he put the box on the table, the portfolio on a spot on the floor near his seat. “I haven’t touched alcohol in years, Lucy. I’d rather keep at it.”

She’s going to think that I’m an alcoholic pervert.

She reddened again-does she ever stop blushing-before stammering, “You can have the soda.” Yet she also sounded stubborn, defiant. Contrasts, Desmond thought.

“Only if you don’t want it.”

“It’s yours.” She growled.

“We should share.”

She blinked at him, clearly startled.

She could be obstinate but sweet, he realized. “I would like for us to share, Lucy.”

“Okay.”

Desmond flipped open the box while Lucy got glasses. It was sweet that she poured a perfect half of the soda into each glass. He tucked the cover of the pizza box at the bottom so there was space for their glasses. Her fingers brushed his when handing him the glass. Desmond nearly groaned out loud at finding her skin there to be soft and smooth. I should go find myself a woman after this.

She sat down and he followed suit. Warily, she asked, “What are you doing here, Desmond?”

She shifted, bumping her knee on his. Desmond stiffened but Lucy, unaware, continued, “It’s been a long, emotionally exhausting day. As much as I appreciate the pizza, I need you to be straight with me. What’s your angle?”

“I wish to make you understand.”

“You wish to make me understand?”

Well, he had to be a bit of an asshole to get what he wanted from her. That was the plan. It got him what he wanted, always. This wouldn’t be the case with Lucy. As skittish as she was, even when she spent more time talking to her feet than to people, she saw things. Read him clearly. She did sound tired, her voice thick with gravel. Her aquamarines were not as bright. But she stared at him with sharp scrutiny, indicating that she refused to be fooled and despite all his good intentions and the pizza, if he stepped off, she would kick him out.

Desmond wasn’t scared. In fact, his blood was singing. He wanted to dare her.

He changed tactics. “You play the cello?”

Startled at the sudden turn of the conversation, Lucy took a quick swallow of her soda. “Yes.”

“Professionally?” She was young but he thought she must be close to graduating.

She flushed and shook her head. “N-No. Actually, I’m working to get back to school. Um. . .my studies were interrupted due to certain events.”

“Music school?”

“The Camden, yes.”

Desmond had heard of the Camden. Serious students of music practically killed themselves to be admitted there. As he looked at her, realizing there was more to the ugly, freckled woman, Lucy hastened to add, “I was there. Before. But. . .but. . .my father got sick. I had to take care of him. By the time things were. . .over, my leave of absence had passed. And I couldn’t. . .you must have gone to a specialized school. You know how expensive it gets.”

Lucy had skimmed over some pertinent information but it wasn’t hard to deduce exactly what she had left unsaid. The father was dead. It must be a long, complicated illness to wipe out the finances of the family. A leave of absence was only good for a year. Her failure to return meant she had been gone from school for a while. Desmond saw faint lines under her eyes.

“How long were you at Camden?”

“Just a year.”

“Your father.” His voice was gentle. “How-how long? If you don’t mind my asking.”

She took a deep breath. This was still a hard subject for her. “F-Four years. Next month.”

Damn, she was young. At her age, I was chasing and fucking every skirt. I was doing what I wanted. It was embarrassing. He gestured that she help herself to the pizza and she hesitated. So he took a slice. She followed, but only bit into hers after he did so.

“I’m sorry. That must be difficult.” He remembered where she worked. “Still difficult.”

“Yeah, it is. I really miss my Dad. I have no family left, you see. There’s Mariet and the Lowells but they’re old family friends. They wanted to take me in before but I couldn’t. . . I didn’t want to add to their burden.”

“Mariet?”

“The girl I was with earlier? At your place.”

The boring one, Desmond thought. Going back to what she had said, he asked carefully, “There’s really no one for you?”

Lucy’s smile was shaky. “No.”

“I’m really sorry to hear that.” Desmond knew how it was to lose a parent but he had never been alone. His father was still around. Gareth. His brother with his infuriating wife. As much as Gareth and Orissa annoyed him by treating him like a baby, Desmond was grateful. Without them, he wouldn’t have even thought of going to AA.

“You didn’t come here for my sad life story, Desmond.” This time, she was more confident in helping herself to another slice. “And I really would rather not talk about it tonight. What do you want from me?”

“I would love it if you gave me the opportunity to paint you.”

She made a face. He titled his head. “You find the prospect unpleasant.”

“Can’t you see what I look like?”

“And we’re back to that. What do you think you look like, Lucy?”

Anger reddened her face. “Have you come here to watch me humiliate myself even more? Like you haven’t done enough?”

“What exactly have I done?” He shot back, frustrated at all her assumptions. Her false, insulting, hurtful assumptions. “All I’ve asked is for the chance to paint you. I said I dreamed of you. Fantasized. What the hell is so humiliating about that?”

“You wouldn’t know! All my life I’ve been called ugly and made fun of, treated as something less than human. Desmond, people actually made bets as to who would get to fuck me. They pretended to be nice so that I’d drop my pants and let them fuck me! So forgive me for reacting like this whenever you say stupid shit like wanting to paint and dreaming of me!”

Lucy threw her pizza down and stood up, nearly jostling the contents of the table onto Desmond’s lap. As she stormed inside her tiny apartment, Desmond got to his feet. She turned, lips curls in a snarl and he seized her by the shoulders.

“Lucy-“

“I won’t let anyone humiliate and hurt me like that again. I’ve been through more than enough. No more!”

He shook her. “I’m not going to hurt you!” As she stared at him in disbelief, he said, more calmly, “Lucy, I’ll swear on my life. I will never hurt you. You have my word.”

Lucy stared at him, confused and still doubtful. But there was no anger now-at least, it had diminished drastically. But she still moved sharply away from him. “Why me, Desmond?”

“Why not you? Yes, you’re ugly. That’s the truth of it. But it is what makes you interesting. It intrigues me. It makes me. . .Lucy,” and this time, he sighed, shoulder slumping as the weight of the last seven years came crashing on him. “Lucy, when I saw you at the park, for the first time since I got sober, I wished- no, hoped, to paint again. To create. I could see again. Because of you. All it took was a fleeting glimpse of you. Now that you’re here, that I’m here, I’m- I’m overwhelmed. I haven’t felt like this in a long time. Possibly never. Until now.” He looked in her eyes. “Until you.”

He let out a groan, but it wasn’t of desire. Exhaustion. That’s what it was. He brushed past her and collapsed on the loveseat, flinging an arm over his eyes.

The seat under him was dented, so he knew he was on her preferred spot. He smelled oranges too, and he wondered how many hours had she spent playing her blue cello here. He sighed again and let his arm fall to the side. He had said more to Lucy than he had to his brother since getting sober.

Lucy was still standing, staring at him. She was pale now although the freckles were still here. She looked uncertain. Unafraid, but uncertain.

“Lucy,” and this time he was pleading. “I need you. I need you more than I’ve needed anyone. I’m nothing but a has-been artist. I highly doubt if I’ll get back to where I was but right now, all I know is just the sight of you makes me want to try and create. . .something significant. That’s what matters,” he added, his throat dry. He searched her eyes until he was sure she wouldn’t look away. “Not being on top.”

He managed to hold her gaze before she put her eyes away. Desmond would have stood up but then she returned those to him. Does she know the power of such eyes?

“Please, Lucy.” He wasn’t accustomed to pleading but with her, he would. He couldn’t create without her. Couldn’t see without her. She had given it back to him without even knowing it, the ability to regard yet again.

“You said I’m ugly.” She whispered.

He hung his head then said, “I apologize-“

“No. Don’t. I’m not. . .I know. I’ve always known.” Her voice was bitter but also resigned. “It’s just that, you’re the first to say it without. . .without hate. Like it’s a good thing.”

“You’re not as ugly as you think you are, though.” This, he was truthful about. That friend of yours, the brown haired one, she’ll only be that pretty while young. Your eyes will always be beautiful.

She blushed. “I don’t need lies.”

“I don’t lie.” He snapped.

“Right.”

“I swear it, Lucy.” He liked saying her name, he discovered. A sweet name for a strong woman. It was perfect.

“I still don’t. . .I mean, I understand about needing to create, Desmond.” He liked the sound of his name from her lips too. “I just can’t. . .I can’t understand why me, though. Why not somebody like Mariet? Isn’t she intriguing too?”

Now Desmond had to be blunt. “I suppose. If you have no imagination.”

She frowned.

“She’s beautiful. But beauty on the surface like that, beauty that’s obvious, that’s the way things always are, aren’t they? You see it and that’s it. There’s nothing to mine from it. Nothing more to get. You, on the other hand. . .” He couldn’t stop himself from caressing her figure with his eyes. She did not have a womanly shape but her limbs were long, she was covered in freckles and those nipples. Still hard. He hoped they were long.

“Are so much more than you think. More than you and I can comprehend, to tell you the truth.”

“You don’t know what you’re seeing.” Lucy sounded helpless. “You’ve imagined me a certain way.” She choked. She was remembering the nude sketch. “I’m not. . you haven’t. . .you don’t know me, Desmond. You have these expectations and I don’t want. . .I can’t disappoint you.”

“How can you think that?”

“You-you haven’t really seen me, Desmond.” Lucy’s chin was wobbling again. “And-And I think before I agree, there must be something you should know first. I can’t. . I don’t want lies, Desmond. I want the truth. I want you to see me as I am and paint me as I really am. You have to see me.”

“I am seeing you.”

She shook her head. “No, you’re not.” She sounded morose.

“Lucy-“ he moved to stand but she stopped him by holding up a shaky hand.

“Please, Desmond,” she whispered. “Let me. . .I have. . .” Then her eyes glittered and there was a determined set to her jaw. “I have to do this.”

She took a deep breath then reached for the bottom of her tank. Desmond’s eyes got big as she pulled it off, flinging the threadbare garment to the floor before she straightened up and looked at him. He was right. Soft, gentle swells rising from her broad chest, splashed heavily with freckles. His breath sped up when he discovered that her aureoles were pink and huge, nearly taking the circumference of her meager breasts. Her nipples were plump and hung long.

He swallowed. He wanted one of those nipples in his mouth.

Her waist was straight, with a flat stomach. If not for the softness of her eyes, even when they were laced with defiance and challenge, or the shy rises of her breasts from her chest, Desmond would think her a man. He watched her undo the laces of her drawstring shorts before shimmying them down her wide hips and trunk-like thighs, down to her long legs.

Then she straightened up again, this time fully nude. Desmond’s eyes were quick to fall on her bush. It was thick with springy curls, a mix of pale and dirty-blonde. His cock pushed against his pants, wanting inside. Lucy was hairy, much hairier than all the other women but damn.

He must capture her on canvas. He must.

Lucy was blushing violently, as if red paint had been spilled on her. She was embarrassed and afraid but it was clear she was ready to see this through.

“You have to see,” she said, stubbornly, defiantly. She met his eyes. “Don’t you make fun of me, Desmond Gorman.”