Love at First Sight Series Boxed Set: (Books 1-5) Page 20

  I smirk. “Not cocky at all, are you?”

  “Not cocky enough,” he says, enveloping my hand in his so that both of us are holding the biggest brush I own.

  I thought the width of the bristles would be cumbersome and clumsy for him. Boy, was I wrong. Turning my wrist over at a forty-five degree angle so only the corner of the brush is touching the canvas, Rhett manipulates my fingers beneath his. Forceful, downward strokes grab layers of paint I had forgotten about, pulling their rich shades to the forefront and away from the base of the boulders. The effect is that of shimmering glass. A reflection so realistic it transforms the ocean into a living entity.

  My seascape is no longer a series of lines and curves lying on a canvas but a 3-D vision of vastness with depth and motion. Beneath Rhett’s touch, tiny details and muted contours spring to life. I feel as if any second the spray from those crashing waves will soak us, leaving us covered in salt and seaweed.

  This man is a true master. All the arrogance I felt before has washed up on the shore, lying limply on the sand beneath his genius.

  Releasing my hand, he steps back and gives me a look I don’t understand. His expression is one of being tortured and pleasured at the same time.

  I softly clear my throat and say, “You are the best artist in the whole world.”

  He smiles, but his eyes house acute sadness. “Only one of the best, but thank you for noticing.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, why in the world are you teaching art to teenagers at a high school in a hick town like Robeton?”

  “I do mind. And it’s none of your damn business. I have to get going. It’ll be dark soon, and I still need to pick up my car.”

  My heart quivers in my chest. Trying to hide my hurt feelings, I say, “Let me drive you.”

  “No. A good run is what I need right now,” he growls, turning on his heel.

  “Wait!”

  He pauses in the doorway of my bedroom but doesn’t face me. “What do you want, Violet?”

  I want to belong to him. Truth be known, I already do. Hopelessly. Helplessly. I’m his for the teaching. All he has to do is take me.

  My voice comes out soft and small in nothing more than a hushed whisper. “I want to paint as well as you do.”

  I watch his head drop forward. I listen to him groan. “You’ll never be that good.”

  This time the quiver in my heart reaches my bottom lip. His cruelty is more than I can take. Lunging forward, I charge, slamming my fists into his shoulder blades. He isn’t expecting the sudden impact that shoves him out into the hallway.

  He spins around fast enough to face me before his back slams hard against the wall.

  My eyes well with tears of anger. “Why the hell can’t I be as good an artist as you?”

  With the breath knocked out of him, he takes me by my trembling shoulders and gives me a smile so sweet it shatters my soul. “Because you’re going to be better than I ever thought about being. Under my tutelage, you will become the best of the best.”

  I suck in ragged gulps of air. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Don’t say anything, Violet. Just get the fuck out of my way, and let me go.”

  I will never let you go, Mr. Calder. Never.

  I watch him break into a run, tearing out of my house like a bat out of hell. Whatever’s ripping him apart is piecing me back together.

  Chapter Eight

  Rhett Calder

  WHEN I REACH MY Kia Sorento, I’m covered in sweat and gasping for breath. I hated running away from Violet again, but I had no choice. My savage mind is on the edge of breaking. If—or maybe I should say when it cracks—I don’t want her to witness it. As sure as I am standing here, she will be my ruination. The piece-by-piece demolition of my sanity has already started. The foundation is shaking. It won’t be long before the walls begin to crumble.

  Right now, there’s no way I can stop the madness twisting my grey matter. I don’t even try. Giving in to the fucked-up impulse, I circle my vehicle exactly ten times, touching the hood and the bumper with each pass. With that task completed—and hoping like hell no one is watching—I open and close the driver’s side door six times before sliding behind the wheel. Every compulsion that takes me over has to be satisfied in sets of even numbers. After inserting and removing the key from the ignition switch for a count of four, I start the car, pull away from the curb and turn onto the road toward home.

  When I pull into my driveway, I see Hawk leisurely leaning against the side of his candy-apple-red Corvette. His legs are crossed at the ankles, and his arms are folded tightly across his barrel of a chest. If memory serves, and it does, Hawk has been driving that car since he was sixteen. He looks every bit as cool standing next to it now as he did when his father bought it for him off the showroom floor.

  It’s not until I step out of my Kia that I realize how damned relieved and happy I am he is here. However, I wish he weren’t staring at me right this very moment. My heart is doing violent somersaults, my palms are pouring sweat, and my too-taut nerves are strained with the overpowering urge to continue the madness I had begun on 5th Street. My hand hovers and trembles above the handle of my car door. Opening and closing it for a count of six is imperative. I cannot move forward, greet my best friend or go inside my house until that chore is accomplished.

  I lift my chin toward Hawk in a silent plea for him to go on ahead. He slowly shakes his head, and I know he recognizes the desperation in my eyes. He’s seen it before. He knows I’m slipping. That the insanity of repetition is closing in on me.

  I swallow hard as he pushes off the Corvette, widens his stance and says, “If you touch that door handle, I’ll beat the damn dog shit out of you.”

  I don’t want to fight Hawk. To endure the blow of his fist against my solar plexus or the feel of my knuckles crashing into his bearded jaw. I just want to open and close and open and close and open and close the car door for a count of six, then we can go inside and have a beer or three.

  Groaning inwardly as he stealthily approaches the Kia, I say, “Stop where you are, Hawk. A fist fight isn’t the answer.”

  He keeps coming. “It worked well enough when we were in the ninth grade. It’ll work now.”

  I wince at the memory. I was in the boy’s bathroom washing imaginary germs off my hands. The real ones had long since gone down the drain. But the ones in my mind that this godforsaken disorder had locked onto were still crawling all over my skin. I was deep in an OCD-induced trance, desperately lathering, scrubbing, rinsing and repeating until my palms and fingers were raw and bleeding.

  Then Hawk walked in. His eyes met mine in the mirror above the sink. For a second, I thought he was going to make fun of me or maybe shake his head in disbelief at the crazy kid washing his hands like his life depended on it. Instead, he grabbed me by the shoulder, spun me away from the splash and splatter of a still-running faucet and punched me in the gut. I was stunned but grateful. The unexpected blow to my midsection broke the episode.

  I was able to go back to class, and Hawk and I became lifelong friends. But that was then, and this is now. The only two things that can snatch me from the claws of this disease are painting like a maniac and the touch of Violet Driscoll. Neither of those are immediate options.

  Curling my lip, I snarl, “Back the fuck off. I’m going to do what I need to, Hawk.”

  To my surprise, he stops dead in his tracks. Reaching for the Kia’s door handle, I quickly turn my attention back to my task. The instant my fingertips graze the smooth, shiny metal, the blast of a gunshot rings in my ear. I jump ten feet in the air, twisting in mid-flight to see a shit-eating grin on Hawk’s face. I lunge at him just as he’s pushing the butt of a .357 Magnum back into his shoulder holster.

  Ramming my shoulder into his chest, I scream, “What the hell!”

  With his feet spread even wider than before and his knees bent for impact, he shoves me with the full weight of his hulking, six-foot-four-inch frame. We look like
a couple of steroid-enraged football players going at each other on first down.

  His voice ricochets through my eardrums. “I had to do something, Rhett. Did you really expect me to stand there and watch you disintegrate into a helpless heap? We’ve been here before. I couldn’t bear to see you like that again.”

  I stop pushing against him. Suddenly, I’m drained. Tired of trying. Sick of battling all the damn demons relentlessly torturing my mind. Sometimes I think about how much easier it would be to give in. To quit fighting a war that cannot be won. To check myself into a hospital somewhere. To slip into a muted land of dullness flowing with an endless supply of mind-numbing medications and padded walls.

  HAWK KICKS BACK ON a barstool in my kitchen, guzzling what I know will be the first of many Miller Lites to come. He’s not an alcoholic by any means. He rarely drinks at all during the wintertime. But in the hot summer months, he can kill a case of beer without breaking a sweat. He pops the top off another longneck and slides it toward me. I have no intention of lifting it to my lips. All of a sudden, I prefer the taste of lemonade to any other beverage. In fact, I’d trade my eyeteeth to be back at Violet’s house and sharing a glass with her now.

  Pushing the bottle toward Hawk, I continue making hoagie-style sandwiches and say, “I never drink alcohol on a school night.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since right now, asshole.”

  He takes a sip of his second beer, studying me with those sharp, invasive peepers. Grey-blue orbs that see past all the bullshit straight to the bullseye.

  “I’m sensing an attitude, Rhett. I know you’re still pissed about me firing my weapon. But I shot it straight up into the air. No harm, no foul. I did what it took to pull you out of an obsessive orbit and back down to earth.”

  Intermittently layering five different deli meats with three types of cheeses, I take a deep breath and nod my agreement. “I appreciate what you did, Hawk. I really do, but I don’t need a damn babysitter.”

  “Who said you did?”

  “You said it loud and clear with your impromptu visit. Plus, I saw the duffle bag in the back of the Vette. I’m fine. You don’t have to stay.”

  He shrugs as if I didn’t just bust his obvious balls.

  “I’m between cases. Figured I could use a change of scenery. You can’t put an old friend up for a few nights?”

  “Cut the condescension. I know what you’re trying to do. But I’m telling you, I’m in control. If you’re looking for a vacation spot, there’s a beach about a hundred miles down the road.”

  I know I’m behaving like a jackass. Hawk saved my bacon tonight. If he hadn’t intervened, I might have spiraled into an abyss. One so dark and deep, I wouldn’t have been able to find the light of day again. I certainly wouldn’t have made it to school on time in the morning, if at all.

  Slapping his hand against the swirling pattern in the taupe-colored, marble countertop, he asks, “You about done with those sandwiches? I’m fucking starving.”

  I slice the French bread bulging with meats, cheeses, onion and tomato slices on the diagonal, place it on a plate with some potato chips and dill pickle spears and shove it toward him.

  We eat the hearty hoagies in silence. When we’ve cleaned our paper plates, Hawk rubs his washboard belly. “Now that was a damn fine feed. If this art thing doesn’t work out, you could always open up a sandwich shop.”

  I know he’s jerking my chain and choose to ignore him. Picking up the disposable dinnerware, I toss it in the trash and say, “You can crash here tonight, but I need you to hit the road in the morning. Okay?”

  “Sure. I’ll take Highway 9 to the interstate, then veer off the Frontage road and into the Hyatt Regency parking lot.”

  “Suits me,” I snap. “If you want to spend your downtime in a hotel full of bedbugs, that’s your business.”

  He stands, following me into the living room. We plop down on plush leather, reclining theater seats, upholstered in a soft shade of mocha. I grab the remote and flip on the television. I’m hoping he’ll take my cue. I don’t want to talk. I’d rather lose myself in old sitcom reruns and then go to bed. I’m anxious to get to school and see Violet again.

  Unfortunately but expectedly, he doesn’t follow my lead. “Tell me about the girl, Rhett.”

  Keeping my eyes glued to the television screen, I say, “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “The hell there isn’t. She’s the reason you’re losing your mind. Damn it, man! I don’t care how hot she looks; no woman is worth the kind of downfall you’re headed for.”

  Intellectually, I know he’s right. I’ve kept myself under control for a whole decade. It would be the height of foolishness to risk everything for a young woman who shouldn’t even be on my radar.

  But she’s there, blipping like a sonar signal across my brain every waking moment since I met her at the rodeo.

  And it wasn’t just the feel of her soft, curviness against my hard, relentlessness or the tangoing of our tongues or the heated gazes of promised passions we had yet to exchange, but it was a connection of our souls across a canvas board in her bedroom. Two artists transformed by brush strokes and a myriad of colors and textures bonding them more closely than blood.

  Jabbing my index finger against the power button, I stand. With the darkness of night and a tension headache closing in, I say, “I’m not talking to you about Violet. She is off limits, Hawk. I’m going to bed.”

  He gives me a half-ass salute and pops the top on another bottle of beer.

  Making my way to the master bedroom, I wish I had taken him up on his offer to fight earlier. Right about now, I would like nothing more than to knock that smug expression off his face.

  Chapter Nine

  Violet Driscoll

  THE SOUND OF THE Subaru’s engine purring beneath the hood makes me smile. It’s a poignant reminder of the man who constantly inhabits my every waking and sleeping hour. My stomach flip-flops with the fluttering of a hundred hummingbird wings at the thought of seeing Rhett again.

  I haven’t felt this degree of excitement and anticipation since my sweet-sixteen birthday party two years ago. That was the night my dad gave me the polka-dot dress, and my mom gave me the pearl necklace and matching bracelet. I no longer have that kind of family moment to look forward to but, at least for this school year, I have something just as good—the thrill of seeing my art teacher Monday through Friday for the next thirty-six weeks.

  Shifting the car into reverse, I begin backing out onto Ballenger Road. The second the bumper clears my mailbox, I have to slam on brakes to keep from hitting an ambulance careening into Hazel’s driveway. A paramedic in a white uniform jumps from the back of the heavy, double doors at the same time I jump out of my vehicle. He’s pulling a gurney behind him while I run toward him shouting, “Is Hazel okay?”

  He doesn’t stop moving but says, “I won’t know until I get inside. The call came through her medic alert service.”

  That’s when I see bolt cutters and a small hatchet lying on the gurney and realize the paramedics are prepared to break in. But I don’t want them to. Poor Hazel doesn’t have the money to pay for door or window repairs. Following close behind him, I say, “I have a spare key to her house.”

  He smiles broadly. “Terrific,” he says, nodding toward the doorknob. “Crack her open, and let’s see what we can do for Ms. Hazel.”

  I slide the key into the lock and realize my hand is shaking. I’m afraid of what we’ll find inside. I don’t think my heart can handle another loss. Stepping out of the way, I let the EMTs do their job and say a silent prayer Hazel is still alive.

  In less than two minutes, they assess the situation, secure my sweet neighbor on the gurney and load her into the back of the ambulance. I stay silent but watch the rise and fall of her chest under the white sheet they have covered her with. Her eyes are closed, but I take what comfort I can from knowing she is still breathing.

  Right before they shut the doors and turn
on the sirens, Hazel opens her eyes and lifts her head. “Lord, child, are you gonna stand there all day, or are you coming with me?”

  Tears of relief flood my eyes. With only a brief and fleeting thought of school, I hop into the ambulance to be with my dear friend.

  On the way to the hospital, I sit on a side bench covered with a red, padded cushion and hold her hand. I can tell by the paleness of her skin and the knit of her brow she is in considerable pain. The paramedic checks Hazel’s vital signs and enters them into his laptop.

  When he looks up, I ask, “Is she doing okay?”

  He nods. “For a lady in her hundreds, I’d say she’s doing fine. Falls are common at this age. The older we get, the more we tend to lose our balance.”

  Hazel huffs. “Don’t listen to him, child. My balance is as good as his. I can still bend over and touch my toes. I can hold a yoga tree pose for a full thirty seconds.”

  I raise my eyebrows in surprise. “Then how did you fall?”

  “I was getting my disco ball out of the closet. I wanted some strobe lighting in the living room. Sometimes, I like to put one of my vinyl Bee Gees records on the old turntable and do a little dance,” she says, giggling like a school girl. “Anyway, one of those moth balls must have rolled out into the hall. When I stepped backward, my heel landed on it and down I went. My hip is hurting awfully bad.”

  I frown. “Do you think it’s broken?”

  “I don’t know, child. I’m not a damn doctor.”

  The paramedic clamps his lips shut to keep from laughing. In a moment, when he looks more composed, he says, “I’m sure the attending physician will check her over thoroughly when we get to the emergency room.”

  THIRTY MINUTES AFTER OUR arrival at the ER, an orderly comes and wheels Hazel away for her x-ray and MRI. As they are carting her off, she says, “Don’t you go running away with any hot doctors while I’m gone. They’re the worst ones when it comes to skirt chasing. Remember what I told you. All they care about is goosy poosy, especially them gynecological types. Keep your legs closed and your eyes open.”