Dancing Barefoot (21 page)

Unconsciously
, she took a handful of aspirin and washed them down before dumping out the contents of her bag onto the kitchen counter. Trembling, she pushed aside the sexual ones to hold the picture of the tortured Jacques and Simone. She stared at his gaunt face.

It was too much to absorb. He'd endured the unimaginable while she'd been hooking up with Marc for quickies after late nights at the office.

With the picture still in her hand, she went upstairs, grabbed his book, and traced her fingers along the title--
Discovery
. She sank onto the daybed and took her time staring at each photograph. Yes, some of her, but they were an accumulation of joy and beauty. She looked back at the picture of him as a prisoner and touched her fingertips to his face.

She dropped the book and walked to the easel and her paints, her mind already moving beyond the troubles of the day and painting. She splashed red onto the canvas, followed closely with gold. Art moved her into a state of bliss nothing else could touch.

"Jess?" He called out from downstairs. "Are you here?"

She heard his footsteps halt, heard him cursing in French. He'd found the pictures.

She clutched the edge of the canvas with her hands and stared at the half-formed image in front of her. This is what she wanted to do, the only thing she wanted to do. No matter how successful she became in whatever profession she chose, her heart ached for this.

He stopped at the top of the stairs and looked between her and the discarded book on the floor. He knelt down and scooped up the photograph that had skimmed across the hardwood. "What has happened? Why are you home? Did Simone find you? Did she come to your office?"

"Shh...quiet." She opened her eyes and patted the space next to her. "Just tell me that it's going to be okay."

He looked frantic as he looked between the photograph and her face. But he sat, his eyes dark with concern. "Where did you get these?"

"A messenger delivered them to my office." Her head felt like a vice squeezed it in two. "How do you do it? How do you go on every day? How did you find beauty in the world after what you went through?"

He shoved a restless hand through his hair before meeting her gaze. "That's what people do, they move on, they let go."

"Not everyone. Some people can never move beyond their own stories, they allow the wrong things to define them, shape them, limit them. But not you...no, you took beautiful pictures and created a book called
Discovery
. How do you do it?"

"I should go, shouldn't I?" He touched her knee. "Those photos downstairs...I didn't think
she'd resort to that. I never should have come to Boston."

"Fuck Simone, wrong word, I mean forget that bitch." She
couldn't look away from his face. She had no idea what she wanted to say. She didn't know how to do what he did—move on, let go, find the beauty in the world.

She pushed awa
y from the daybed, frustration and anger combusting in her blood. Everything from her mother's endless stream of failed relationships to Marc's ridiculous insinuations at the office to the anonymous envelope in her office that reminded her of the love she'd abandoned. 

"I'm such a fraud, Jacques, but not you. You have never, not once, pretended to be something other than what you are. Look at you." She stopped in front of him and glanced at his black button down shirt and black jeans. Even in crisis mode, he pulled off the rockstar-bad-boy-stepped-off-the-cover-of-Rolling-Stone look. "When we met, you were a photographer full of ideals and dreams. You ended up in a goddamn hellhole
, yet here you are with a book and a gallery exhibit."

"I don't understand." He stood and grabbed her shoulders. "What is happening here?"

"I am pissed off." She smacked his chest. "She had you. She had no right to you. And I'm angry about what happened to her because I feel guilty for hating her. More than that, I'm upset that you can let things go and move through life like nothing holds you back. How do you do it?"

He shook his head, confusion lining his face. "
Do you want me to go?"

"No, damn it, I don't want you to go
, but I wish I did. I'm selfish, always have been. I want you here because you are the one true thing I've ever had." She stepped away from him and motioned toward the canvases stacked around the room. Defeat and doubt whispered through her tattered mind. "Everything is unraveling faster than I can keep up. I don't know what I want or where I want to go or who I want to be or what the hell is going on in my own garage and---"

"You are acting insane." He spun her to face him and laughed. "I have no idea what you are talking about. As for Simone having me, well, it was just sex
followed by a whole lotta guilt."

"
That's it. I don't like the idea that you had sex with anyone else and I know that's irrational." If ever she felt like a fool, it was now. She couldn't articulate her feelings of inadequacy because they made her sound weak.

Her dreams had been shelved
along the way, so much so that she wasn't sure what they were anymore.

"If I could erase Simone, I would, but I can't."

"Don't be so nice to me. I hate it. That first night we were together was real...you were angry, skeptical, mean, sad...all of those things I could deal with, but here you are being that guy I loved and it makes me so mad."

"You want me to be mean?" His lips twitched.

"No, I want you to be as angry as I am for what's happened to you, to us." She grabbed his book and waved it in the air. "Instead you created something beautiful and happy, what is wrong with you? Are you some kind of saint? Look at me. I was here, screwing around with Marc, living in this comfortable home, hiding my artwork as you like pointing out, all the while wearing your ring without making an effort to contact you. Doesn't that make you angry?"

He folded his arms
across his chest and looked scared to respond.

"I screw everything up." She tossed his book onto the daybed. "They think I set the fire on
Monday night...probably think I'm some criminal mastermind who sabotaged another firm for some stupid promotion I don't even think I want."

"What are you talking about? I'm completely lost."

"You're my alibi for Monday night, aren't you happy to add that to your list of troubles? Your new girlfriend is a suspected arsonist. You have horrible taste in lovers." She pulled at her blouse, suddenly hating the clothes she wore. Without another word, she stormed down the stairs and stripped as she went.

She tossed clothes out of her closet until she found her ratty sweatpants and paint-splattered t-shirt.

"You haven't changed at all," he whispered from where he lounged against the bedroom wall, smiling with his dimples denting his cheeks. "You still go on tangents that leave me breathless with anticipation. Exactly what is the point of all this?"

"We don't have sex pictures." Hands on her hips and headache piercing her brain, she faced him. "We never had threesomes.
What else are you into? Bondage? I'm okay with that, by the way. The kinkiest thing we ever did was eat off each other—often now that I think of it. Did we have some sort of gelato fetish? Is that a
thing
? I am not a supermodel or an artist. I am
me
. I am moody, I pay my mom's bills, Marc seems to think I promised him some kind of future or something, psycho Simone is about to shine a spotlight on you that I'm not sure how to handle, I have detectives coming to my firm with pictures of what looks like
me
fleeing a crime scene, and you're here smiling at me like it's a fucking love fest."

"Do you want us to have sex pictures or threesomes?" The humor in his eyes did not soothe her anger.

"No! I don't share. You're mine, damn it anyway. You've always been mine." She tossed a shoe at him. Missed.

"Such violence." The l
ip twitch became a full laugh.

"There is nothing at all to laugh about here." Even as she said the words, she felt something shift inside. "We're back together and yet...everything else is falling apart. I want to tear Simone's hair out, yet I hate what happened to the both of you."

"Calm down." He snagged her around the waist and pulled her hard against his chest. "We're all that matters. All in, right?"

She dropped her head against his shoulder and sighed. "
I am so confused. I know what I want, what I feel, but it still seems impossible. Why is that? I think I might be broken."

"
We're all a little broken, but it's the cracks that make us interesting...at least that is what I tell myself." He turned her slowly in a circle, a dance without music. His chin rested on top of her head. "You inspired me to create that book. Every day I was in prison, I envisioned the pictures I would use. I would close my eyes and see the beautiful world in my mind. I made a mental list of all the places I would go when I was free. I thought of you when I woke up and when I went to sleep. I dreamed of your laugh, of seeing you painting with the light illuminating the canvas, of you telling me how much you loved me, and somehow I knew you were out there waiting. When I was free—even with Simone—I set out to do all of what I'd dreamed."

She curled her fingers in the fabric of his shirt. "Why do you love me, even now?"

"Because you throw shoes at me for no good reason and make very little sense."

She tilted her head back to look at him. "I think there's evidence from the arson stashed in the garage. Sela's on her way...but she's an assistant district attorney so I'm not sure I can tell her any of this...I asked her to come because I want to get a restraining order against Simone."

He nodded, his smile fading to a frown. "Are you going to show her the photographs? Tell her everything? She is one of your best friends, yes? Won't she hate me?"

She laughed then at the absurdity of their situation. "
Of all the things I just said to you, you're most concerned about my friend hating you?"

"Yes, I am.
It matters to me."

Heart still hammering in her chest, she wondered if she was hav
ing some sort of anxiety attack and if the laughter was a mental break.

"I need to lie down,
stop thinking for a few minutes," she said before stepping from his embrace.

Her mind had reached capacity. Porn photos of the only man she
had ever loved screwing the only woman she had ever truly hated, pictures of the same man looking like a prisoner of war, and a goddam black hoodie and who knew what else in her garage—all merged together in a tornado of thoughts even as she curled around a pillow.

Karma had caught up to her from some past life, she was certain of it. This should be a time of celebration. She had Jacques back, had finally gotten that promotion she'd sacrificed for, and life looked picture perfect from the outside. 

He curled around her and sighed. "We need to remember that everything that is happening has nothing to do with us as a couple. It would be happening if we were together or not."

"You're so rational it's annoying," she whispered against the pillow.

He laughed against her hair and held her tighter. She smiled despite the headache and the fear that hummed through her body.

"About the garage...exactly what is out there and should we be doing something with it?" He whispered against her ear.

Oh, God, the movement worsened her headache and sliced her head in two; yet she laughed and enjoyed the feel of him laughing against her neck. All of this was an indulgence, she realized that. They did well behind closed doors, locked in their bubble, but the world beat furiously at the door.

* * *

She moaned in protest when the security buzzer sounded. "Can you get it? It's probably Sela."

"Or Kevin." He kissed the side of her neck before disentangling himself from her and walking from the room. He smiled to himself at how comfortable it felt being in her home and assuming the role of boyfriend again.

He didn't bother asking who it was, but felt it was most likely Kevin who had only been a few minutes behind him after checking out of the hotel.

He opened the door and blinked at the stunning blonde woman distracted by her phone.

"Jessie, I'm going to need to borrow a dress for the dinner. I came right over like you asked," she said without looking up.

"I'm sure that won't be a problem." He smiled as he held the door open for her.

She stopped cold and gaped at him. Brown eyes raked over him from head to toe and back again. Narrowing her gaze, she stepped inside and slipped her phone out of sight.

"Well, well, the infamous Jacques Sinclair. Is my friend here?" She faced him, arms crossed, suspicion and
curiosity darkening her already chocolate-colored eyes.

"She's in the bedroom. Would you like a drink?" He knew he needed one or two. Turning his back on the guest, he walked to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of wine he'd noticed chilling in the
refrigerator earlier.

"You're making yourself right at home, I see."
Sela dropped her belongings on the counter—which is the exact moment he remembered the scattered photographs there. Too late, he turned to grab them.