Working With Heat (9 page)

“We’re just getting started,” he said.

* * *

He’d forgotten how direly mascara itched.

Charlie stifled the urge to rub his eyes or to feel self-conscious about how much he knew about applying makeup. Back in his goth phase, his body had been as much of a canvas as his sketchbook. He’d pierced, tattooed, dyed, shaved, worn stacked-heel boots and leather vests, dangling chains and studded cuffs. He went places, did things, met people, because his life was a work in progress, on its way to becoming a work of art.

Until Chelsea happened.

He’d let the holes in his ears, eyebrow and nipples close. He’d had his tattoo of Chelsea’s name altered to an explosion of color and line, taught himself discipline, day by painful day, until getting up and doing the work was as much a habit as the cigs, drinking, recreational drugs and Chelsea were before. He’d created a life as a working artist. He wasn’t setting the art world on fire, but he paid his bills with the pretty things he made.

And maybe the latest work would open new possibilities for him. When he was ready. For the time being, he wanted to keep it close.

But seeing himself like this reminded him how much he used to want, how intensely he used to feel. He was different in it, and he knew it. Masks, makeup—even a girl as together as Milla changed from her usual ‘50s glam girl style into clubbing girl when she changed her clothes. Charlie had seen her in skirts and blouses, in tight pedal pushers and prim sweaters, but he’d never seen her like this. It was a particular section of her legs, he decided as they hailed a minicab. The boots covered her to the point where her toned muscle curved out from her knee, and the skirt covered her to the top of her thigh, but in between was a complex play of skin and muscle he couldn’t keep his eyes from.

Especially when she crossed her legs, as she did after sliding into the minicab. The stretched fabric created a little tent, a dark, tempting shadow underneath. The old Charlie would have had his hand up her skirt by the time the cab pulled away from the curb. The new Charlie rubbed his flattened palms against denim to drown out the itch in his fingertips and looked out the window at London passing by.

“Where are we going?” Milla said.

“Collective,” Charlie said. “In SoHo.” In the past he’d have known all the trendiest spots. Tonight he didn’t want trendy. He wanted anonymous, edgy, somewhere without photographers, where the only things that mattered were the music and the size of the dance floor. He’d texted a cousin for a couple of recommendations and found even after a few years out of the scene, the same places were still known for good music, no celebrities and no photographers.

Milla’s boot nudged his knee. He looked at her, felt that fist squeeze his heart. “Why are you on the other side of the cab?” she whispered, her mouth curved into a wicked little smile.

They were as alone as they’d ever been together, not in the house they shared with their friends, not at the pub, not meeting on Commercial Street. He slid across the backseat and kissed her as purposefully as he claimed her knee, sliding his tongue into her mouth as his palm glided up her thigh. From there it was impossibly easy to brush his thumb over her mound.

She nipped at his lower lip and kept her legs crossed, her boot swinging slowly in time to the music drifting from the cabbie’s radio.
Stay with me...’cause you’re all I need...

When the cab braked in front of the club, he wore as much of her lipstick as she did. All the barriers he’d erected in the last four years, the methods he’d developed to keep himself under control, to rebuild his life, his career, his fucking pride, were slipping away as easily as a sailor untied a knot. If his mouth looked anything like hers, damp and well kissed, then the sexual tension between them could power the club for the night, and everyone would be able to see it.

The bass line vibrated up through the sidewalk, into his feet. Milla, thank God, had worn flat boots and looked like she could close down the club.

He paid their cover and took her hand to lead her inside. “Want a drink?” he bawled in her ear.

She shook her head and pointed at the dance floor. For a moment he hesitated, not sure he remembered how to do this, how to lose himself in the beat, in the moment, in a noise so powerful it vibrated in his cells. Then Milla raised her arms over her head, closed her eyes and swiveled in a tight, sexy circle, the lines flowing from the beat through her feet, through her hips, shoulders, hair.

There was a moment when glass became workable, hot and fluid, when the pipe turned in his hands and the shape coalesced out of heat and sand and chemicals. Charlie did exactly that, became pliable in the noise and chaos. When Milla circled again, he stepped into her body and felt her hair and skin against his as she turned in his arms.

The music crashed at them, waves of noise buffeting them until all they could do was surrender to the music. Milla danced like she lived, flowing, buoyant, joyously, and he slipped back into the man he used to be when everything fed his creative process—dancing, clothes, London’s ancient heartbeat. The music became color and shape and movement, pouring into the well inside him, overflowing into his heart. And when they staggered out of the club, the bouncer locking the door behind them, his ears rang with its absence.

His entire body felt raw, exposed, and all he wanted to do with Milla was tuck her into the curve of his body and sleep until noon. Maybe then he’d understand what was happening to him, this inexplicable blend of tenderness and desire.

Milla’s hair was damp with sweat, her cheeks flushed, her top clinging to her torso. “I haven’t done that in ages,” she said, too loudly for the quiet, dark street, but barely audible to him.

“Hush, love,” he said.

“Feed me,” she said in return.

“Right,” he said, looking around. If he remembered correctly there was an all-night café a couple of blocks over. He looped his arm around her waist and escorted her down the street. The sun was rising by the time they finished eating. They were both lingering over their food, sharing smiles and glances, not really talking until Milla wrapped her fingers around her coffee mug and braced her feet on the seat by his legs.

“Much later, and they’re going to know,” she said, her gaze alert over the rim of her coffee cup.

He shrugged with a nonchalance he hadn’t felt even a couple of weeks earlier. “So what if they do?”

Her smile was as warm as the steam rising from her coffee.

But no one was awake when they tiptoed through the house’s front door, Milla giggling as Charlie bumped into the bike rack. The street and house were so silent she could hear the slow beep of Charlie’s answering machine upstairs.

“Shh,” she said, her finger to her lips.

He kissed her, slow and hot and deep, and oh, she liked the way he kept her quiet. He backed her into the wall with a thump and kissed her. With a soft purr, she luxuriated in his lengthening beard, not caring if she added to the circles under her eyes or the flush in her cheeks.

“I can’t come upstairs today,” she said with a yawn. “I need to pack. Do laundry. Pack.”

“Sleep,” he said.

“That, too. Yes. I’ll do that first, or I’ll end up with my parka and snow boots when I want lots of trim little cardis and pencil skirts.”

“I see your mouth moving, and I hear your voice, but all I understand is this,” he said, and kissed her again. The languid rhythm of his tongue against hers sent heat trickling through her veins.

She pushed him back a little. “Sleep. Stop down this afternoon. Elsa’s trying out dessert bar recipes today, and if I’m a very good girl, I’ll treat myself to a stolen afternoon in bed with you.”

* * *

She took a fast shower then slept until after noon, when the scent of sugar and nuts and melting chocolate woke her. Kaitlin and Elsa eyed her curiously when she emerged.

“That must have been one hell of a date,” Kaitlin said.

“It was,” she replied with a yawn on her way to the coffeemaker. “Has Charlie been down? I told him you were making bars today.”

“Not yet,” Elsa said as she rinsed a mixing bowl. “He got home super late last night.”

“Or super early this morning,” Kaitlin said, cup of coffee in one hand and her phone in the other. “Who’s Jared and why is he texting me?”

“IT Guy. My date from last night. He has his own business. I recommended you for design work.”

“He’s checked out my site and wants to meet,” Kaitlin said. “He says he doesn’t like the design side, just the coding. Seems decent?”

Milla shrugged and slumped into a chair at the kitchen table. “Very. He also says he’d sub for me at the pub quiz while I’m gone. Apparently general knowledge is his specialty.”

“Better and better,” Kaitlin said. “Have you started packing?”

“Not a single pair of pants,” Milla admitted. “Coffee. Then packing.”

She’d taken her first sip of coffee when a sharp
bam-bam-bam
came at their door. Kaitlin unfolded from the sofa to open it.

“Hey, Char—”

“Where’s Milla?”

She knew. As soon as she heard his voice, before she even saw his face, she knew exactly what had happened and woke right up. No caffeine necessary. Adrenaline surged in her veins, sending her heart rate through the roof and her stomach to the floor.

Then she did see his face, and all her hopes and dreams shattered like chunked glass. He’d showered the evidence from last night from his face. Gone was the mysterious kohl-eyed bad boy who could dance down the stars. In his place was Charlie, hollow eyed, betrayed.

It was the look she’d never wanted to see on his face.

“Why?” he demanded. “I didn’t tell you not to show the video to anyone. I thought I didn’t
have to tell you
!”

Oh God.
“I asked her not to approach you,” Milla started. Her stomach churned sickeningly.

“You knew she knew and you didn’t tell me?”

“It was an accident,” she said, scrambling, because she’d thought Charlie couldn’t look worse than he had when he opened the door. “I didn’t do it on purpose. I swear. Nina and the rest of the staff were out for lunch. I was eating at my desk and watching the video. I didn’t hear them come back.”

Kaitlin stood by the door, wide-eyed and unmoving. Suds dripped from Elsa’s elbow to the floor. “What video?” Kaitlin said into the silence.

“Why were you watching it at the Darmayne Gallery?” His voice was stunned with disbelief.

“Because,” she said. Her voice trailed off.
Because I care.
A
lot.

She couldn’t say that now, not with Charlie looking like the scorched earth left after a war, not when it would sound manipulative. She’d had her chances to speak lover’s words the way Charlie would want them spoken: in private. She’d blown those chances. Now it was too late.

As the seconds passed, shame crawled up her spine, shrinking her as he stared at her. She knew exactly what kind of hell Charlie had gone through with Chelsea, the public humiliation, the loss of control over his reputation and art. The master of all things internet, Kaitlin blithely called Milla. But she’d forgotten that you didn’t need social media to hurt someone. Carelessness could happen in real time, in real life.

She firmed up her voice, determined to stand tall while her world crashed down around her. “Because I couldn’t stop watching it. Because you were talking about your new pieces and your process and how you felt about the East End, and you looked so alive. I wanted to see that again. Charlie, I’m—

“I don’t want anyone to see me.”

Milla stifled a flinch. Some men got louder when they were angry. Charlie got quiet, the kind of stillness that reminded her of the wild, unpredictable young man he’d been, and how much pain and suffering it took to build that self-control.

“I don’t want anyone to see me, and I really don’t want anyone to sell me. Not Nina Darmayne. Not you. Those pieces are mine! I made them for me, to learn the process, to figure out what I thought about the East End. Not for a chance at fame or money or a showing at some gallery for all those people who believed what Chelsea said about me and looked at me like I was dirt!”

“I’m sorry, Charlie,” she said. “I never, ever would have done that on purpose. You don’t need what little I could do for you. Your work speaks for itself. But Nina didn’t care about Chelsea. All she cared about was your work. You deserve everything she could do for you, and more!”

“You really don’t get it, do you? We’re not all trying to sell ourselves.”

You did not just say that to me.

Pain and shock stopped her breath in her throat. For a brief moment Charlie looked as if he wished he could take the words back, but then that look disappeared under the film of betrayal and anger.

“So say no,” she said, fighting to keep her voice steady. “If all you want is all you have, no one’s going to force you to sell your work anywhere. And things can keep going on exactly the way they are.”

The scent of charred sugar drifted into the air. “Something’s burning,” Kaitlin said.

“Shit,” Elsa said, and whirled to open the oven door. Milla automatically looked over her shoulder, into the kitchen.

By the time she turned around, Charlie was gone. His footsteps pattered against the stairs, two at a time, by Milla’s estimate, then his door closed with a barely audible snick. Elsa and Kaitlin stared at her over a pan of smoking, blackened dessert bars.

“I really don’t want to talk about it,” she said, then retreated to her bedroom and closed the door.

Chapter Seven

By the time Milla finished packing, she’d recovered enough to tell Kaitlin and Elsa the part of the story she could, about the East End tour, seeing Charlie’s new pieces, making the video. She kept quiet about the sex. There wasn’t much point in telling them about something that was probably over.

She stood on the sidewalk outside the house, her backpack on her back. She’d booked a late train to Paris, preferring to get a good night’s sleep and then begin exploring in the morning. Her trip to Istanbul was broken into segments with layovers in key cities, allowing her some time in each, both to gather video for the channel and also to take notes for the articles she hoped to write.

“Got your laptop?” Kaitlin asked brightly.

Milla patted the side pocket of her backpack. “And charging cable, and extra battery, and a backup hard drive for storing videos, and a universal adapter,” she said, striving to sound as cheery as Kaitlin.

“Phone?” Elsa asked.

She held up the phone case Elsa had given her for her birthday. “And the selfie stick, and washing liquid for washing delicates in the sink, and my passport. If I’ve forgotten anything, I’ll buy it or do without.”

“He didn’t mean what he said,” Kaitlin said. “He doesn’t think you’re selling yourself.”

“He was angry, and rightfully so,” she said. “Watching the video at home is one thing. Watching it at work was terminally stupid. I was...” Her voice trailed off.
Infatuated?
Entranced?
Falling in love?

After an awkward silence, Elsa said, “I know we pretend not to hear each other’s phone conversations, but did I hear you reading your boss the riot act?”

After she’d calmed down by rolling her clothes into perfect tubes in the Marine Corps—approved fashion, she’d called Nina on her mobile. “Yes, and she was utterly unrepentant about it. She said she couldn’t risk another gallery owner finding out and contacting Charlie. When I told her she’d probably ruined her chances, she told me better to ruin them than to not take them at all.” Milla laughed shakily. “Charlie could use her. She’d balance him out. But I was an idiot for watching the video at work.”

“He knows you didn’t mean to hurt him. He’ll settle down while you’re gone,” Elsa said, rubbing Milla’s shoulder.

Four weeks apart would be plenty of time for Charlie to cool down to the point where they could superficially be friends again. Everything would blow over, but nothing would be the same. Charlie didn’t trust easily, and he didn’t forgive betrayals. She’d screwed up, big-time, and lost both her secret, sexy lover and her friend.

“Right,” she said briskly to cover how annoyed she was with herself, the sadness she knew was going to linger for a long, long time. “I’ll stay in touch. Watch Instagram for pictures, but I’m going to go a bit off the grid. I need some time to think, too.”

Another round of hugs and she set off for the Tube station. She didn’t allow herself to look up to see if Charlie was watching.

* * *

The trip, along the Orient Express’s fabled route, was everything she’d imagined and more. Paris she fell into like an old friend’s arms, using her rather pathetic schoolgirl French to reestablish friendships with the staff at the best bakery and patisserie in her favorite arrondissement. Munich and Vienna were acquaintances and well on their way to close friends by the time she left. As vacation brain took over, she put a notice on her website and video channel that read
On
Hiatus
Until
Istanbul
, posted pictures to Instagram, answered tweets and Facebook posts, but for the most part, she stayed quiet, composing only one post that fed from her website to Facebook.

Dear Readers,

I need to tell you something.

For a while now, I’ve been asking you to choose my next date. When I started, I wasn’t seeing anyone, but in the last few weeks, I haven’t being completely honest with you, or with myself. I had someone in my life, someone I never mentioned because unlike me, he values his privacy. He was a friend. A good friend. And then we became so much more than friends.

But I screwed up. Badly. Maybe unforgivably. I didn’t do it on purpose, but in this case, carelessness is worse. You’re supposed to take special care with the people you love, shelter them, protect their tender spots. I didn’t, and sometimes apologies can’t rebuild trust.

I’m not sure what will happen when I get home. I hope we can at least go back to being friends. I really hope we can be more than friends again. That’s what I want, so I’m not going to be dating for a while. I can’t say anything else, not until he’s ready. He may never be ready, and that’s fine. All I need is my friend. My best friend.

You’ll still get your daily dose of Milla. I’ve taken so many cool videos and seen so many interesting things to write about. The world we live in is full of enough beauty and joy for a thousand lifetimes, and I want to film and write about as many moments as I can and share them with you. But for the time being, I’m going to give my dating life a bit of a break.

Thanks for understanding. See you in Istanbul!

Love,

Milla

Then she sent a quick email to Charlie’s business account, because it was the only one he had.

Dear Charlie,

I apologize. I’ve drafted this email so many times, but in the end, that’s the most important thing, so I’m going to lead with it. I made a mistake—not in filming you, because you are everything I said and more—but in watching the video at work. I was careless with the only thing you asked me to respect. I’m so sorry Nina saw it, and I’m even more sorry I didn’t tell you she’d seen it.

But I made another mistake, too. I kept one secret all too faithfully, and that was the secret of how I felt about you. I was watching the video at work because—and this is the truth I’ve been trying to say to you since the morning after our first night—I want to be friends, but so much more. I can keep secrets if I need to, but I should have found a way to say, “I really like you” and “I’d like us to be more than friends.”

I should have been bold. Instead I kept secrets and thought only about being able to watch you, not whether or not you wanted to be watched, by anyone else, or even me.

I’ve uploaded the video to my private file server and deleted it from my phone. If you want me to delete it from the file server, I will. No one will ever see it again. It will be like it never existed.

But please, watch it first. Please. I’m not asking to convince you to sign with Nina. I’m asking because I hope you’ll watch it and see what I saw that night in the hot shop: an artist blazing with passion and confidence and enthusiasm. But if you tell me you want me to delete it, it’s gone.

She agonized over the closing. Then she used the one word she knew was true, and would always be true.

Yours,

Milla

* * *

Budapest was a stranger, and she enjoyed the stranger-in-a-strange-land experience so much that on a whim she switched to the southern route, taking the train to Belgrade, and from there to Sofia. She saved the bulk of her on-the-ground time for those cities, compiling hours and hours of footage wandering their cobbled streets and squares, sipping coffee in outdoor cafés, touring museums and historical sights, but mostly getting to know their particular flavor, asking locals for restaurant recommendations, bunking down in hostels to save her money for food, sights and late nights writing.

Over the next week she occasionally checked her email, expecting a two-word note from Charlie—
Delete it
. But the email never came, and she slowly came to accept that, best case scenario, they’d have it out when she got back. Worst case scenario, she’d lost her lover and her friend.

No. She wouldn’t allow herself to accept that possibility. She’d won Charlie’s trust once. She could do it again. When she got home, she’d tell him in person how she felt, and ask for a second chance.

The final stage from Sofia to Istanbul’s Sirkeci terminal was a bewildering combination of border crossings and transfers from the train to the bus to accommodate track work in both Bulgaria and Turkey. She spent most of the trip putting together a teaser trailer for the website and YouTube channel, mostly images, a few video clips, a thought or two. The plan was to end the video with a montage filmed on her arrival in Istanbul. When she’d finished as much as she could, she spent the rest of the time looking out the window at the scenery. They crossed the Golden Horn, the strait separating Europe and Asia, and braked in a slot at Sirkeci.

Gathering up her luggage, she made her way off the bus and into the bustling, echoing terminal to take pictures of the Orient Express café and waiting rooms, then the platforms sheltered by grand metal roofs. The front facade was three oversize stories tall, the windows shaped like minarets, topped with a long dome and two towers housing stern, square clocks, with a glorious stained-glass window set above two enormous doors. She walked to the metal barriers preventing the city’s wild traffic from parking directly in front of the station, shrugged out of her backpack and dug inside for her selfie stick.

She’d done it, pieced together a trip along the routes of the Orient Express. All that was left was to film the final montage.

Camera attached, she tapped the video button and started recording. She didn’t say anything, just let her slow circle capture everything. The brick facade; the car and pedestrian traffic; the cloud-drifted sky; the metro train pulling up; Charlie; the facade; a family holding hands as they crossed the street; a woman in a head scarf, a Burberry shirt, skinny jeans and Tory Burch flats, a clutch tucked under her arm as she thumbed away at her phone; the Bosporus in the background; the facade; Charlie...

She stopped, staring up at the camera. Centered in the screen was Charlie, sitting on his rucksack, wearing jeans, his boots, a white T-shirt and his army jacket with the collar popped. Elbows folded on his knees, he peered up at her from his seated position, his face fond, exasperated, hopeful, uncertain.

Couldn’t be. Charlie rarely left the East End, let alone London, the United Kingdom, much less Europe. Okay, so she was barely in Asia, but she was in Asia. It was a trick of the camera and the light, another scruffy traveler who happened to look like the man of her dreams.

Camera still positioned above her, she peered over her shoulder to see with her own eyes.

It was Charlie. In real life. In Istanbul.

“Hi,” he said.

She was vague aware of the selfie stick tilting in a wide arc as she turned to face him, even more vaguely aware that the wild, blurry video would have to be edited, and then all she was aware of was him. He straightened, approached her, then shoved his hands in his pockets, as if he wasn’t sure he was welcome in Istanbul, much less in her life.

Oh, Charlie.

The selfie stick swayed wildly, picking who knew what angle of the roof of the train station and the sky, as she wrapped her arms around his neck. “I’m so glad you came,” she said. “I’m so glad.”

His arms tightened around her waist, strong and possessive. Not caring who might see. “Me, too,” he said, and kissed her. She thought his grip was possessive. His kiss was
fierce
, filled with the knowledge of what it meant to love and lose, to get a second chance and to give one.

She wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice. “No more secrets between us,” she said breathlessly when he let her up for air. “I’m falling for you. Hard.”

“Deal,” he said immediately, his eyes serious. “Because I’m falling for you, just as hard.”

That sounded very promising. “How did you get here?”

“Plane,” he said succinctly. “London to Istanbul in under four hours.”

“Well, if you like comfort, convenience and speed, you can’t beat planes,” she said with a smile.

“I’d argue on the comfort,” he said, scratching his head. “Bloody sardine can.”

“How did you know where to find me?”

“Kaitlin and Elsa kept me up-to-date on your plans,” he said. “Every third word out of their mouths was
Milla
. I watched the video.”

“You did?”

“I couldn’t tell you to delete it without watching it,” he said gruffly. “I wanted to see what you saw. You look at the world differently than other people. You make them see it the way you see it. I wanted, I dunno, to see myself the way you saw me. When I did, I realized that my ears and eyebrow weren’t the only things that grew closed after Chelsea left me. I burrowed into the East End like a fox running from the hounds.”

“You were badly hurt,” she said. “It takes time to recover from something like that.”

“Less time than I took,” he said wryly. “Chelsea opened doors for me when I was all talent, no vision. I didn’t know if I could open those doors myself, and then I stopped painting, started working with heat. I wouldn’t even admit to myself that I wanted what Nina Darmayne could offer—a chance at recognition. Respect. Earned myself, for my work.”

“It’s tough to put yourself out there,” she said.

“I made it tougher than it needed to be.” He looked at her. “The least I can do is admit to myself that I want that. Respect. Recognition. Money. I want all of that, and more.”

“Good. You deserve all of those things. You’ve earned them.”

“Nina’s arranging an installation. She said to tell you it’s the first thing on your to-do list when you get back.”

“I’m still working for her?”

He squinted at her, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “She seems to think you have good instincts and the spine to back them up.”

Milla laughed. “Great. Couldn’t be happier. Um...when do you have to be back?”

“I haven’t taken a vacation in...well, since our family holidays in Bournemouth.” He looked around the street. “Istanbul looks pretty cool.”

“I’ve got four days scheduled here before I fly home,” she said.

“Four jam-packed days?”

“There’s five thousand years of history in this city,” she protested before he kissed her again. “We’ll barely scratch the surface of Istanbul in four days!”

“Nina said she’d give you another week off. I thought we could take the train, or a boat, to Venice, maybe see some of the Murano glass facilities.”