It does not match the rest.
It’s somehow just a line.
More paint on my fingers, I reach forward again as Loch stomps up behind me.
“Christ, you are wrecking it.” He wipes his hand off on his sweatpants and grabs my shoulder, the arm I’m using to paint.
I whip a glare back at him. “What are you doing?”
“Relax. You’re too stiff. It’s translating. The paint can feel your stress.”
“I’m not stressed.” But I growl it through my teeth, so that kind of negates it.
His eyes hold on mine. “Must be some other reason you’re tenser than stone.”
“I work out a lot. I was hoping you’d notice.”
Loch sighs, exasperated. “Course you would. Preening like a fucker.”
That was almost the exact thought I’d had about him and his physique.
It shocks the hell out of me when I laugh.
Catches him off guard, too. His eyebrows pinch and he looks all over my face, a quick sweep, searching. Analyzing? I feel suddenly like a portrait subject.
He clears his throat and juts his chin at the canvas. “You’re gonna fix this. Nowrelax.”
His thumb pries into my shoulder, and I can feel under his strength exactly how stiff I am. I always know, I always have a headache on the precipice of splitting up my skull, but he hits a spot and my eyes bulge. My hand sags and I roll my wrist, stretch my fingers.
God, that’s good.
Wait. What the—
Loch reaches in front of me with his paint covered hand. The curve of each fingernail is caked in it, something more permanent than the splotches on the rest of his skin, like he paints so much it’s an enduring part of his body now. Those fingers shake, but I could be imagining that, maybe my eyesight is still a little whiskey-loopy; or maybe I’m the one rocked, not sure why he’s standing so close. And touching me.
Or why he’s wrapping his hand around mine where it’s lifted in the air.
His other hand keeps pushing into my shoulder, thumb kneading that one knot like he’ll force it to submit. Warmth hits me, not the space heater, buthim,a velvet frisson that carries the scent Inow attribute to him, that rich, spicy cologne with a sharp chemical smell—which must be paint-related, sealant or varnish. All of it this time is battling with a whiff of exertion sweat, and I realize I’m holding an inhale like I’m dissecting his scent.
I exhale forcefully through my nose.
The angle puts his face right next to the shell of my ear. His voice goes limp when he orders, “Relax for me, boyo.”
Butrelaxingis out of my capabilities at the moment. Hell, eventhinkingis out of my capabilities at the moment.
I’m stagnant. A morbidly fascinated spectator in my own body as I let him put my fingers back on that orange line. He drags my hand down, bends it, knuckles twisting, until we milk the line into an arch that flows with the rest.
“There,” he says. It doesn’t have his expected croon of victory or his usual pompous control. I can both hear and feel the scratch of his words like they’re struggling to roll out of his throat. “Was that so hard, now?”
I’m staring at the curve we made.
Not at his hand cupping mine, both lifted in front of me. And I’m not fiercely aware of his other hand vise-gripped on my shoulder. Or the curl of his breath on the underside of my jaw.
I’m not aware of any of those things because I’m hovering outside all this, watching, drowsy with thoughtlessness.
Loch strokes his fingers down the back of my hand, leaving trails of mixed orange-red-green.
My head slants towards him. A robotic motion. I stop there, the full scald of his exhale burning my cheek.
