Читать книгу Tear You Apart - Меган Харт - Страница 11

Chapter Two

I thought he meant to take me to a coffee shop. That’s what anyone would think when a stranger asks you at close to midnight if you want a cup of coffee. I’m still not familiar with the neighborhood. Naveen’s new gallery opened only a month ago, and while I can get to and from it, I don’t know about anything else nearby.

Will does. He lives close by, in Chinatown. I love Chinatown. I love shopping for chopsticks and soup spoons I could find anywhere, but which feel so much more authentic here. If I could, I’d have an entire collection of those cats with the waving paws. Money cats. I love them, too. They’re usually red and gold, and to me the ticky-tocky motion of their hands always smells like fresh lemons.

I should be surprised when instead of a coffee shop with slices of cake in a revolving case, he takes me to a building made of stone, with ornate metal bars on the windows and a front door he needs to unlock with a keypad. I should hold back, hesitant, when he turns just inside the doorway to smile back at me with that same sly and sideways grin he gave me in the gallery. I shouldn’t go upstairs with him, into his apartment, where he again holds the door open, this time so I can step through in front of him, though the space is small enough that I have to touch my shoulder to his chest as I pass.

I should go home.

I think about it. Imagine myself backing off, hands up. Shake, shake of my head and a nervous smile. I imagine myself finding a cab. Taking the train. The entire scenario takes about thirty seconds, and by that time it’s too late. I’m already inside.

It’s a loft, of course. That’s where artists live. It must’ve once been a warehouse or factory. Wood floors, big beams, brick walls. Living room, kitchen, dining area all one big space, with a hallway leading to what I assume is bathroom and bedroom. There’s an actual loft, too, with a spiral staircase that makes my heart ache with envy.

“I want an apartment.” I’ve said it aloud without realizing.

Will looks at me. “So get one.”

I laugh. “I have a house. I don’t need an apartment. I just want one.”

A place I don’t have to share. Built-in bookcases, a tiny galley kitchen I’ll never use because I’ll never cook. Hardwood floors with colorful throw rugs. A big, soft bed with all the pillows for myself. A quiet place with smooth corners just for me. It would be filled with rainbows and the smell of the ocean sand.

“So get one,” Will repeats, as if it’s as easy as going down to the apartment store and picking one out. “Hey. Coffee?”

It’s late. Drinking coffee now will only keep me from being able to sleep, but of course that’s why I need it. “Yes, please.”

He has some fancy coffeemaker that grinds the beans and heats the water to just the right temperature. I can’t explain why this makes me laugh, but it does. Will slants me a grin as I lean against his countertop—bright, polished metal like you’d find in a restaurant.

“What?”

I shrug. “I just didn’t have you figured as a fancy coffeemaker sort of guy, that’s all.”

Will leans, too, close enough that if he stretched out a leg he could tap my foot with his. “Oh. That. It’s not mine. It was my wife’s.”

Instinctively, I look around his place for signs of a woman’s touch, not that I’m sure what that might be. Flowers and throw pillows, I guess. The scent of perfume. He laughs. I’m caught.

“Ex,” he emphasizes. “Was. She took the cat. I got the coffeemaker.”

“Oh.” The machine spits and hisses, burping out black liquid. The smell is amazing. Just coffee, nothing odd. Still amazing.

He pours me a cup. Then one for himself. He pulls a bottle from a cupboard. Bushmills. “Want some?”

“Um...no.” It’s nearly one in the morning. I have to leave in a few minutes so I can catch the last train.

I shouldn’t be here at all.

“You sure?” He wags the bottle. Tempting me. He splashes his mug with a liberal dose. “It’s good.”

I’m sure it is. I haven’t had whiskey in...well, I can’t remember the last time. Have I ever had whiskey? Surely in those booze-addled college days when we drank whatever we could get our hands on, I must’ve had whiskey.

I hold out my mug. “Not too much.”

“No such thing,” Will says, and pours in a healthy shot. He raises his mug and waits until I’ve done the same. “Sláinte.”

“Are you Irish?” I take a hesitant sip. The coffee’s hot and good. The whiskey, better. Both are strong and hit the back of my throat and then my stomach with heat. Or maybe I shouldn’t lie. It’s the way he looks at me, not anything I’m drinking.

“Who isn’t?” He lifts the mug and drinks without so much as a wince. “Come on. I want to show you something.”

“Not your etchings, I hope.” The joke’s not smooth, but since everything about me feels herky-jerky, all rough edges and stumbling feet, why should my words be any different?

Will glances over his shoulder. “Something like that.”

I do hesitate then, just for a second. Then another. I’m in a stranger’s apartment so late it’s soon going to be early. I took his liquor. Would I blame him if he thought there might be more to this?

Would I be disappointed if he doesn’t?

In one corner of the vast space, he shows me a desk set up with an impressive desktop computer, stacks of file folders, bits of crumpled paper. A little farther back is a set of red velvet curtains hung on the wall. Next to that is a metal rack holding several rolls of paper backdrops. Also, another table fitted with several lights and a contraption of metal and fabric I’ve seen before. I forget what it’s called. A light box, maybe. Something to showcase items to be photographed.

“This is where the magic happens.” He turns on one of the big lights, bathing everything in a golden glow.

I shield my eyes for a second, glad the beam is focused on a battered wooden chair set in front of the velvet curtains, and not on me. That light highlights that chair’s every crack and splinter, every flaw. I can only imagine what it would show on my face.

Will opens a folder to pull out an eight-by-ten glossy of a woman seated at a desk, typing at an old-fashioned typewriter. She’s dressed like a fetishized secretary. Tight black skirt, white shirt with a bow at the collar, impossibly high heels. Hair pulled back in a severe bun, glasses covering eyes made up with far too much shadow and liner to be appropriate for a real office. I’m confused.

“Stock art.” He pulls another shot from the folder, this one of a businessman in a suit and tie, holding a paper take-out cup of coffee and a briefcase. Will waves the photo slowly.

“You took those?”

“I did.” He fits them back into the folder. “My bread and butter.”

Somehow, this deflates me. “Oh. I didn’t know.”

“Gotta eat,” Will says. “But look at these.”

He gestures for me to move closer, and to resist would, at the very least, seem impolite. I stand next to him at the desk, our shoulders brushing as he sorts through another folder to pull out a colorful print of a man and a woman in an embrace. They’re wearing historical costumes, her hair flowing. For that matter, his hair’s flowing, too. The print behind it is of the same shot, though it’s been altered to add a different background and some stylized effects. Also, text.

“Book covers? You do book covers?”

“When they hire me.” Will grins and taps the picture. “Love this one. Supersexy, don’t you think?”

It is a sexy picture, I have to admit that, though honestly, it’s the sort of cover my eyes would skate over in a store. Like whiskey, when’s the last time I picked up a romance novel? Have I ever?

He pulls another shot from the pile. This one’s darker. A woman in black leather holds a gun, her long hair in a braid over her shoulder. I covet her boots. It’s a night for envy, I think, moving closer to him without thinking, so that I can get a better look at the print.

“I’ve seen that one,” I say. “Science fiction, right? They just made a movie out of the book.”

“Yep.” He sounds proud. “It was a bestseller.”

We are standing very close. I could turn an inch in one direction and we’ll no longer touch. An inch in the other and I’ll be pressed up against him. I imagine the push and pull of the muscles in his arms if I were to put my hands on them. I do not move.

“Let me take your picture,” Will says.

That’s it. I back up one step, two, my head shaking. “No. No way.”

My reaction’s too strong for such a simple request, and I feel instantly stupid. I force myself not to turn tail and run. I lift my chin, square my shoulders. I meet his gaze.

He isn’t smiling. Not laughing. Will’s studying me with a serious look I can’t interpret, and can’t match.

“Why not?”

“Why would you want to?” I let out a slow but shaky breath.

“I like to take portraits. It’s my favorite thing.”

“You don’t want a picture of me.”

Will looks at the chair, pinned by that bright light. If I sit there, in that chair, that light will be all over me. I’ll be all light, no dark. Nothing hidden. No secrets. He’ll see all of me, every wrinkle and crevice, every line, every stray and unplucked hair. There is no fucking way I’m sitting in that chair.

Will says nothing.

“I don’t want a picture of me,” I tell him.

He picks up his camera. I know the finished product of art. The canvases, the matted prints. But I know nothing of the tools used to create it. Paints and brushes, f-stops and apertures, lenses, film speed, clay and glaze. I can tell you what it’s worth when it’s finished, but I have no idea about its creation.

He holds it carefully in one palm, the size of it impressive. I used to have a point-and-shoot until I lost the charger. Now I use my phone to take snapshots, when and if I feel the need to capture the moment. Mostly, I take pictures and forget about them until it’s time to update my phone’s software, when I upload them to my computer’s hard drive and then forget them there.

Will lifts the camera to one eye and points it at the chair. He snaps a shot. Looks at the view screen. He makes some adjustment to something. Takes another picture.

I haven’t moved. He hasn’t asked again. He just takes another picture of the chair, which also hasn’t moved and doesn’t speak. One more. Again, he checks the view screen. Fiddles with some settings.

Then I’m sitting in that chair, my heart in my throat and the light so bright it seems as though it ought to make me squint, but I don’t have that as an excuse to close my eyes. I see everything. The rest of the room seems cast in shadow, everything but this circle of light in which I sit, my knees pressed tight together, my hands linked just as tightly in my lap. Everything about me is stiff and tense and awkward. I try to breathe, and the air smells metallic. I taste roses.

If he tells me to relax, I will bolt up from this chair and out the door. If he touches me, I will explode. As it is, everything inside me has gone tight and coiled. I want to shake and can’t.

It’s just a picture.

But he doesn’t take it. Will puts the camera to his eye, but nothing snaps. He just looks. Then he puts the camera on the desk and steps back.

“Another time,” he tells me.

I blink and blink again. “What?”

Will hands me my mug of coffee as I get up from the chair. “Let me show you something else, okay?”

“Okay.” The liquid in the mug should be sloshing, but I guess my hands aren’t as shaky as they feel. I sip. It’s lukewarm, the whiskey more potent in it.

He sees me make a face, and laughs, takes the mug and sets it back on the desk. “You don’t have to drink it. But here, look at this. Tell me what you think. And, Elisabeth...”

“Yes?”

“Be honest.”

I understand what he means as soon as he pulls the sheet off the framed print leaning against the wall below the window. There are others in that stack, half a dozen at least, with a few more dozen smaller frames next to it. The black-and-white shot is of a tree, bare branches like spreading fingers against the cloudless sky. The photographer caught the shadows at such an angle that it looks as if the tree’s spindling branches are its roots. It’s impossible to tell that sky’s color. In the print it’s pure, pure white. I imagine it must’ve been a clear, pale blue.

There should be nothing special about the shot. Ansel Adams took thousands of nature shots, and he’s considered a master. This picture has nothing of Adams’s vast scale. It’s one tree, one sky. It’s beautiful. It makes me want to cry.

“Would you hang it in your house?” Will asks. “Would you put it in your foyer to impress people?”

“No.” I haven’t gone to my knees in front of it, though the picture makes me want to. “If I bought this, I would hang it in a place only I could ever see.”

He smiles. I’ve said the right thing. This is it, I think, when he takes my hand and tugs me a step closer. This is when he kisses me.

Of course he doesn’t. Why should he? We’ve only just met. I’m no cover model. I’m bedraggled and unkempt and old enough to know better. His fingers stroke my wedding band.

And oh, there’s that.

He has a cuckoo clock I didn’t see when I came in, and now it whirs into life at the half hour. Two men saw busily at a log while a waterwheel spins. A bird pops out to chirp once before retreating.

“Shit,” I say, and recover my hand as if he’d never taken it. “It’s late. I have to catch the train—”

“You won’t make it.”

I knew that when I’d agreed to come here, didn’t I? Traffic, distance, the rain. The timing. I could pretend to be upset and surprised, but the truth is I’m only a little upset and not at all shocked.

“Stay here. I have a guest room.” He points to the loft. “You can get up early. Catch the first train home. I’ll make you eggs in the morning, if you want.”

It sounds like a come-on, but I pretend I don’t notice. “Oh...I couldn’t. I’ll go find a hotel room.”

“Uh-uh. No way. I’m not letting you wander around in the dark, in the rain, trying to find a place to stay. That would be ridiculous.” Will shakes his head. “I have a pair of pajamas that will fit you.”

“I really...” I want to say can’t. I want to say shouldn’t. The words clog up my throat. Won’t come out.

“Do you need to call someone? Tell them you’ll be home tomorrow?”

There is nobody at home. The girls are off at college, probably still out at a party or tucked into their boyfriends’ beds—not that I like to dwell on that, but I’m not stupid. Ross is out of town. I should know where he is, what he’s doing, but though he told me, I didn’t pay attention. It didn’t matter, beyond knowing he would be gone.

“No. I don’t have to call home.”

Will smiles. “Okay.”

He gives me a pair of pajamas that belong to him, not a pair inherited from an ex-wife, as I feared. Faded flannel pants, an oversize white T-shirt soft and worn from the wash. I should feel awkward wearing his clothes, but he handed them to me so matter-of-factly, along with a toothbrush still in the package, that feeling odd would only make it so, and clearly it doesn’t have to be. The bed in the loft is soft, the pillows fluffy. He doesn’t follow me up the stairs to tuck me in, so it’s definitely not weird.

I sleep right away and wake when the alarm I set on my phone goes off. I’ve had only four hours of sleep, not enough, but I need to get up and get to the train. Get home.

First, though, I need the bathroom. I dress quickly, not sure what I should do with Will’s clothes. I settle for folding them neatly and putting them on the chair at the foot of the bed. Down the spiral stairs in my bare feet, I’m careful not to trip or knock into anything, because the apartment is big and silent and full of echoes from sounds as soft as breathing.

I hear the shower running just as I move to push open the door, which is ajar. I stop, of course. Or in fact, I don’t, because my fingertips nudge the door just...a little...wider. The way the bathroom’s set up, I have a straight shot gaze toward the claw-foot tub and glass-enclosed shower next to it. In addition to envying the apartment and coveting the cover model’s boots, that shower sends a thrill of jealousy through me. Tiles, glass brick, sunflower showerhead. I want it.

Steam hovers between me and the shower, Will inside it, but there’s not nearly enough to obscure any details. There he is, naked in the water, head bent as it sluices over him. His eyes are closed. One hand is on the wall. The other’s on his dick.

I swallow the noise my throat tries to make, but I’m frozen. Can’t move. Don’t want to move, let’s be honest, because everything about this sight is beauty and glory and oh, my God, he’s stroking himself slowly, as if he’s going to take an hour to make himself come. Up, down, twist of the palm around the head of his cock. His knees are bent and his fingers curl against the tile, slipping because he can’t make purchase.

If he looks up, he’ll see me watching. I should go; it’s not right to watch something so private. This isn’t for me.

His hand moves faster. His mouth opens, water filling it and overflowing when he tips his face into the spray. He fucks his fist with deliberation, and I watch the muscles cord in his arm and back, in that spot just above his ass where the dimples dent his skin.

I want to watch him come. I covet and crave it, as a matter of fact, more than I did this apartment or the boots or the shower itself. I want to see Will jerk and moan and finish, and that desire is what finally pushes me away from the door. Down the hall, to the kitchen where I use the toothbrush he gave me at the kitchen sink. I brush and brush, I rinse and spit and rinse again, my eyes closed and my mind filled with the sight of him.

I know he’s there before I turn from the sink, but though I brace myself for the sight of him in a towel, he’s wearing a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt like the one he lent me. Wet hair, slicked back. Bare feet I carefully avoid looking at, as though the sight of his toes could possibly be more intimate than the picture of his cock already permanently sealed in my mind.

“Hey,” Will says. “You’re heading out? I thought I’d make you some breakfast, at least.”

“No, that’s okay. I’m not a breakfast person, anyway. I have to go. Really, you’ve done enough already. Thanks for everything.” I rinse the toothbrush and hold it out to him, as if he’d want it back.

He takes it, but puts it on the counter. “At least let me give you something for the road.”

I want to protest further, but he’s already opening the fridge door and pulling out a pitcher of orange juice. The smell sends saliva squirting in my mouth. It will taste like summer.

“Fresh squeezed,” Will announces. “The ex left a juicer, too.”

He pours me a glass, not a quarter full, not half full, but almost brimming. Our fingers touch when he passes me the glass, but the juice doesn’t spill. He watches me while I drink it, and though I think I’ll just sip it once or twice to be polite, the second the flavor hits my tongue it’s all I can do not to gulp the entire glass. As it is, I finish it faster than is mannerly, and I wipe my mouth with the tips of my fingers when I’m finished.

“See,” Will says. “You never know how thirsty you are until someone offers you something to drink.”