Submersed (13 page)

             
But the song was catchy and I felt the corner of my mouth tilt up in a smile.

             
Dillon snapped his fingers and started dancing. I let out a nervous laugh, hoping he didn
’
t expect me to join him.

             
“Have you ever heard this?” he asked over the music.

             
“No,” I answered, still laughing. I had to practically yell to be heard over the ridiculous volume. “What is it?”

             
“My Darkest Days.”

             
“Its…high energy.”

             
He threw his head back and laughed. I’d never heard Dillon laugh straight from his belly before and it was a wonderful sound. Normally, I would have cringed at that kind of full-bod
i
ed laughter, but this wasn’t a wicked or malicious laugh. It was wonderful. I couldn’t help but smile because I knew he wasn’t laughing at me but at my naiveté.

             
“Come on,
Livi
,”
h
e urged, pulling me to my feet.

             
I stood awkwardly across from him and fiddled with the ends of my hair. “I’ve never danced like this. I don’t know what to do!”

             
“Don’t overthink it. Just wiggle your ass a little.”

             
I laughed at that and he pulled me to him. Despite the difference in our height, we fit together perfectly just like we had at the charity dinner. Thinking that if my neck could keep rhythm
then
maybe the rest of me would follow, I nodded to the beat.

             
Little by little, I loosened up and danced.

             
He held my hand with his thumb pressed at my wrist and I was afraid he’d feel my pulse rapidly throbbing. With his other hand, he gripped my hip. Sometimes it scared me how hands-on Dillon was. Without warning, he would just reach out and touch my hand or my hair. It was always with tenderness, though.
Never possessive or rough.
Although it made me jumpy, I felt myself secretly wishing he’d touch me more often and in more private places.

             
Now he was touching me like we were at a nightclub together. Dillon’s hand moved down to my waist and we gyrated to the music. He danced like he knew exactly how to move to make a woman whimper.

             
His eyes darkened until they were almost black. Was it desire or repulsion? If I didn’t know better I’d have thought it was desire. Repulsion didn’t keep a man clinging to you like he was glued to your front.

             
He had to know what he could do to a woman with just one look of those devastating eyes. Once flash of that smile. Yes, he definitely knew. No one could be oblivious of such charms.

             
He raised my arms up and slid his hands down them in a hot
Dirty Dancing
move. Mesmerized by how his muscles flexed when he moved, I watched his biceps bunch under his shirt. Then he rested his hand just under my shirt at the small of my back. His warmth pulsed through me along with the music.

             
Chills raced up and down where he touched my arms. It was always like that with Dillon.
The heat and the chill.
The warmth followed with the shivering.

             
It was scandalous, naughty and I absolutely loved every second of it.

             
The song ended and a slower song followed. It was the same voice singing but this time it was a ballad. I started to pull away, thinking that signaled the end of our dancing, but Dillon pulled me close. This time the slow dancing was even
more
different than at the charity dinner. This time there was no
space between us. Dillon pressed his pelvis to mine and wrapped both arms around me, resting his head on my shoulder.

             
His body heat enveloped me and it was like a hug that went on for the length of a song. It was soft and intimate and I didn’t want the song to end.

             
“What do you listen to when you paint?” he asked into my hair.

             
“Nothing.”
I practically snorted at the absurd question, but didn
’
t because my body was too languid from his touch. “I need absolute silence. I even wear earplugs to keep from having distractions.”

             
“Try painting to music sometime
,” he said. “
You might surprise yourself.”

Chapter Eleven

             
After Dillon left, I logged onto my computer and downloaded the band’s album we had danced to. Frederic Chopin would have rolled over in his grave at some of the lyrics, but I got a kick out of them. The music was such a far cry from what I’d been listening to that it felt like I had discovered a whole new world.

             
Not only did I buy My Darkest Days, I also downloaded all of the other recommended albums in the genre.
Cavo
, Hinder, Rev Theory… Once I started sampling more bands, I kept clicking to download them and I couldn’t stop.

             
Later as I scrolled through my new music collection, I thought about what Dillon had said about painting to music.

             
I was eager to try it. Up until then, painting had been a controlled act. Everything had to be precise and calculated.
Prim and proper.
Frigid.
It hadn’t always been like that for me though. Just
in the last
six years.

             
Dillon’s taste in music was sure to mix things up a little. And I knew that was exactly what I needed to do in my life.

             
I put on my headphones and turned up the volume until I flinched. It made me uncomfortable at first, but I pressed on. I turned it up until I couldn’t hear myself think.
Couldn’t hear the ugly words and the abhorrent laughing.
Until I could feel the bass pounding in my chest, the guitars screaming through my veins.

             
I closed my eyes and soon my knees started bending and my hips swayed. After pushing away thoughts about how silly I must look, it was easier to just do what came natural. And I danced. I danced like there was a demon inside of me, struggling to push free. I danced like I could do anything,
be
anybody. I danced like I was the last person on earth and there was no one to look at me and criticize.
No one to judge.
No one to laugh.

             
When I was breathless and thoroughly exhausted, I pulled out my paints, prepared a new canvas and started to work. I let my hands mix the colors they wanted to and left my brain out of it. I squirted colors on my pallet.
Bright, vivid, beautiful colors that jumped off the canvas as soon as I brushed them there.
Colors that had a commanding voice of their own and didn’t need symbolism or metaphors to make them interesting.

             
I used an opulent turquoise for the sky, set off by brilliant white puffy clouds. There was sunshine, lots of it, in a bright
icterine
yellow shooting blinding rays down to the warm earth. The earth was covered with lush Shamrock green foliage and dotted with tiny flowers all colors of the rainbow.

             
I became so engrossed by the plethora of colors, the veritable party on my easel, that I barely even noticed the music anymore. The sounds didn’t frighten me anymore or make me cringe, but guided my hands across the canvas.

             
I painted like I had danced.
Wild, bold and audacious.
Without giving a hot damn about what anyone thought about it.

             
After I gave my brush a final wiggle and painted the last stroke, I stood back and looked, truly looked, at what I had created.

             
I was mesmerized by what I saw.

             
It was glorious.

             
It had been a long time since I’d worked with such bold colors, the image staring back at me made me blink hard. After so many years of being unhappy with my work, it was incredible to look at it and feel like my heart would burst with pride.

             
I had painted two people, a man and a woman, frolicking in a springtime meadow. They were dancing, colors bursting out of them like laughter. Violet colored pansies and golden poppies lay crushed under their prancing feet. Glowing sunshine kissed their happy faces.

             
But it was their smiles that first caught my eye. The man grinned lovingly at the woman. And the woman, whose face was turned up to the warm sun, was laughing.

             
I turned down the music and collapsed onto my bed. I had run a marathon and I had a personal masterpiece to show for it. All thanks to Dillon.

Chapter Twelve

             
The next morning, I called down to Frank to instruct him to send Dillon up when he arrived. Then I propped open the door so Dillon could let himself in.

             
Since I had some time to kill before our “appointment”, I took out my sketchpad and turned to a fresh page. I had an idea for a painting for my father. Weeks ago, he had commissioned me to paint something for his new office, but I’d been putting it off for lack of inspiration. Now, with my newfound discovery and appreciation of color, I knew just what I was going to paint for him.

             
I envisioned Pebble Beach, my father’s favorite golf course. He had played hundreds of courses all around the world,
but
he said there w
ere
none more beautiful. I had never been there myself, but I pulled the image from photos he’d shown me and slideshows I’d seen on the internet.

             
I would paint the seventh hole with its stunning view of the Pacific Ocean. The sky would be a swirl of cerise and salmon as the sun chased the horizon at sunset. For the lush, manicured grass of the green, I chose a Kelly green and a deeper hunter green for the rough. The tan sand of the bunker would contrast nicely against the green grass.

             
Shrubs, the color of burnt orange, dotted the edges of the orangey, ochre rocks of the rugged coastline. Below the granite rock outcroppings, the dark blue ocean rolled in as white mist from crashing waves sprayed into the air.

             
I put my
earbuds
in my ears and set my iPod to shuffle all of my new music.
A half
dozen songs later, it played an up-tempo song that sounded like something a stripper would dance to. I set aside my pad and began moving to the music.

             
Although it was certainly more fun and more stimulating to have a partner, I found I didn’t need Dillon in order to dance. I danced by myself and let my body move
on its own
to the music. Sure, it felt amazing having his hands roam over me while we moved together, but this was fun too.
In a liberating sort of way.

             
I caught my reflection in the living room windows and I didn’t look half-bad shimmying to the beat. My face wasn’t crystal clear in the glass and I could have been virtually any woman, anywhere, dancing by
herself
.

             
I closed my eyes, ran my hands up and down my body and
gyrated
my hips. Sticking my ass out and thrusting my breasts forward, my fingers skimmed over my curves.

             
I was out of breath and nearly on the verge of breaking a sweat. My heart was pounding and my blood pumping gloriously through my body. I touched the hem of my shirt and started to slide my hand underneath. Slowly, I turned around and when I opened my eyes, my heart stopped and my jaw dropped to the floor.

             
Dillon was propped in the doorway, his shoulder leaning against the doorframe, his legs casually crossed at the ankle. He shot me a smile that I could feel the warmth of from across the room, but all my body did was shiver with icy cold fear.

             
I yanked the
earbuds
out and screamed. “Dillon!”

             
“You’re glowing,” he said, his voice thick. His tone was laced with something I didn’t recognize. Something I wasn’t ready for.

             
I put a hand to my cheek to find it hot. “What the…? How long…?”

             
He uncrossed his arms and motioned for me to continue. “Don’t stop. Dance for me,
Livi
.”