Try Pink Page 2

  "What was his name?"

  "Graydon." I paused when his name rolled from my lips. When was the last time I uttered it? Heard myself say it? "What was the name of your bad relationship?"

  "Nate."

  "Where's he?"

  "Not sure. I hitched a ride from somewhere in New York and ended up here just in time to spill your coffee."

  "I forgot about that," I said, setting the paintbrush down. The first stage of the portrait looked pretty good for now.

  "I still owe you coffee." Jillian stood when I did, favoring her leg a bit.

  "The debt has been paid with your company."

  "Ah, I'm handy after all then," she said, looking over the painting. "Wow. That's really good."

  "It's not done yet."

  "Just like me." A half-smile curled her rosy lips.

  "I think that's a good thing."

  "I guess it is."

  Better

  "It's been a week," Jillian said as we sat together on the sofa, a bowl of popcorn between us.

  "I know."

  "Aren't you going to kick me out yet?"

  "No." I nodded toward the television. "How about that one?"

  "Is it funny?"

  "I don't know. I haven't seen it yet." I chuckled a bit. "It says drama. Are dramas funny?"

  "Depends on who's in it." She shrugged, tossing a piece of popcorn into her mouth.

  "That's an odd way to decide if a drama is funny." I laughed softly and she swatted my hand.

  "Shut it. It's a perfectly fine way of judging." She laughed along with me. A real laugh. One that told me of her comfort and freedom from whatever pain remained. We chose the movie anyway, even if it wasn't funny.

  We sat side by side on the sofa, sharing popcorn and the terrible movie. I couldn't tell what she was thinking or what it must've been like for her to spend an entire week in the home of a stranger. Whenever my thoughts drifted, they fell on Graydon. I hadn't let myself think about him in a long time, save for a fleeting moment. Sharing his death with Jillian brought the reality of his loss to the surface. I found myself wondering what he would think about my reclusive lifestyle, retirement from the force, and bizarre painting habit. What would he say if he knew I picked up a stranger off the street and brought her into our home? What would he say if he knew that I never took off one of his dog tags, and that I kept it's battered, bloody twin in a box beside my bed?

  "Eventually I'm going to have to decide," Jillian's voice broke my reverie.

  "Sorry?"

  "To decide what to do with myself and where to go. I can't stay here hiding out forever." Her gaze remained fixed on the television screen. I guess her thoughts ran wild just like mine.

  "Why not? I do." I shrugged.

  "I'll need a job at least. I don't have a dime let alone a bank account." She stopped eating the popcorn and instead, folded her hands on her stomach.

  "What job did you have in Pittsburgh?" I asked.

  "A few. Waitress jobs mainly. The money was okay if I flirted enough. I danced at a titty bar once. That paid well but after awhile, I got resentful of men and their ogling so I left." She glanced at me as if expecting some sort of revolting response.

  "Was it just topless?" I asked.

  "Yeah. The guys weren't allowed to touch us or anything." She turned slightly, bending her knee on the sofa. Her eyes searched my expression for a judgment that never came.

  "Do you want to stay here?" I asked, turning to face her and leaning my head on the arm I braced on the back of the sofa.

  "I can't keep mooching off you forever," she said.

  "But do you want to?" I pressed.

  "Well, yeah. It's comfortable. And safe. And you cook well." She smirked. "It'd be easy to stay."

  "We can be roommates then. You can look for a job or whatever and stay here," I said, not quite sure what my motives were for wanting her to stay. Maybe years of solitude took its toll on me, like I'd reached the final expanse of human tolerance. "I mean, until you want to move on to something better."

  "What's better?" she asked, watching me as if I had an answer.

  "So far I haven't found anything." I shrugged, nudging around a popcorn kernel with my fingernail.

  "Me either."

  ***

  "I have to go down to the gallery today. Do you want to come?" I asked Jillian as she exited the shower with a green towel tucked under her arms. The wound on her thigh healed to a shiny pink scar no bigger than an inch.

  "Yeah, all right. How often do you go there?" she asked, shaking out her damp hair.

  "Once a month or so. The manager called to tell me she has some extra space this month and she wants me to see if I have a piece that will fit in."

  "You probably do, with all the stuff you have upstairs. I'll be right out," she said before disappearing into the bedroom.

  While I waited for her to dress, I gathered up my wallet and the smaller handgun from the safe hidden beside the china cabinet. I strapped it in the ankle holster before slipping on my boot, tucking my jeans around it. Some habits never die. Nearly a decade accompanied by a service weapon left me feeling naked without it. Instead, I resolved to carry my concealed ankle companion whenever I left the house.

  Jillian emerged from the bedroom dressed in black jeans and an oversized gray sweater. She let her hair fall loosely around her torso as she bent down to tie on a pair of sneakers. I hadn't noticed her femininity as much as I did in that moment. For the past month, she lived in the sweats I lent her. Now, she appeared well and brighter than she had when we first met. I smiled as she stood up and offered me an odd look.

  "What?" she asked.

  "Nothing. C'mon." I nodded toward the door and she followed me out. We locked up and piled into the car.

  The late-September air hung crisp around us as fall threatened its arrival. Orange-tinted leaves lined the road as we drove down to the gallery. Jillian gazed out the window, her chin rested on her hand.

  "You okay?" I asked after the silence became too much to bear.

  "Yeah," she said, swiping at her cheek.

  "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing."

  "Uh huh… I often cry for nothing, too," I said. She didn't respond. "Are you worried about something?"

  "I guess, yeah." She turned in her seat, facing forward. I took it as a sign that I'd struck a chord.

  "What is it?" My voice softened and, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her body relax some.

  "What if we run into him?" She glanced at me.

  "Who?"

  "Nate."

  I hadn't considered that. She never actually told me what happened, but it didn't take a genius to figure it out.

  "Does he live around here?" I asked.

  "No. But what if he followed me?" Her tears ceased once she articulated her fear.

  "Then, if he followed you and we run into him, I'll kill him," I said, half-serious half joking.

  "What?" She stared at me, shock tightening her features.

  "If he tries to hurt you again, I'll kill him." The second time, I meant it.

  She seemed to contemplate that for the rest of the ride to the gallery.

  I parked along the side street and led us through the back entrance. Rhoda, the tawny-haired enchantress that she was, greeted us in the main exhibit area.

  "Jess!" She opened her arms to me as she often did and I offered her my usual awkward hug. "How are you?" She paused seeing Jillian beside me. "Who's this? Is she your new model? Amazing." Rhoda let go of me to circle around Jillian. "You're beautiful. Your pieces will sell well." Jillian laughed uncomfortably and watched the tiny spitfire of a woman as she moved about.

  "Jillian's my roommate, not a model. You're overwhelming at best, Rhoda." I shook my head and introduced them.

  "Nice to meet you," Jillian said, an amused smile playing on her lips.

  "You too, doll. Why aren't you modeling? That hair." Rhoda clapped her hands once.

  "Um…" Jillian floundered for a respons
e.

  "Where's the space you want me to look at, Rho?" I interrupted.

  "Down the hall between the whitespace abstracts." She waved me off. "Come with me, I'll show you Jeslyn's portfolio." Rhoda snaked her arm around Jillian's and led her down the hall toward the office.

  By the time I returned, Rhoda had Jillian perched on the desk with a large photo album of my work in her lap. She flipped the pages delicately while Rhoda punched numbers into the computer.

  "Jillian's going to model for you," Rhoda said as soon as I entered. "We'll do a collection, which means she'll get model pay and commission."

  "Did she bully you into it?" I asked, looking over her shoulder at the photos.

  She smiled and pointed to a nude portrait of a man posing on the bed in my studio.

  "Like that one?" I laughed.

  She nodded and continued to finger through. "She didn't bully me. Your work is amazing. Even better than what you have at home." She gestured toward the book.

  "She hides the good stuff, trust me," Rhoda chimed in, spinning in her seat to look between us. "So, you gonna do it?" Rhoda lifted a brow at me, nodding toward Jillian.

  "Do you want to model for a collection? Be honest. You'll have to sit still for ages," I said, keeping close watch on her expression for any doubts.

  "Yeah. I'll get paid, right? Like a job. And then I can stop sucking up your resources and pay rent at least." Jillian closed the book on the final page and handed it to me, smoothing out the cover in a thoughtful caress.

  "You'll get paid. It's a job." Rhoda bobbed her head enthusiastically.

  "I'm in," Jillian said, watching me as I set the book down.

  "All right." I shot a playful glare at Rhoda. "You get your way again."

  "Honey, I always get my way." Rhoda patted me on the shoulder and pranced back out to the show room.

  Spatter

  "Where's the one you started when I first got here?" Jillian asked as I gathered up supplies for our initial session. She nodded toward the empty easel.

  "In the cubby beside the others." I tightened a clean canvas into place and dished out my paints on the palette. Jillian slid the painting out. The mild dragging sound echoed in the otherwise quiet room.

  "You put it beside Graydon," she commented. "I look…" She tilted her head as she stared at it. I joined her a moment later, looking over her shoulder.

  "Broken." I filled in the blank and pried the painting from her fingers, then slid it back into place. Sadness smoothed her expression when she met my gaze, her bright blue eyes shimmering in the light. I took her hand and led her away from the cubbies and over to the modeling area. "You get to choose your pose. Pick one you'll be comfortable in for a long time."

  "All right," she said, giving my hand a squeeze before letting go. "How about just like the one you did of that guy?"

  "Sprawled out on the bed? That's fine. You don't have to do it naked though. What've you got on?" I gestured to the purple robe she found in one of my closets.

  Jillian released the knot in the belt and tossed the robe over the stool. She wore an off-white camisole with bits of lace along the top and white panties.

  "Leave that on, I like it."

  "You sure?" she asked, smoothing out the leftover static from her hair.

  "Yeah, let's try." I nodded toward the bed and she dropped down onto it, tucking her ankle under her knee. "Good, let your legs relax and drop your arms naturally. I'll have to fix your hair a little."

  "That's fine," she said, watching me while she wiggled around on her back to get comfortable. I waited for her to settle, then positioned bits of her hair outward on the plush blanket to make it appear as if she'd just fallen into place. She let one hand rest at her side, the other curled up by her chin. Her gaze moved from me to the skylight. As I took in her graceful, willowy form, my stomach lurched and a chill ran over my shoulders. It was the perfect pose. I feathered her bangs over her forehead, then gave her camisole a gentle tug upward so that it revealed the tiniest bit of flesh and navel. Her belly fluttered when my fingertips grazed her skin.

  "Is that okay?" I leaned back on my heels.

  "Yeah. I'm comfortable." She smiled at me. A playful smile hinting at something more mischievous.

  "What? Don't tell me you have to pee."

  "I don't." She laughed. "Can I talk while you work?"

  "Yes. I'll tell you when to hold if I need to work on your lips." I stood and returned to the easel.

  "Work on my lips, huh?" She ran her tongue over them as if tasting something. "Don't you wear a smock?"

  “Paint-covered clothes are my style. It makes me seem artsy," I jested as I commenced work on the canvas.

  The scratch and swish of the brush offered a melancholic rhythm to our silence. Jillian gazed out the window again. The skylight smoothed a soft, bright glow along her form. We didn't talk much, just as we hadn't during our first impromptu painting.

  "You don't have to pay me rent, you know. Just save it up for something you want or need. Like clothes or a car," I said as the outer structure of the painting wove itself together beneath my brush strokes.

  "Don't be silly. Besides, your clothes fit me just fine." She glanced at me, her ruby lips bending into a sweet smile.

  "Uh huh. I see how it is. Wearing up all of my clothes so you can look artsy, too."

  "That's my agenda right there."

  Our painting sessions went on like this for days. Long quiets followed by quippy jests. My fondness for Jillian grew in these moments, as did my comfort. We shared a home together through an entire season, and by the time winter brought a brisk chill to the air and icing over the skylight, I began to fear the moment she chose to leave.

  "I think we should do something different for this one," Jillian said as I set up the electric heater in the corner of the room. The thick-paned window didn't do much to keep the nip from the studio.

  "You're the model." I bowed toward her, chuckling as I perched myself by the easel again.

  "I'm the queen then," she teased, ditching her robe as usual.

  She stood beside the bed gripping the hem of her camisole and pulled it over her head. I watched her as she awaited my reaction. I didn't question it. Her panties followed, leaving her stark naked in front of me. Her skin, unblemished save for the faint remainder of the scar on her thigh and a scattering of freckles on her shoulder, made her hair stand out even brighter than usual. She dropped herself down on the bed, and scooted around in search of a position. Every movement, fluid and practiced, captured me as if she were a descendant of the greatest mesmerist of all time. She chose a side position facing me, resting her head on her elbow with one leg outstretched. With her adjacent leg, she bent her knee toward the ceiling and let her hand fall casually on her stomach, an inch or two away from where I avoided looking.

  "That'll work," I said, my voice a bit quieter than I intended.

  "Good," she said, wiggling just once more until she stilled. "How come most of the models in your portfolio are men?"

  "Men are easier to paint, I guess," I said, drawing my gaze away from her to the canvas.

  "Why? Muscled men are all the same and women are different?"

  "Something like that."

  "Did Graydon pose for you?" she asked after a brief pause.

  "Sometimes, but usually just for sketches."

  "The holidays are soon. Will you do anything with your family?" Her eyes lingered on mine as the skylight darkened with the setting sun. Artificial lighting was our only option going forward if we chose to work in the evening.

  "No. My mom will show up at some point with a gift or food. I've been giving her a painting every year. What about you?"

  "I'll call them." She shrugged. "Maybe send a postcard."

  "Do you have issues with them?" I asked, noting her dismissive tone.

  "Sometimes. They're kind of flighty. Liked to move us around a lot which wasn't the greatest way to make friends growing up."

  "That's pretty shitty
," I said as my hand trembled slightly when I stroked the brush over the length of her form. "What's your favorite food?"

  "That's random."

  "C'mon, play."

  "Fine." She laughed. "Pizza or strawberry ice cream. You?"

  "Pickles, or chicken soup. Your turn to ask."

  "What's your favorite color?"

  "Indigo." I lowered the brush to reload it.

  "Nice. Mine's black."

  "Black isn't a color. It's a lack of color."

  "Wouldn't that be white?" She lifted an eyebrow at me.

  "Same thing." I waved her off, fighting the smile that rose to my mouth. "Where's the best place you've ever visited?"

  "Um… Oregon was pretty cool, but I'd have to say Toronto. When was the last time you had sex?" The devilish grin that met her lips had me fumbling the palette.

  "What kind of question is that?" I huffed.

  "A good one. You started the game. C'mon, answer."

  "Five years ago, probably longer," I mumbled as prickling heat rose to my cheeks. "Right before Graydon's last deployment."

  "Jeeze. I think I'd die."

  "You wouldn't die without sex."

  "It would be close to death." Jillian continued to laugh at my embarrassment. "Your turn."

  "What do you like best about me?"

  "Hey, you skipped asking me the sex question."

  "Of course I did. Now move along before I paint you with a third nipple."

  "What do I like best about you?" She tapped her index finger against her stomach. "The way you look at me."

  "What?" I lowered my brush. "How do I look at you?"

  "Gently."

  "Next," I said, sidestepping the notion as quickly as possible.

  "Fine. What do you like best about me?" She lifted both of her eyebrows at me.

  "Your bravery."

  "What? I'm not brave." She waved me off.

  I pointed at her hand and she put it back in place. "Yeah, you are. To leave a bad relationship, take an offer from a complete stranger, and pose nude for a sketchy portrait artist. I'd say that's pretty brave."

  "You're not sketchy. I think you're a pretty safe person to hang around."

  "Why? What if I'm an unstable sociopath?"