Stripped (9 page)

Jonathan steps away and looks at his shoe before standing next to me. The painting in front of us is pale skin on snow, cream and white, and haunted eyes that make me shiver. I stare at the canvas way too long with him by my side, and ask, "What do you think his deal is?"

"I think that's a chick, Cassie. I mean, those could be man boobs, but her ass is a little too—" I jab him in the side with my elbow and render him silent as he chortles.

"No, you dork. I mean the artist—Jonathan Gray. What's wrong with him? All these paintings look so sad. It's like staring into an emotional void and the woman is insignificant."

A single brow lifts on his face, like Jon's impressed. His arms fold over his toned chest as he tucks his chin in. His lips press together and part, like he wants to say something, but he doesn't.

My voice is soft, "Tell me. I know you're thinking something—just say it. It can't possibly make my opinion of you any worse," I tease. He laughs once, but still says nothing. I copy his stance and tip my head up. Eyeing him, I say, "Your silence makes me think that you must be contemplating boning the subject."

Jonathan laughs way too loudly, making a few people, including a security guard, look our way. A sweet smile plays across his face before his flush fades. Damn, he's cute.

"God, you're crass. Although the formal language made it sound much more refined. Thank you, I appreciate that."

"Any time." I smirk and look positively smug, until he starts talking.

Jonathan's eyes don't wander back my way, instead he stares at the painting like he's lost in a dream. "There was this woman back when I was a kid—barely a teenager—she looked like this. Everything about her was soft and alluring. It felt like she was heaven, a safe place in a storm." He presses his lips together and swallows hard. "But some storms never end. They go on and on and the turmoil builds to a fucking froth and this is what you get." He gestures to the painting. "The haunted eyes and the woman in the mist fade to white, but she's never gone—her betrayal is always there, smack in front of my goddamn face." For a moment neither of us says anything, but then he glances over at me. "Too much for you?"

"Not at all. Everyone has a dark side, Jon." I watch him for a second. He's breathing hard and won't look at me. "Hey, real friends don't run when things get bad. I don't know who that woman was or what she did to you, but—"

"She was great. She didn't do anything any thirteen year old guy wouldn't love to do, but—" he shakes his head and pushes his hair back.

"But what?" What the hell is he talking about?

He looks straight into my eyes and it feels like every breath of air has been sucked from the room. The people who were standing so close flitter away. The security guard becomes a gray blob to my right and the elderly couple on the bench fades away. In that moment, everything is him.

When his gaze meets mine, it's as if his blue eyes are waves and he's drowning. I can see he's in peril, but it's too late. This storm has already passed and it drowned him. The man standing before me is a carcass of what he was, an illusion covered in pretty smiles and smooth words. Even though we haven't known each other that long, I see through him.

The vulnerability in that moment makes my anger flare to life. I hate it. I hate that someone hurt him. I hate that I've been trampled over and over again and did nothing to stop it. I hate that I'm weak and that he's hurting. I don't want him to hurt, not now. Not ever. If I lift my hand and touch him, the moment will crumble into a million pieces, but the urge to hold him in my arms is overtaking me.

My fingers brush the back of his hand gently and he shivers. He blinks rapidly and the pleasant expression he wears like a mask slips back into place. "But I shouldn't complain. I mean, I have no reason to..." His eyes look everywhere, except at me.

"It's not complaining."

He clears his throat and shifts his shoulders, tightening his folded arms. "You don't talk about your mother, and I won't talk about mine."

Uh, yes I do. But, I don't understand. My brain sorts through the things he just told me—which sounded sexual—until he mentions his mother. Shaking my head, I ask, "Your mother? What does she—"

He's so uncomfortable, squirming in front of me like I'm going to stomp him with my shoe. He's like a bug on its back, unable to recover without a little help. I smile and look away, tucking my hair behind my ear as I do so. The old security guard in front of me is touching the wedding band on his left hand. His body is tense, but I don't know why.

That's when the unthinkable happens. The floor starts to shake and before I know what's happening a loud sound comes from across the room. Shrapnel flies at us, and before I can blink Jonathan grabs hold of me and tackles me to the floor. He rolls us under a bench on the far side of the room. Shots are fired, but there's so much smoke that I can't see anything. I claw at Jonathan and bury my face in his shoulder, shaking.

Holding me tight, we stay like that under the bench. It seems like years, but it's only seconds. Terror courses through my veins as his body remains wrapped around mine. He speaks to me, but I can't hear him. My ears are still ringing with the deafening silence that followed the blast. I keep my face buried in his chest with my heart pounding so violently that I'm sure he can feel it. The smoke starts to clear and Jonathan says something, but I don't know what. The ringing won't stop.

Crying, I shake my head and say, "No, Jon. Don't leave me." I'm ready to plead with him, to beg him to stay. I'm so frightened that I don't know what to do, and more afraid that I'll lose him.

Jonathan takes my hand and presses it to his lips. He continues to speak, but I can't hear his voice. Slowly, he rolls off me and pulls me from the spot under the bench in the corner of the room. In front of us is the security guard's wedding band and a trail of blood that leads back to his broken body on the other side of the room.

CHAPTER 15

JONATHAN

The art show isn't going the way I'd planned. Some lunatic bombed the damn thing. Cassie and I are lucky we're going to walk out in one piece, although we'll both have scars. A long gash mars the side of her perfect neck. There's so much blood when I look down that my terror turns into panic. A pool of crimson is under her head and seeping across the hard white floor.

"Cassie, it's all right. It's going to be all right." I stroke her face and whisper to her as I press her body to mine, waiting for the blasts to stop. My fucking ears aren't working and I can't tell if there are alarms going off yet, but we need medics. Now.

My eyes flick to the side and catch a flash of gold. There's a trail of blood that leads back to a fallen body. The old people who were on the other side of the room can't be seen. I feel completely useless and if I don't do something Cassie is going to bleed out on the floor.

When crap stops falling, I turn to see if it's over. Once I'm certain that I won't be shot, I whisper to Cassie, "I'm going for help. Don't move, Cass." As though she could. The truth is that I don't know what I'm saying. I can't even hear my own voice. Her eyes are glassy, wide with fear. Those beautiful lips move, begging for something that I can't hear. I rip off the bottom of my shirt and press it to her neck. Her eyes are glazing over and she shivers. I can't save her, I know I can't. My throat tightens as I realize what I have to do. Leaning in, I kiss her head. "I love you, Cass. Don't leave me. Hang on." It kills me to leave her, but I do.

Staggering to my feet, I look around at the museum. Canvases were blasted off the walls and there's debris everywhere. Chunks of concrete and wood line the floors. I'm walking like a fucking zombie, my feet won't move fast enough. I can't run. Shit, I can barely breathe. My ears don't work. It sounds like I'm walking through an empty cave, but there must be people screaming. There were people in here with us.

My phone. I dig into my pocket and pull it out as I stumble around. The screen is cracked and a few pieces of glass are missing. I flick it to life as I stagger toward what I think is the door. It's a bright opening that's flooded with light and white smoke. The screen comes to life and I dial. I don't know if they can hear me, but I scream into the phone and say where I am, and what's happened. I'm about to walk out into the sunlight flooding in from the next room when I see a piece of bent rebar. My foot stops just over the threshold. A gust of wind hits me in the face and I can see. I'm about to step through a hole in the wall and fall a couple of stories into the mob below. The phone tumbles out of my hand as my arms swing backward.

"Shit," I gasp, and press my back to the wall, trying to stop my sluggish momentum. My foot swings clumsily into the opening as my body lurches backward. I fall to the floor, instead of hitting the pavement below, and cough up a lung. There's tons of crap floating through the air. It flutters to the floor like gray pieces of snow.

I've crossed the room. This is the spot that was reserved for a painting that hadn't been installed yet. There was a temporary one in its place—not Gray's new piece. That means Cassie is across from me. As I try to make my way back to her, I see the old guy and his wife. He's hovering over her, holding her hand with tears flowing from his eyes. He says something to me as he tugs at his wife's lifeless arm. There's a thin cut on her forehead, but it shouldn't have killed her, and yet, she's not breathing. I can see it from where I stand. Her chest is still and her lips are turning an ungodly color.

Cassie is breathing, so I linger. Just for a second. I'm a selfish bastard, I know, but I can't lose Cassie. Not like this. I always thought if I never saw her again, it'd be because she got sick of my flirting and told me off. Things can't end like this.

I'm not really thinking at this point. My brain keeps running in circles, telling me to get the hell out, but I don't leave. More shit falls from the ceiling and shakes the ground. I can hear a distant thud, but it doesn't sound close. Not that I can tell.

Before I know what I'm doing, I'm at the old woman's side doing chest compressions. I stay like that until a medic pulls me away. They ask me stuff that I can't hear. I look behind me and say Cassie's name over and over again, but they don't answer me. A medic is pulling at my shirt, trying to remove it. I stop fighting. My body is covered in sweat and screaming at me to stop. The vise that's been squeezing my head tightens as sweat drips into my eyes. Hands are on me, and I fall to my knees and cough so violently that I expect to see my lung on the floor when I sit up.

When I glance across the room I can see police and paramedics. There are several people surrounding Cassie. "Is she all right?" They keep trying to help me, but I yell, and point at Cassie.

The medic next to me is a little thing with dark skin and slick black hair. Her hand lands lightly on my shoulder. Her mouth moves and she nods slowly, smiling at me weakly. Her lips say it's all right, and I finally stop fighting against everyone.

Today didn't turn out very well. Next time I take Cassie on a date, we'll have to roller skate across the spillway. It seems funny now. I finally found out why Cassie laughed at me when I tried to take a walk with her that day—Robyn said there are alligators in there and they walk across the road, happy to eat a few stupid pedestrians and go home.

Rationality is gone. I sit, breathing way too hard, and laugh, because if I don't laugh, I'm going to cry.

_____

Cassie is next to me, a week later, and things have gotten interesting. They stitched up her neck and she's healing. We're not supposed to do much for a few days, just lay around is what the people at the hospital told us. So, we do. And that's how things begin to change. Cassie will take my hand and wrap my arm over her shoulder while I read her a book. She snuggles up next to me when we're watching TV and rests against my side. It's like she's actually mine, even though I know she'd never have me.

Sex hasn't come up, it rarely does, but tonight is going to break me. My willpower has dwindled to an all-time low, and I want her so badly that I can't think of anything else. When I close my eyes I picture Cassie in my arms and imagine sliding my hands along her silky skin, feeling every curve and muscle beneath my palm. I want to know every inch of her. I want to know what makes her writhe and what makes her knees weak. I want to hear that sigh of delight after she comes and hold her in my arms. I'm not a one woman guy, but I would be if I had a shot with her. But I don't. I'm not the guy she's looking for. To her, I'm used goods so she won't even consider me. Meanwhile, the scent of her hair, and her skin, is lodged in my mind and it's all I can do to breathe like a normal person while she lays next to me.

We're at my uncle's mansion, laying in the yard, and staring up at the sky. It's an inky black with a spattering of glittering stars. One of my arms is around Cassie's shoulders, and the other is at my side with my hand on my stomach. The scent of honeysuckle and Cassie's shampoo fills my head. I want to roll over and kiss her, but I don't. I just lay still and stare at the sky, wondering what kind of hell I've thrown myself into by allowing her to linger in this in-between place that's past friendship, but not lovers.

She touches the stiches on her neck absentmindedly. "I should be glad this wasn't worse, but it's going to leave a nasty scar."

"It won't, so you don't have to worry about it, but in the off chance that it does, well, no one in their right mind is going to be looking at your neck." She smiles and elbows me in the side lightly. "What are you jabbing me for with those pointy things? It's the truth. You're hot. Learn to live with it." Turning my face toward her, I stare at the smoothness of her cheek and fight the urge to touch, and trail my fingers over her soft flesh. I look away quickly and suck in the night air and let it out in a rush. I'm so drawn to her—so pulled to her—that the thoughts never stop.