Scooping up the forgotten spray can from the ground, I held out my hand for her to take. “Come on. Let’s get you to that gala, little ostrich.”
I held her hand while we waited for a taxi.
I kissed her knuckles as she stepped from the vehicle and climbed the stairs of the large convention hall.
I paid the fare with money she’d given me and made my way back home.
But I didn’t enter the house of horrors.
Instead, I crept through my neighbourhood with a half-empty can of spray paint and partook in my new form of medicine.
Chapter Twenty-Three
______________________________
Olin
-The Present-
A HAUNTED NOISE echoed through the warehouse and into Gil’s bedroom.
I jolted upright, ripped from whatever dream I’d been having.
I blinked with disorientation, brain hazy and eyes fuzzy. The nest of blankets around me were warm and cosy, but whatever woke me came again, launching me from the covers.
What the hell is that?
Scrambling upright, I dashed to the door and cracked it open. Darkness yawned deep and endless, hiding familiar and unfamiliar things. The borrowed clothes hung on my slim frame. Gil’s size wasn’t exactly in keeping with my own, and I hoisted up the waistband of the black sweatpants he’d loaned me, retying the strings tighter around my hips.
I’d struggled when I’d slipped his belongings on. They’d smelled of him. Smelled of comforting washing powder and the citrusy paint smell that permeated his skin. It was a scent that hurt my heart.
After he’d left me, I’d dressed and made the bed, then sat and stared at the door, trying to decide what to do. I hadn’t meant to fall asleep. I’d been trying to come up with an excuse of going home. But after so many sleepless nights and a paint-smeared evening, I couldn’t fight the fatigue anymore.
A cool breeze nibbled at my bare feet.
How long have I been asleep?
A warbled grunt came from the warehouse. My protective instincts sent adrenaline flowing.
Gil!
Rushing from his room, I padded through the night-shrouded lounge. The too-large T-shirt wafted around me as I crept toward the warehouse.
A curse shattered the silence followed by a thud.
I ran.
Bolting through the office, I skidded to a silent stop as my eyes locked on Gil fast asleep on a tatty couch by the wall. Moonlight and the faint stirrings of dawn highlighted his strained face.
No one was hurting him. No one else was here.
Just Gil and his nightmare.
His legs were tangled in a plaid blanket while he lay on his back. One hand rested on the paint-speckled floor while the other was balled into a fist on his belly. His brow tugged over shut eyes while his chest rose and fell as if he’d run from a monster in his dreams.
Another groan vibrated through his body, tortured and broken, almost wet with tears.
I froze.
Chills scattered down my back with the utmost knowledge I was not supposed to see this.
“O. God...I’m so sorry.” His face switched from distraught to fury. “Don’t! No—”
My knees threatened to buckle.
Did he dream of me?
Was I the O he pleaded with or did he know another?
“Olive—” He thrashed as if fighting mercenaries of cruel illusions. “I’ll save you...I-I promise.”
Olive.
He’d never called me Olive in our youth. Oatmeal, Oreo, Oregano, yes. But never Olive.
His limbs seized with nightmare-induced energy, twisting the blankets tighter around his thighs. His hand thumped on the floor, indicating the thud I’d heard was just Gil struggling in his sleep.
I’d had my fair share of night terrors.
For months, I’d dreamed of tumbling through the restaurant window while glass sliced me to shreds. I’d woken up crying with imaginary blood on my fingers.
But those weren’t the worst ones.
The worst were the happy dreams where I flew into my dance partner’s arms—lithe and limber and forever graceful.
Gil’s lips pinched together as he grunted, sounding less coherent and sucked back into unconscious horrors.
I stood there a little longer—a watcher in the dark as he calmed and quietened. I didn’t move to wake him. I doubted he’d take kindly to my interruption, nor appreciate that I’d seen him at his most vulnerable.
I wanted to reassure him. I wanted to curl into his side and kiss away his troubles.
But I’d already pushed hard enough.
He needed to rest.
So do I.
Hugging myself from the cool emptiness in the warehouse, I backed away and headed through his office.
Entering his apartment, I padded to the kitchen and opened his equally empty cupboards. The sparse collection of glasses and the plastic cups meant for a child looked hauntingly sad.
Selecting one, I filled it with water and took it to the couch.
As much as I needed to rest, sleep was no longer an option for me. The clock above his cooker said dawn was only an hour or so away. I would wait to ensure Gil slept soundly and safely, and then I would go to work.
I had bills due.
I needed time to think.
And no amount of disgruntled, argumentative body painters could stop me.
* * * * *
Tiptoeing around Gil’s warehouse, gathering my stuff while he still slept an hour later, made my heart race.
I felt as if I was letting him down by leaving. I worried about him and his nightmares.
But I couldn’t stay—not with being such a new employee.
I had no choice but to borrow the clothes he’d given me, scoop up my belongings—no matter how paint-splattered and destroyed they were—and force myself to be an adult with responsibilities rather than a girl with useless wishes.
Staying as quiet as I could, I tucked my underwear, blouse, skirt, and stockings into my handbag, and dangled my high heels from my fingertips as I surveyed the carnage we’d left behind.
Unscrewed bottles lay forgotten on the floor. Paint splashed up the shelves and stage. A visible red handprint from Gil as he’d thrust into me on the floor was a perfect scarlet letter. A noticeable outline of my back and hair as I’d writhed beneath him the hint of exactly what we’d been doing, and a mix of yellow, black, silver, pink, purple, and blue created a story of violent need.
I blushed.
Blushed and wondered if I should clean up the mess, but Gil shifted on the couch, hinting that my time of escape was now or never.
Holding my breath, I turned from the colourful chaos and padded barefoot toward the exit. The door squeaked a little as I opened it. Throwing Gil a worried glance, I waited for him to soar off the couch and demand to know where the hell I was going.
Instead, he slung an arm over his eyes and stayed where he was.
Goodbye, Gil.
Stepping through the pedestrian access, I turned to quietly close the door behind me.
“Olin? Hi! What are you doing here so early?”
I stiffened, spinning around to face Justin Miller.
The man who seemed to have the worst possible timing in the world. He climbed from his car, his keys clinking in his fingers.
Hiding my heels behind my back and wishing I wasn’t in Gil’s baggy borrowed clothing, I smiled. “Good morning, Justin.”
He narrowed his eyes, looking me up and down. “Morning.” Coming closer, he stuffed his keys into his pocket before reaching for a red-stiff strand of my hair. “Gil do a commission today?”