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“Eli?” she questioned after a moment.
My own eyes were looking around, taking in the space to see if there was anyone in the room who might be a threat. There was no one.
“What the fuck!”
Carla was dressed in a silk pajama set—a pale tank top that left little to the imagination and shorts that were so tiny I was sure I would see her ass cheeks if she turned around.
But the weird part was that Carla was covered in paint. Not fully, but her fingers were tinged with dark blue, and the same color had splattered up her shins from where she’d dropped a paint brush.
“Are you painting?”
Carla was fuming as she grabbed a t-shirt from her bed. I cringed as her dirty fingers grabbed the white fabric.
“What are you doing barging in my room?” She crossed her arms over her chest as she tried to hide her body. If I wasn’t so fucking confused by the art studio that was in her room, I might have enjoyed the sight of her more.
“Eli!” Carla snapped her fingers in front of my face. “Focus!”
“What the hell are you doing in here?” I hadn’t been in Carla’s room since I’d dropped her off, and though the décor was the same, it was filled with art supplies. What had once been a large space was now crowded with an easel, paints, brushes, and canvas. “Do my parents know about this?”
Carla rolled her eyes. “Obviously,” she muttered, shaking her head. She reached out to grab a dish cloth. It was grimy with rainbow-colored paint, and I cringed as she used it to wipe paint off the floor. “I wouldn’t have been able to get all of this stuff past Ivy. Your mother is incredibly perceptive.”
She wasn’t wrong, and she did not sound like she was happy about this.
“Now that I’ve answered your question.” Carla stood up, and I tried not to cringe as I watched her throw the rag on a piece of expensive furniture. “What the fuck are you doing in my room?”
“I heard you cry out. I thought maybe you were in trouble.”
Carla immediately blushed. I suspected she was remembering what happened several weeks ago at the party. It hadn’t ended there either, though Carla might not know that. Every night, she cried out in her sleep. Not for long, but enough to know that she was haunted.
“Well,” Carla said, “I’m not in trouble. So, you can go.”
I didn’t. Now that I was up, I figured we might as well talk. “You’re an artist.” It was obvious. The room was covered with different art supplies. Not just paint, but charcoal and sketch pads.
Somehow, it made the space feel more like Carla. Now that I knew her slightly, I realized that the soft pinks and creams my mother decorated with didn’t really align with Carla’s personality.
She was fire and passion, more jewel toned than pastel.
Carla snorted and turned back towards the canvas she was working on. “I wouldn’t say that,” she muttered. She shrugged slightly. “It’s just a hobby.”
I moved closer into the room, so that I could see the painting. “Shit,” I muttered. “That’s good.”
The canvas was slathered in dark paint, but I could make out a silhouette form. Carla was playing with shades of black and blue. She’d played with light and shadow to create her figures, and there was something about it that felt eerie.
“Thanks,” Carla muttered. She was focusing on the painting and reached out with her brush to swipe at a glob of dark blue paint. “I used too much blue. I thought that it might make the shadows more vibrant, but I think it just looks silly.”
As though I were being pulled by an invisible string, I moved towards the painting. I was so close to Carla that I could smell the rose scent that always surrounded her. “I’m no artist, but I think you just need to blend the colors. Maybe add a little bit of white or gray. It’ll mute the color.”
Carla smiled at me. “I think you might be right.”
Her brow furrowed as she did what I suggested. I watched her for a few moments, surprised by the animation in her face and limbs. In the past two weeks, every time I looked at Carla, she appeared muted. There were times when her passion peeked out, usually when she was arguing with me.
But as I watched her blend the paint, the actions shaking her ass cheeks in a way that made my cock tighten in my pants, it was like she’d come alive.
“There,” she said, taking a step back, “that’s better.”
We were shoulder to shoulder as we looked at her painting. “What is it?” I asked.
I heard her inhale sharply. “Not sure.” Carla immediately turned away and started towards the water cup that was probably going to absolutely ruin the expensive wood dresser my mother bought her.
