Drawn (13 page)

Looking up at me, he nods, his hands on his hips as the moonlight washes over his face, showing a man who doesn’t know how to handle this attraction we have. Hell – I don’t know how to handle this. It’s never happened to me before.

As I go inside to grab my bag, my shoes, and write a note for my parents, I wonder what this is. What is it about him that’s making me so crazy to be around him? I’ve been attracted to men before – but not like this. This is something else.

Pulling the door closed quietly, I walk down t
he steps and take the hand he’s offering me. Without speaking, he brings my knuckles to his lips as he leads me to his car, and buckles me in.

As we drive
back to his apartment, we’re quiet the whole time. It’s as if we’re trapped in a spell, neither of us really willing to speak for fear of breaking it.

Once inside,
I follow him to his bedroom, my heart thudding the entire time, as he moves over to the bed, and strips off the sheets. I stand by, watching him move around, depositing one set into his laundry basket and pulling a new set out of the cupboard, making up the king sized bed neatly.

“You take the bed,” he says
, breaking the silence. “I’m happy to sleep on the couch.”

“Oh. Ok,” I say, a slight pang of disappointment landing in my stomach
, as he effectively breaks the spell too. “I’ll um… just use the bathroom.”

When I left
with him, I didn’t really think about what I would sleep in. I’m still wearing the singlet and panties I had on for bed, as well as the leggings and t-shirt I put on top of them.

I relieve myself and wash my hands, splashing water on my face before I study my reflection in the mirror. I look pale, my dark auburn hair surrounds my light features,
and my blue eyes appear larger than normal with dark circles from my lack of sleep, beneath them.

I remove my leggings, hanging them on the towel rail to put back on in the m
orning, but I leave my shirt on. It’s long enough to be worn as a night shirt. So it will have to do.

When I emerge from the bathroom, I notice him sitting in a pair of boxer shorts on the two seater couch he’s made up
, with a spare pillow and blanket.

“How are you going to fit on that?” I ask him.

“I’ll be fine,” he says, rising from his seat before he walks toward the bedroom. “Here, hop in,” he instructs, as he moves to the bed, pulling the sheets back and waiting for me to slide between them.

Slipping
between the cool soft cotton, I look up at him. “You know, it’s a giant bed. We could probably both fit.”

“I don’t know.” He frowns, his eyes travelling between me, the space I’ve made for him, and the couch that can be seen through the open door.

“You’re far too tall to sleep on that couch. I don’t mind sharing. We’re just sleeping – right?”

He nods, shifting his bulk
to slide in next to me, reaching his arm around my waist and pulling me toward him. I pull my long hair around my shoulder, to keep it out of his face, at the same time exposing my neck. Delicious chills roll through my body as he plants a soft kiss on the skin of my throat.

“Thank you,” he whispers, his arm tightening around me as he pulls me closer, kissing me softly again.

Closing my eyes, I let out a peaceful sigh. I don’t think I have ever felt more at home than I do right now – the curve of our bodies combined, the sound of his steady breathing as he relaxes into sleep, and the firm grip of his arm, holding me, protecting me. I didn’t know how much I wanted it, or how much I needed it. Now I’m not sure how I’m going to cope without it.

It’s not long before I’m drifting off to sleep myself, although I’m sure, that throughout the night, I keep feeling soft kisses against my shoulder – perhaps it’s just a dream.

***

When I wake, it’s to the aroma of bacon frying and coffee brewing.

“What time is it?” I ask, after stumbling out into the living area, bleary eyed from sleeping so soundly. I find it strange as I’ve never been one to sleep anywhere but in my own bed.

“Almost eight,”
Damien informs me from where he’s standing at the stove, keeping a watchful eye on breakfast.

“Eight?! Shit, I’m moving today. I need to be home. We’re going there at ten,” I ramble
, instantly awake and in a panic, knowing that my mum and dad will be up already and have probably been trying to call me. I race into the bathroom and pull on my leggings, running my fingers through my hair to neaten it. It’s thick and heavy, so I very rarely wake up with it looking messy, but it doesn’t hurt to check.

“You’ve got plenty of time to eat,” he says.

“No, Damien. I don’t. I have to go,” I argue.

“Sit. Twenty minutes isn’t going to kill you.”

I stand in the doorway of the bathroom, wondering if I should keep arguing as I watch him move back into the kitchen and lift the pan, taking it over to the table and sliding eggs, bacon, and some cooked mushrooms, tomato and spinach.

“Coffee?”

“Um… ok.” I give in. “White with one sugar. I’ll just use the bathroom properly,” I inform him, pointing toward the door.

“Of course.” He nods, working his way around the kitchen, pouring mugs of coffee and setting small glasses of juice on the table next to our plates.

Inside the bathroom, I perform my usual ablutions and double-check my appearance before I go out to join Damien at the table.

“Thank you for breakfast. It looks wonderful,” I say
, as I lift my knife and fork, and dig in.

We eat in companionable silence for a while. I don’t know why, but I don’t feel the need to talk constantly w
hile I’m near him. I just like to be in his presence. I find it calming – I guess it must be the same for him.

Eventually though, I look around the room, and my eyes land on his cork board.

“Why do you hide your drawings? I mean, aren’t you doing a fine arts degree or something?”

“No. Our university doesn’t offer a fine arts degree. I’m actually doing a Bachelor of Design, so most of my work is computer based. I still lov
e to sketch though, and paint. But I do it for me. That’s why I don’t display them. It’s sort of like a journal I suppose.”

“I’m sorry for looking at them,” I tell him.

“It’s ok,” he says, taking a mouthful of juice.

“They are beautiful though. You’re very talented.”

He nods in quiet acceptance. I guess people have been praising his talent for a long time, so it must be a normal thing for him now. I take a mouthful of my coffee, watching him, just like he’s watching me.

My mind begins to sift through the snippets of information I ha
ve about him, raising questions that I feel fairly certain he won’t give me answers to. But I ask them anyway. “So, if you aren’t doing art – why was Bec modelling for you?” 

“I do portraits. But it’s all digital. I mainly get commissioned by women, and sometimes couples. It’s kind of like what they do for book covers and movie posters but it’s for their own personal use.”

“Can I see some of your work?”

He drops his eyes as he places his coffee mug carefully on the table. “No.”

“Why? Are they naked?”

He smiles and shakes
his head slightly. “They’re not mine to show.”

For the first time since coming here, I’m suddenly feeling uncomfortable. I want to know more about him, but he’s not making this easy.

“Did you know there’s a rumour about you and all those women you have over here?”

He rubs his hands, back and forth over the top of his short spikey hair. “I don’t tend to listen to rumours,” he glowers.

“Are they true though? Do these women pay you to… you know.”

“Who told you this shit? Aaron?”

“Yes.”

“Jesus,” he breathes, shaking his head from side to side before he picks up his unfinished plate and walks it over to the kitchen sink.

“It’s true though isn’t it? I mean, I saw you with that woman. That wasn’t just a portrait was it?” I ask, needing to know the answer.

“Why does it matter?”

“Because it does.”

With his back to me, gripping the edge of the sink, I can see the muscles in his forearms flex an
d relax, as the silence drags on without any answer to my question. It’s then that I realise it’s all true, and I wish I had just kept my mouth shut.

“I think I should go,” I whisper, pushing away from the table with the idea to go and get my bag.

“What do you want me to say Henrietta? I’m sure you’re aware that I’ve had sex before. Is it really important that you know who it was with and why?”

“I don’t know. I just…” I stop speaking, standing in the centre of the room, not really knowing what it i
s I want to say. This is all so new to me.

“Can you just accept that since I met you, I haven’t been with anyone else?” he explains, moving toward me, reaching his hands around my waist, holding me to him.

“What about that woman I saw in here? What about Bec?” I argue, tears in my eyes as I push against his chest ineffectively. He’s like fucking kryptonite when he’s near me and suddenly I’m helpless against him as my hands rest against his chest, and my fingertips smooth over the soft cotton of his shirt.

“I don’t lie. I didn’t have sex with either of them. I promise you that.”

“I just don’t like the idea of you being in a room alone with a naked woman,” I whisper, resting my head on his shoulder, already giving in.

“It’s my job Henrietta,” he explains, gliding his hand soothingly up and down my back. “If I don’t have that income, I won’t be able to afford this place. My course. My car. The fees to train with your father. It all costs money. I have two things that I’m great at – portraits and fighting. I can’t make a huge amount of money back alley fighting without getting busted by the cops. So I do portraits. The fact that they’re risqué is what keeps me in business. But I promise you, it will just be portraits – nothing else.”

“What if they don’t understand that? What if they think they can sleep with you?”

“Babe, I’m not a gigolo – it’s not like they were paying me for my sexual services. And I didn’t ‘sleep’ with any of them. You’re the only girl I’ve ever literally slept with and when you’re ready, you’ll be the only girl I ever make love to. I want you to be mine Henrietta, and in return, I’ll be yours.”

"Do you want me to help you move?"
Damien asks, as he drops me off at home after breakfast.

“I do. But it’s all planned. My parents are helping, and I think it’s important that it’s just me and them. This is kind of a big deal for them – and for me of course. I just… do you understand?” I ask, stopping because I don’t feel as though I’m making any sense.

“Of course I do. You go. Move into your new place and call me when you’re done,” he says, taking my hand and kissing my knuckles. “And can you actually leave your phone on this time?”

“Absolutely.”

When I get inside, my parents are both dressed and ready, sitting together on the couch watching TV. As I enter the room, they turn their heads toward me, and I can tell they’re expecting an explanation.

“Morning,” I say, as cheery as I can, pretending like I didn’t just spend the night at some guy
’s house.

“Shhhh,” my mother hisses at my father. “She’s eighteen.” Her voice is low, but I hear her clearly as she admonishes my grumbling father. “
Damien again?” she asks me, setting a smile upon her face.

“Yeah,” I nod, giving her a small smile. I can tell she wants to ask me a lot of questions, but the stormy look on my dad’s face means that they’ll have to wait until we get a chance to be alone.

“Let’s get this done,” my father proclaims, as he gets up from the couch with a slight grunt that shows his age. Forever the gentleman, he holds his hand out to help my mother up. “We’ll start with the boxes by the door. Hopefully it will all fit in one run. If not, I’ll drop you and your mother off, and then come back for the rest.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I smile, trying to keep my excitement level even. I don’t think it’s appropriate for me to be keening about leaving them. Even though I’m fighting the urge to squeal and jump up and down yelling ‘moving day!’

Piling into the Barina, we let dad do the driving to my new accommodations. The trip is no more than ten minutes, but it feels like it takes forever. I’m travelling toward my future, toward my freedom, and I can’t wait.

I love my parents, I really do, and I will visit them as much as I can. But I can’t breathe in that house. I need my space.

As we pull up in front of the townhouse, my heart beats excitedly in my chest as I jump out of the car and jog up to the front door, calling to my parents that I’ll open the door to clear the path for the boxes.

“
Happy moving day!” Jessica singsongs, as she opens the door for me. “Where’s your stuff?” She looks at my empty hands and frowns, a flash of worry crossing her features.