Obsessive Compulsion (6 page)

“Alright, I’m way more than complicated,” he
admits. With my eyes closed, I can pick up the subtle inflections
of his Texas accent hidden behind the formal tone he masks it
with.

“I don’t know where this may go,” he
continues, “if anywhere at all, and I can’t guarantee it won’t just
go in a circle. I can certainly guarantee you that I will have to
backtrack and try again more than a few times. I don’t want to
label it or fill it with expectations I can’t meet, because I don’t
want to let you or myself down. I want to try it, though, because I
like you. I
really
like you.”

Before I can respond, he kisses me again.
Short and sweet. Then again, and again. I stop counting at twelve.
Some of them are mere pecks, some are lingering and some include
the wet tease of his tongue. I think he’s trying different methods,
trying to get it just right so that his OCD can be satisfied. I try
to be patient and give him all the chances he needs.

Ian is a good man. He deserves patience. He
deserves chances.

My lips are a bit puckered and swollen by
the time he speaks again. “Thank you, Charlie.”

The sunlight brightens, filling the studio
and my foolish heart with promise. Ian goes deathly quiet. I hear a
shuffle then the distant slam of the stairwell door. My eyes open
to stare at my empty easel. The clever bastard took the
watercolor.

I sit down on my stool, continuing to smile,
allowing the sunlight in.

I don’t dislike or like Mondays. I’ve always
been rather neutral on the subject. Saul loves them because he gets
to pester Victoria at the office. Kyle hates them because it
reminds him he just spent another wasted weekend in the bed of some
random girl who isn’t Sarah. Brandon hates getting up in the
morning, but Emma’s been helping him with that.

I guess Mondays are neutral for me because I
don’t ever really stop working. If I’m not doing stuff for
Brandon’s real estate company, I’m doing stuff for his club. If I’m
not doing that, I’m doing inspections for the city. And if I get
even a moment to myself, which I avoid for reasons that should have
become obvious by now, it usually doesn’t last. One of my friends
seems to always be in the middle of something they need help
with.

Not that I mind. I like being kept busy, and
they know that. I like feeling that I’m useful to the family that
adopted me in college with very few questions asked. Sure, it means
putting up with Kyle’s crankiness, Victoria’s whip, Saul’s constant
floundering and Brandon’s demanding nature, but I wouldn’t trade my
family for anything. Especially now that it includes Emma and
Charlie.

It’s why I’m sporting a Brandon-worthy,
goofy-ass grin on a Monday, holding a café mocha in one hand and
coffee in the other.

While standing outside Charlie’s
apartment.

At seven in the morning.

No warning phone call, no text, no
invitation. Nothing. I just got it in my head, last night at around
midnight, that I was going to do this, and haven’t been able to let
it go (or sleep) since. So, here I am, wide-eyed, sleep-deprived
and twitchy, hoping this doesn’t appear as creepy to her as I think
it might be.

I also haven’t spoken to her since I kissed
her lips raw and stole her painting on Saturday. I can still taste
her, though, and see her in the sunlight when I close my eyes. Feel
depressed when I open my eyes and she’s not there. Twitch like an
addict going through withdrawal.

Charlie withdrawal. Yeah, I’ve got it, so
very bad.

She let me kiss her twenty-four times on
Saturday. I tried to stop at sixteen, my standard stop-count, but
it didn’t feel right, so I went on to seventeen. Saturday is a six,
and I prefer multiples of four or six, so I kept going, my brain
absolutely refusing to stop on an ugly, dysfunctional prime number
like seventeen. Finally, I hit the penultimate number for my brain,
four-times-six, twenty-four, and it was
perfect
.

Her lips were plump, probably swollen from
my attention, and soft. The angle of her chin was just so, and her
mouth was slightly parted. My tongue ventured to greet hers. She
kissed back then rewarded me with the sweetest smile wrapped up in
sunlight, strands of her fiery hair delicately framing a serene
face.

That serenity had washed over me and carried
me into a place I seldom reach. Peaceful, anxiety-free bliss.

And then I stole her painting. Not one of my
most suave maneuvers, not that I’ve had many of those to begin
with, but she didn’t call my cell demanding it back, either. I hope
she understands why I took it. I had to have it. The moment I saw
it, I
knew
.

I stood there in her studio doorway,
watching her paint it, mesmerized by the way she transformed a
blank piece of watercolor canvas into something so… I don’t have
words suitable. It’s more than beautiful. That painting is alive -
two souls brought out into the open, captured by brush strokes and
tinted water.

When she raised the glass of water and her
intention became clear, I blanked out. I don’t remember how I got
from the doorway to stand in front of her, blocking the destructive
water from reaching the canvas. I didn’t count steps, watch for
cracks or track sunbeams. One second I was leaning on the
doorframe, watching her paint, and the next I was covered in really
cold, orange-colored water.

She never did answer my question on why she
was going to destroy the painting. Her defensive avoidance and
redirection of the conversation leads me to believe there’s a deep
story there. Despite my fear of landing, I want to jump off her
ledge and find out just how deep it goes.

“Ian?”

Charlie’s confused voice derails my thoughts
then the sight of her wind-blown red hair derails everything else.
I manage to hold out the café mocha to her with a mostly steady
hand. She’s wearing all denim, from jeans to jean jacket and even
her shirt is a soft blue. I’m kind of glad she’s over her
lime-avocado phase. This new color pallet she’s wearing highlights
her eyes and the coppery shine in her hair. It balances my world,
if even for just a much needed second.

She pulls her jacket closed against the
Dallas December wind and takes the caffeinated hot chocolate. “Are
you my new enabler?”

At least she doesn’t mention the
painting.

“Or is this an apology bribe for sneaking
off with my painting?” she adds.

Dammit. “I’ll give it back if you promise
not to give it a bath.”

Her bright red eyebrows shift upwards as she
holds the coffee cup to her nose. She smirks at me behind the rim.
“Maybe you better hold on to it, then. My mamma didn’t call me
Tornado Charlie for nothin’.”

Tornado Charlie
? Seriously? Of course
I snort at that.

Fuck, I hate my stupid laugh. Her smile
widens at the sound, though. What’s up with that? “Alright, but
you’ll have to come by my place and sign it.”

“Why, Mr. Rider,” she continues to eye me
over the steam rising from her cup’s mouth vent. “You tryin’ to get
me up to your apartment?”

“Consider it an open invitation,” I shrug,
refusing to admit that I’ve been dreaming about having her in my
apartment for a month now, knowing perfectly well it would never
happen. Well, maybe that’s not a complete impossibility now, but my
past experiences still refuse to agree on the matter with my
current situation concerning Charlie.

She nods then shakes her cup at me slightly.
“How’d you know what time I’d be comin’ out?”

“I spoke with Emma,”

“Emma,” she finishes with me and rolls her
eyes.

I can’t tell if that annoys her or not. I’m
pretty certain she wasn’t pleased that Emma told me about the
studio. The last thing I want to do is cause some sort of wedge
between them. “It came up in conversation over breakfast on
Saturday. Emma said you’d picked up an extra class for a sick
teacher?”

“Yeah, well, she’s not so much sick as she
is eight months pregnant.” Charlie brushes her hand through her
hair and my own hand twitches because it wants to do the same
thing. “Her Color Theory class is moving into reductive tenting
today, and she’s not supposed to be around things like paint
thinner and tincture.”

“Eight months? Why isn’t she on full
leave?”

“That’s what I said!” Charlie huffs. “She’s
one of those homeopathic hippy-chicks. Says that laying down and
resting all day isn’t good for her or the baby. She even does
something called birthing yoga.” She shrugs. “I dunno. To each her
own, right?”

“Well…” I snort again. Dammit.

Charlie blushes. Wow. I think she may
actually like it when I do that. “I thought, maybe, I could drive
you in and then we could do lunch?”

“So, are we dating now?”

“Uh,” I’m not sure how to answer that.

I want to say ‘yes’, but I don’t want to
label this, either.
Dating
often means different things to
different people. It’s that grey area between friends and having an
actual relationship. I don’t know what she wants out of this thing
developing between us, whatever it is. I’m not even sure what I
want, aside for a chance to try and make something in my personal
life function somewhat normally. “Thought we weren’t going to label
this
.”

“Right,” she smirks behind her coffee.
“Alright. I could use a ride, anyway. My car’s having alternator
issues again.”

I open the passenger door to my sedan and
hold her café mocha while she gets in. Once we’re on the road, I
don’t like the silence that hangs. “You should get a more reliable
car. Didn’t it break down last week, too?”

“Yeah, well, guess I should get a more
reliable paycheck and stop spendin’ all my money on art
supplies.”

I frown. Smooth, Rider. Really smooth.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. I just don’t want you to end up
stranded somewhere. Especially not in the middle of winter.”

She sighs, stretching out one hand over the
heating vent. “I know. Right now, I’m just lucky I have a job as an
artist that lets me afford a studio space. It just doesn’t leave
much wiggle room anywhere else, and since I haven’t received tenure
at the university, I’m not guaranteed a position past the current
semester.”

“Why did you turn down Brandon’s offer
then?” I ask the question that I already know the answer to, but it
still bugs me that she’s doing all this work for us for free.

“Shoe Village is about Emma, not money,” she
states while looking out the passenger window. “I owe her so much.
All I got to give right now is my time, so it’s what I’m
givin’.”

A stoplight allows me a chance to stare at
her. “You know she doesn’t blame you for what happened. You’re best
friends, Charlie. She loves you.”

Charlie turns her sea-blue eyes on me, the
whites a little moist and red. She doesn’t say anything for a long
moment. Her lips part, and I want to lean across and kiss them
despite knowing I wouldn’t be able to stop with just one kiss. A
car horn from behind crashes into the moment and I put my eyes back
on the road.

She stays quiet the rest of the way to the
university and I know I’ve overstepped. Instead of pulling up to
the drop-off, I park in the per-hour lot. Her class isn’t for
another half-hour, so I hope she’ll let me try again. She makes no
move to get out of the car. Instead, she appears to be waiting for
something, idly sipping her café mocha.

“I’m sorry,” I start. Once again, I’ve
fucked up and find myself apologizing to this woman. I’m honestly
surprised she hasn’t gotten out and slammed the car door in my
face. “I don’t have the right to say anything on the matter. It’s
between you and Emma.”

Her lips touch the rim of her cup then she
lowers it. She’s staring down at the dashboard, but I don’t think
she’s seeing it. The look in her eyes tells me she’s seeing things
only she knows about. “You’re right. She’s my best friend. She
loves me unconditionally and I keep doin’ wrong by her.”

“That’s not true,” I have to argue this, my
place or not. I can’t stand the way her voice has flattened.
Reaching across the console, I take one of her hands away from her
cup and hold it, the warmth of her palm making me realize neither
of us are wearing gloves. I stare down at our hands, her eyes
following suit. I think she understands what a big deal it is that
I’m not totally freaking out right now.

Instead of pulling away, I tighten my grip
and she takes in a sharp breath. “Charlie, you’re only human.
People make mistakes, but you didn’t ever hurt her on purpose. If
anything, all you’ve done your entire life is try to help her. From
what Emma tells me, she’s not the only one you’ve tried to help,
either.”

Charlie’s eyes go wide, she pulls her hand
from mine and grips the door handle. “I’m gonna be late. Thanks for
the coffee and the ride.”

“Charlie, wait,” I call after her, but she’s
already out the door and closing it.

Dammit! Dammit, dammit, dammit! Why the fuck
won’t this seatbelt let go!

Breathe in. Calm down. Press the release
button. Go after her.

By the time I catch up to her and grab her
elbow, she’s heading into the building. Damn, her long legs can
travel distance without even trying. I stop her in the entryway
between two sets of doors, students and faculty ignoring us except
to give annoyed looks because we’re blocking the way. I don’t know
why what I said set her off. I’d meant it as a compliment, but
apparently I fail at those, too.

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing, Ian.” She’s winded, her
effort to outrun me clear.

I keep her elbow clasped tight, tugging
slightly so she’ll look at me. “But I
am
sorry. It’s not
right for me to be talking to Emma about you.”

“It’s alright,” she says, then continues
before I can disagree. “I’m glad Emma has someone else she can talk
to about stuff. For a long time it was only me. She deserves to
have more people in her life, and all of ya’ll are good for her.
Well, ‘cept maybe Kyle, but even he has his merits.”