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The scars on her back are on full display, and I couldn’t be more proud of her. She’s said she doesn’t want her scars to rule the way she feels about her body, and in this dress, the marks on her skin only add to the goddess-like beauty she carries.
“You look like heaven and sin all wrapped in one.” I grab her arm and pull her into me, kissing her breathless. I force myself to pull away but don’t let her go far. Instead, I tuck her under my arm and direct her towards the garage.
“You gonna tell me where you’re taking me?” She bats her eyelashes at me.
“Nope,” I say with a grin. I love keeping her in suspense like this.
“Am I overdressed?” she asks, sounding genuinely concerned.
“You’re perfect.” Squeezing her shoulders, I direct her to my car before opening the door for her.
“Such a gentleman,” she teases, kissing me on the cheek before she tucks herself in.
My face turns to fire where her lips touched. I find myself holding my hand to that spot, not wanting her warmth to go far. My nerves have my heart racing, but not nearly as much as seeing her in that dress.
I get behind the wheel and take a deep breath before starting it up. She notices my hesitation and takes my hand. “You okay?”
“I’m good." I give her a smile that’s only a little forced.
She sees right through me, but doesn’t comment, only squeezes my hand tighter. We drive for over thirty minutes. I specifically had to get Alexi’s permission for this, and as we approach the tall white building, I can see his security already posted around it. Evie’s brows lift as the warehouse comes into view but I can’t get a word out.
My chest tightens and my throat feels like it’s constricting with each second we get closer. I park right outside the door as all of the guards turn their backs to us. Alexi gave them strict instructions not to take a look at who I have with me tonight. They all fall in line without hesitation.
I, however, feel like I can’t move. I don’t even unbuckle my seatbelt. My hands are locked on the steering wheel, and my knuckles turn white from the force of my grip.
“Ghost?” Evie’s voice comes out concerned, and I hate myself for making her worry. I snap out of my trance and undo my seatbelt before undoing hers.
“I haven’t been here in a very long time, it’s just taking me a minute.”
She nods and scans the building before turning to get comfortable. She sits back and gives me the time I need to process this.
After a few minutes, I blow out a breath and decide to face the music. I wanted to bring her here to show her part of me, and as much as I hate to relive this, I think I need it too. I walk around to open her door. She steps out gracefully, taking my hand in hers. I type in the code to get in the door and the moment I open it, the scent of paint and canvas greets me.
The lights are low and there is a small table with a white cloth and two chairs waiting for us in the center. Three canvases are lined up with cloth covering them, and I swear my throat dries up at the thought of uncovering them.
“I used to paint a lot,” I tell her, bringing her into the room. I pull out the chair for her to sit. “When my mother died, I think something in me died too. My father turned cold. He resented me. That’s why I started coloring my hair. I didn’t want to look anymore like him than I already did. The tattoos followed soon after.”
I pause, not wanting to think back on the first time I colored it. When I went to the store to buy color, nothing quite looked right. Then when I thought about bleaching it, that made sense because it made me think of my mother. About how when she dressed in white, she looked like the angel I knew she was. “I tried to paint and remember the days we would sit in her study and she would teach me new brush strokes.”
I pop open the bottle of wine and pour her a glass. My hands have a slight tremble to them. She doesn’t notice though, or at least she pretends not to.
“When she died, only one image would come to my mind when I dipped my brush into the acrylics. Her.” Tears prick at the backs of my eyes and my jaw tightens at the memory. “I used to spend all day painting with her, and when she died, I would spend all day in her study pretending she was there. I’d paint a different expression of hers so that I never forgot a single one.”
I laugh gently as another memory takes over my mind. “She used to scrunch up her nose when she laughed. It was like the sun shone in her eyes every time. When I would royally mess up a painting, she always found a way to make it something beautiful. She would create a tale for my pirate, one with a face that looked half-melted because I let too much water sit on my brush.”
Thinking about her like this again starts to make my heart feel lighter and gives me the courage to continue. “She would say that he betrayed his men in a deadly battle, and his face burned as his price to pay. She was very into drama and would act out the whole story for me, having me nearly falling off my stool with laughter. She refused to ever let me see myself as a failure.”
Talking about the way she would smile lifts my spirit, so I keep going, never once sitting or looking Evie in the eye. Instead, I focus on the covered portraits the entire time. I tell her about our secret way of communicating when my father was in a sour mood. How we would run into the studio in town and craft a project just for him and surprise him at dinner. It was one of the few times I ever remember my father smiling. My mother would tell tales in the evenings, and my father and I would sit on the couch, watching her in rapture.
Evie is quiet the whole time, listening intently to every word I share. She laughs along with me but never interrupts. She lets me bask in the good memories. Eventually, the knot in my chest begins to ease, and I find the idea of looking at the paintings I chose feels less and less heartbreaking.
“So the reason I brought you here,” I clear my throat and stand as I gesture to the covered canvases, “is to introduce you to my mother.”
I turn to look at Evie. Tears touch her eyes just like they touch mine.
“I would love to meet her,” she says, standing and coming to my side. I thread my fingers through hers and walk up to the first display.
“A lot of my paintings were burned by my father, but these three are the best of what’s left. I picture her smiling when she gets to meet you. She always had a soft smile that made me feel at home when I was with her.”
