AllFreeNovel
Share Us
My excitement dies, and my shoulders fall. “That’s unfortunate. I was picturing leather walls and velvet curtains. Maybe a crop and a belt or two.”
“Seriously, woman, you’re mad.”
“Then, what’s down there?”
He points at me. “Let it go.”
“Never. If you don’t tell me, I’m gonna assume the worst.”
“Tara—”
“Taxidermy station for the animals you kill when you’re bored.”
“It’s not—”
“You have every McDonald’s Happy Meal toy ever given to you since you were a kid, and you play with them in a pink padded room.”
“You think I’m the crazy one—”
“You keep wax figures of your favorite celebrities and have tea with them each night.”
“You’re quite possibly the most—”
“Torture chamber,” I state, and he stops from trying to speak. “If it’s not for pleasure, it’s for pain.”
He halts all movement and blinks at me as if I’m positively insane. His momentary silence has me wondering if I finally hit the nail on the head and Rob is indeed a psychopath with a torture chamber in his basement.
Wait. No. Rob’s not crazy. I’m the one with the overactive imagination, and I warned him I’d assume the worst. I don’t know what it is, but the truth is, he does have something downstairs he wants to be kept a secret.
“I don’t have a torture chamber in my basement.” His words are ripe with conviction.
“Prove it,” I challenge.
His eyes dance across my face, cautious and scrutinizing, as he tries to decipher if my intentions behind wanting to know his secret are well intentioned. There’s a discernible wariness in his expression, a hesitation that hangs in the air.
He exhales a breath as he concedes. “Come with me.”
CHAPTERSIXTEEN
I practically skip behind him as he heads down the stairs to the basement. The lights in the game room remain off, yet some light from the Pac-Man game and the neon sign that sits on the far wall illuminates the space.
We walk to the back of the basement. Rob stops by the door of mystery and produces a key ring from his pocket.
My palms are sweaty as I wait to see what lies behind the door. I rub my hands together and look at him as he slides the key into the lock and turns.
When he opens the door, he lets me walk in first. The lights are off, so I have to wait until he flips the switch to see what is in here.
Art.
The room is a private art studio with walls adorned in a kaleidoscope of colors from various canvases of work. Easels stand like silent sentinels, each displaying a canvas in different states of transformation. Some are mere sketches, awaiting an artist’s touch. Others, like the piece closest to me, is of a woman. Her back is in view, and she’s surrounded by a field of flowers.
The air carries a faint scent of paint and freshly dyed pigments. Brushes, palette knives, and other tools are meticulously organized on a sturdy wooden table. Jars of water and cleaning solvents cover the space.
Shelves and drawers house an array of art supplies—pencils, pastels, charcoals, and a multitude of paints in every shade imaginable. Against the wall, more half-finished canvases are stacked like soldiers, forming a vibrant tapestry of potential masterpieces.
This studio is more than a physical space.
It’s a creative realm where an artist’s imagination can breathe.
