Drawn To You (16 page)

And if I’m as really, truly honest as Leon’s beer is making me, I’m feeling more than a little in love with it all. I didn’t know I was capable of that anymore.

For now, for this moment, I’m going to call that a win.

A
week later
, Ezra’s on the couch next to me with his legs draped over mine.

I pinch his calf. “Tell me what you’re painting.”

“A gentleman never tells,” he says, flicking his foot and giving me a devilish grin. “You’re not going to get it out of me.”

I fall back against the cushions with a huff. “I miss you. This is the first time we’ve spent more than ten minutes together all week. Leon’s texting me to ask if he needs to file a missing person’s report because he hasn’t seen you at all.”

Ezra sits up and pulls me close, stealing my breath away with a kiss.

“I know,” he says softly. “But I can’t stop until it’s done. When you see it, you’ll understand.”

My body melts into his touch. Whatever he’s painting is bringing out his pride, relaxing him back into the luminescent life-of-the-party guy I met it the bookshop not so long ago. His paint-stained fingers creep up my bare arm and I want to bite down, to pull him as close as possible and make him mine.

There’s something raw and real about an artist in the midst of creation, and it’s a hell of an aphrodisiac.

Unfortunately, he sighs against my neck and disentangles himself from me, leaving my skin prickling in the cool air of my apartment.

“As much as I want to keep doing this all day, I have a masterpiece to finish,” he says.

It’s all I can do to loosen my grip from his hands. “See you later?” I say.

“We’ll figure something out.” He leans down to kiss me again. “Promise.”

The door closes behind him and I’m alarmed at how alone I feel. Part of me wonders if all this work is a way to put distance between us, even though I should know better.

This is as vulnerable as I’ve been in a long time. Ezra’s given no indication that he’s changing his mind anytime soon, but I can’t help but feel the doubt that’s still poisoning my veins creep up every time I let my guard down. It isn’t only Ezra, either. I’ve come to really like the whole crew – Leon, Duke, even Skylar.

The more I gain, the more I worry about losing it all. Sometimes the people you love and trust the most bring you the worst pain.

These are the sorts of dark thoughts I’m having as I’m making coffee this morning. I have the pot going, but I thought it’d be nice to get out the French press and make a fancy cup for Audrey, who’s actually sleeping in her own bed this morning. Trouble is, I can’t find it.

“What
are
you doing?” Audrey says from behind me as she slumps onto one of the barstools, her nightshirt hanging off one shoulder.

“Damn it, I was going to surprise you,” I say. “I figured you deserved the good coffee after the long nights you’ve been pulling for that deposition.”

“I was definitely pulling something last night,” she says.

I open the last cupboard and finally find the press on a shelf that’s just out of reach, so I go to grab our footstool. As I’m climbing up, I say, “Are you being immature or did you and Duke have relations again?”

“Both.”

“Nothing but smooth sailing on the horizon, then?” I take down the press and pull over a bag of Audrey’s current favorite blend to start making a cup.

“Yeah,” she says. “I can hardly believe it hasn’t all gone sideways yet. My luck never holds out this long. I keep worrying he’s going to wake up and bolt.”

“Hey, none of that kind of talk,” I say. “You’re awesome, he’s awesome, and you’ll be awesome together.” Her coffee’s done, so I pour it out and bring her the mug.

“My angel,” she says, closing her eyes as she rapturously smells the steam rising from the mug. “I hope you’re right. How are things with Ezra? I heard you two talking out here. Where’d he go?”

I sit down next to her with my own mug and a bowl of cereal. “To hole himself up in the MAG’s studio and work on his painting for the showcase.”

“He’s not going to go all Van Gogh on us, is he?”

“Doubtful. Ezra needs interaction with people like fish need water to breathe.” I sigh into my off-brand fruit flakes. “Kind of wish he needed me.”

Audrey flicks my ear.

“Ow!”

“Don’t you go stealing my self-doubt,” she says. “Only one of us is allowed to be cynical at a time, and I called it this morning.“ She tilts her head back to finish her coffee and clunks the mug back down on the bar. “Why don’t you just go see him at the gallery? Kill the mystery. I gotta go get ready for work.”

That’s not a half-bad idea. I could swing by the gallery before my afternoon shift at the bookshop. We didn’t have nearly enough time together this morning.

When I get to the record store above the MAG, they’re having some sort of sale. Outside the door, there are tables covered in boxes brimming over with vinyl, CDs, posters, and other odds and ends. Signs with price lists are taped to each table, and one of the store’s clerks is ringing people up using a tablet. The crowd’s pretty sizeable, so I have to weave my way around men with long white beards and teenage girls alike to get inside. It’s not much better in here. I’m glad I’m not claustrophobic.

I’ve finally managed to make it to the stairwell that leads down to the gallery when I’m intercepted by Angela, who’s coming up the stairs.

“Oh, Mia!” she says. “I’m sorry, the gallery’s closed this week while we set up for the showcase.”

“That’s okay,” I say. “I was actually coming by to see Ezra. He’s down there, right?”

She shifts to block my entry, an apologetic look on her face. “He is, but he’s asked me not to let you down to see his work before the reveal.”

I stop trying to get down the stairs. “He did?”

“I think he wants to surprise you.” She squeezes my arm and gives me a smile. “It’s an incredibly moving piece, exactly the sort of thing you enjoy. I know you’ll love it.”

She walks away and I’m tempted to go down to the studio anyway to satisfy my curiosity. I go so far as to take the first step when my foot freezes in place. If the tables were turned and Ezra peeked at my art when I’d asked him not to, I’d be pissed. I heave a disappointed sigh and turn around to half-heartedly paw through a few of the sale boxes in the record store. I manage to find an
Andrew McMahon in the Wilderness
CD for a few bucks, so the trip isn’t a total loss. Someday I might even own a car with a CD player again.

I hop the bus to Pages & Stages and try to ignore the nagging feeling that something’s off.

Ezra shows up at the bookshop at the end of my shift, freshly showered and grinning ear to ear. He looks like he might be a little high on paint fumes, but maybe he’s just excited. It’s radiating off of him, pulling me to him with its contagious energy. He picks me up right in the middle of the aisle and spins me around.

“It’s done,” he says. “Needs a little polish, but I did it, and it’s amazing.”

I tighten my grip, relieved and giddy. His passion is palpable, and everywhere we touch sets my nerves alight. Creating art makes him so beautiful, but I’m admittedly glad he’s finished. It means I can finally work out all my thwarted attraction from this week.

“It’s amazing because you’re an amazing artist,” I say.

“You bring better art to my hands,” he says. “It wouldn’t exist without you.”

He puts me down and kisses me, causing the kids in the children’s section to gasp and giggle. Sampson clears his throat and Ezra relents, pulling away and taking my hand instead. I lean forward and let my hair hide my blush.

After I clock out, I ask Ezra where he’d like to go.

“Blank Form filmed a music video today and they’re having a wrap party at a bar downtown. I thought we could swing by and grab some drinks.”

“Oh,” I say, disappointment creeping up on me. I’d hoped for something more intimate for the two of us.

He stops to look at me. “Is that cool?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Totally cool.”

I’m being sort of selfish. Of course Ezra wants to see his other friends. Like I told Audrey earlier, he needs human interaction to survive. Maybe we can catch some time alone together later.

When we get to the bar, it’s a madhouse. Duke DJ’s on the dance floor, looking completely at home. Band groupies and party regulars alike fill the place to capacity. Audrey’s hanging near Duke’s turntables, but we only have time to exchange a wave before I’m caught up in the crowd.

Like at the first warehouse party, Ezra’s the center of nearly everyone’s world. The only difference is that now I’m along for the ride. We barely order drinks before someone hooks him into a conversation about a crowdsourced sculpture project nearby.

I slump against the bar and nurse my beer.

Be a good sport, Mia.

I wish I could be like all these people, unafraid to be seen, but I can’t. It’s not me.

Ezra, though… Ezra shines. He always does.

He glances at me out of the corner of his eye and brushes my hand.

“What do you say we get out of here?” he says with a smile. “Skylar knows we stopped by.”

My mood instantly lifts. He knows me so well.

We’ve made it barely half a block when Ezra pulls me in close and kisses my neck. He’s not drunk, but he’s clearly feeling good.

“My place for some one-on-one?” he says in my ear, his heated breath making my toes curl.

How could I say no?

W
e’ve barely made
it past his door when he starts stripping off my clothes, pressing his fingers into my back like we could merge together by sheer force of his will.

“Tell me again,” he says, and I know exactly what he means.

“You’re an artist,” I gasp. “And you’re brilliant.”

“I’m going to paint my next masterpiece on your skin,” he says as he hoists me up and carries me to his bed.

A
fterward
, while he’s sleeping, I put my hand over his chest and feel his heartbeat. He’s as sexy as the day we first met, maybe even more, but I can’t help but remember the night we spent under the stars in the park when he bared his heart.

I can’t help but wonder what mystery his canvas holds.

T
he sky is
full of rainbows on the day of the showcase and it feels like a good omen.

Audrey’s buzzing around the apartment like an overcaffeinated bee.

“Purple or yellow?” she asks me, holding a violet skirt in one hand and a yellow romper in the other.

“Both?” I say, completely distracted by my own quest for a suitable ensemble to wear to a life-changing sort of event. I’ve never been so simultaneously eager and terrified to see an art exhibit in my life. My outfit has to be
perfect.

“So you want me to look like a Lakers girl?” Audrey says, shaking a dress at me. “Help a roommate out here.”

I give her an exasperated look. “Go with the purple.”

“Thank you.” She dashes off to change.

It takes me several lengthy trips into both my wardrobe and Audrey’s before I manage to settle on a jewel-blue cocktail dress with a sweetheart neckline and a too-short hem. Audrey has to talk me down from wearing jeans underneath it.

“Wish all my lacy underwear wasn’t in the wash,” I say, tugging at my skirt. “It’d be nice to give Ezra a surprise later.”

“I have just the thing, hold on,” she says, digging through her drawers. “Ah ha, here it is!”

She pulls out a pair of stockings and a strappy something-or-other still in their packaging. It takes me a solid fifteen seconds to realize it’s a garter belt.

“No way,” I say. “I’d have to have the confidence of Mae West to pull those off.”

Audrey’s very matter-of-fact. “Mia, it’s a verifiable fact that no straight man can resist the allure and outright holy-shit-that’s-hotness of garter stockings.”

“They’re so not me,” I say.

“But they
could
be you,” she retorts. “For tonight, you could be Secret Agent Mia, super sex spy. Just try them on. They’ll make you feel like the sultriest seductress to ever seduct.”

“Seduce,” I correct her.

“Whatever. Give them a try, and if you hate them, I’ll let you wear the stupid jeans.”

I snatch the packages from her and close myself up in the bathroom. From down the hall, I hear her yell, “And they must be worn with a thong, no exceptions.”

The mirror mocks me as I strip down and do my damndest to figure out how the hell this contraption works. Eventually I get all the loose bits untwisted and the stockings hooked in place. I huff and turn around every which way to look at myself.

And wouldn’t you know it, my ass looks fucking amazing.

“Huh,” I say.

“Told you,” Audrey says from the other side of the door.

“Quit creeping on me,” I say, too stubborn to tell her how right she was. The look she gives me when I exit the bathroom with the stockings still on under my dress says it all.

W
hen we pull
up to the shop above the MAG, the crowd’s already thick under the outdoor heat lamps they brought in for the event. Tables lined with linens and covered in hors d’oeuvres are off to one side, alongside two bartenders serving a variety of drinks.

I’m so used to finding Ezra at the center of the party that I’m scanning the crowd before I realize he’s probably inside for the reveal.

I’m thrilled that he gets to have a proper introduction, but I really wish he were here to run his hand along my spine and absorb some of this nervous energy. Maybe I could help ease his, too. I wonder if the MAG has a supply closet.

I walk toward the bartending cart and Leon materializes from the mass of art aficionados.

“Mia, thank God,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “People keep trying to talk to me about Matisse and Dali, and the beer selection is absolutely abysmal. Dos Equis and Guinness? Kill me now.”

“At least it’s not Budweiser. You could always try wine?” I suggest.

“Bite your tongue,” he says, looking sidelong at the bartender like the guy personally insulted his mother. “The only wine I drink is whatever leeches out into sour ale from the barrels its aged in.”

I chuckle as I make my way to the cart. “Alcohol elitist.”

“I’m an alcohol purist,” he corrects me.

I order one of the specialty mixed cocktails – something called a Georgia O’Keefe that’s supposedly a take on a Fuzzy Navel, but… pinker. I don’t have to think about that too hard. It tastes like a sugar-dipped grapefruit.

Leon and I brave the sea of people until we find Duke and Audrey near the door to the record shop. They’re not letting anyone into the building yet, so it’s eerily deserted inside when I look in the window.

I’m not sure why that’s making me feel uneasy.

“So, does anyone have any idea what we’re walking into?” Audrey says. “I mean, it’s not going to be like that exhibit I read about where the artist used actual blood and feces, right? I’m all for free expression, but I don’t know if I could hang with that.”

Duke laughs. “I can’t speak for the other artists, but I do know that’s not how my dude Ezra operates.”

“Has he told any of you what he painted?” I ask. It’s driving me up a wall not knowing, even though we’re moments away from the unveiling. I can’t wait.

“Nope,” Leon says. “He hasn’t said a word, not even after I got a few drinks in him.”

Duke nods. “He’s been walking on air ever since he finished the thing. I’m pretty sure keeping it quiet has about made him bust a gut open.”

He didn’t even tell his best friends about the painting? The intrigue keeps building. If I don’t get to see it soon, I feel like I’m the one who’s going to bust a gut.

I finish my fruity this-is-totally-a-euphemism-for-vagina drink and go to get another. The booze doesn’t make me less eager for the doors to open, but it does relax me a bit.

The bartender’s barely finished mixing when I hear the director’s voice carrying over the crowd, which goes miraculously quiet. I pay for my drink and weave my way back through to my group so I can hear her better.

“We’re thrilled by the featured artists in this year’s showcase,” she says, hands clasped around the microphone she’s using. “Our local talent is always impressive, but this year, the artists have outdone themselves across a breadth of styles and mediums. The featured artists are on display throughout the gallery, and we invite you to browse their work before we gather for the unveiling of our New Discovery Artist of the Year.”

My heart does a flip in my chest. She’s talking about Ezra.

“The doors will open momentarily, and we ask that our guests come down the stairs single file. Please enjoy the showcase!”

She hands off the microphone to one of the other staffers and goes back inside. Our group is one of the first through the door, and we make a beeline through the music displays for the gallery. I’m amazed I haven’t spilled my drink, I’m moving so fast.

Like the director said, the gallery has been rearranged to accommodate the new exhibits, and each featured artist stands near their display to take questions or chat with viewers. My eyes immediately scan for Ezra, and my pulse quickens when I see a huge draped painting at the end of the display maze, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

A not-insignificant part of me screams to go straight for the hidden canvas and peek at what’s beneath. It takes everything I’ve got to reel the feeling back and act like a civilized patron of the arts.

It’s painful to pretend I’m not itching for the final exhibit, so I try to distract myself with the other artists. I pass incredible art in a variety of mediums, from sculpture and oil pastels to photography and textiles. I pause near a tattoo artist whose display features a number of live subjects in various stages of undress to show off her work.

“This is gorgeous,” I say, gesturing at a woman’s bare back. Line art of a crumbling tower covered in flowering vines rises alongside her spine. Bleeding ink like dripping watercolor washes over her skin. “What’s your inspiration?”

The artist dips her head and smiles. “The skin’s a canvas with its own story. Our lives are etched over its surface in scars and freckles. I find the story and I bring it to the surface.”

I nod in understanding. I wonder what story my skin would tell.

I wonder what story Ezra’s canvas tells.

At last, I’ve made it to his covered piece, and I sip nervously at my drink as the crowd starts to congregate behind me. I’ve made sure I’m front and center so Ezra sees me. If I’m this nervous, I can’t imagine how he must feel.

The director emerges again and I grip the stem of my glass so tightly my fingers hurt. I feel like I could vibrate through the floor.

She raises her hands and the murmuring of the crowd falls to a dull hum.

“Every year, we receive dozens of applications from new and up-and-coming artists, and every year it’s a struggle to select our featured New Discovery Artist. This year, however, we received an application utilizing a medium we’ve never showcased before, and it caught our attention immediately. This artist’s perspective on the world around him is fresh and unique. His visual metaphors are stunning. I could go on, but rather than bore you with a lecture, I’ll let him show you the original piece he created for this showcase.

“With no further ado, allow me to introduce Ezra Teel, unveiling his painting utilizing canvas and aerosol paint.”

The audience applauds politely, but no one’s as loud as Leon and Duke, who whoop happily as Ezra comes out grinning and waving.

I’m likely biased, but he’s easily the most handsome man in the room with his hair neatly tied back and his face radiant with excitement. He catches my eye and his face takes on a softer quality. Almost without thinking, I brush at my skirt, reveling the top of one of my garter stockings, and his eyebrows tick up.

There’s no time for flirting, though. The director, who’d been applauding with the crowd, quiets us again.

If I have to wait ten more seconds, I really think I might scream.

“Ezra,” she says. “Would you do the honors?”

“Absolutely,” he says, gathering up an edge of the cloth.

The director turns to the rest of us. “This is ‘The Purple Girl.’”

Ezra pulls the cloth away and it flutters to the floor like a ghost.

There, staring back at me from the enormous canvas, is my dead sister, rendered in a dozen shades of violet and blue.

My glass slips from my fingers to shatter against the floor, and the gallery goes quiet as a graveyard.