The cello was always a source of comfort and strength, promising that no matter how bad things got, everything will always be okay. As she played, she remembered a story of the composition’s probable origins. Double Time Concerto was a popular classical piece but also one of the most difficult. She picked it as her audition piece because she loved the story behind it, and the rigor demanded to play it well her second reason.
She was still playing long after the sun had sunk down. She had gone through several versions of the piece, just for funsies. Now she collapsed on her chair, spine sinking deep while she hugged the cello to her chest. Her legs fell open.
Lucy had no idea how long she sat like this, the cello held gently against her chest, half-sprawled in a chair. She would be content to pass the night here if not for the doorbell suddenly ringing. She frowned, turning her head slowly to stare at the source of the sound before getting up.
“Did you forget the keys?” She asked, shuffling barefoot towards the door. Mariet should have been home earlier. It made Lucy feel guilty that her friend was probably coming home late to do her work. She should have at least made something nice as a gesture of thanks to Mariet.
“Say, I was thinking- Holy shit.”
Disbelievingly, Lucy could only stare at the man standing at her doorway.
“You,” she breathed.
“Yes.” Green eyes looked into hers. Desmond Gorman cleared his throat. “Me. Can I come in?”
CHAPTER TWO
For the first time in years, Desmond faced the new day not only with a renewed sense of purpose but he also felt alive. It was like being able to see everything for the first time yet also seeing a lot more clearly. The white walls of the loft, he discovered, were actually brushed ever so slightly with gray. The sun outside was the color of a wobbly egg yolk and the sky was a series of shades of blue piled on with divine brushes to create such a color. He saw color palettes, saw everything begging to be rendered on canvas.
He put Lucy’s sketch in the drawer before heading off to the bathroom. The shaving kit was left untouched in the cabinet behind the mirror so it was off to the shower straight off. There was no embarrassment in washing off the sticky stripes of his come from his thighs this time. He shampooed and soaped, scrubbed until his skin was pink.
There was no Orissa to bother him today and he wondered how much better things could get. The vigor thrumming inside him was pushing him towards activity, to lose himself in concentration, motions, towards creation. Or creations, he thought, cracking an egg over a pan where bacon was frying to a perfect crisp. He put bread in the toaster, brewed coffee. The drive that put him off his ass so early in the morning got all the more amped up as he devoured the food.
He spent the rest of the morning in the studio, sketching Lucy one after the other. It wasn’t easy because she wasn’t there but he could remember. Remembered everything. The messy blonde hair. The wide, full-lipped mouth. Freckles. Those eyes. Above all those eyes. Damned if they weren’t the most perfect things he had ever seen. He dug out what little paints he had because a lot of them had dried off already in their tubes. Blues upon blues were blended, mixing a dollop of white, then more blues. It was frustrating to work from memory. Even more that he knew that there was no way to capture the aquamarine color of her eyes without her right in the room with him. He needed her.
How the hell was he going to convince this woman how much he needed her-how important she was to him? She was a skittish, resistant, stubborn thing. It was like dealing with an unyielding door, built to withstand all the force and violence upon it. He thought about calling Gareth and hiring a detective to cough up records on her. He still couldn’t believe that she was real. It was highly preferable that she was a lot more pleasant than how she came across but over time, he thought, over time he’d wear her out. No one could be so against being painted, right?
Now that he knew where she was employed, it was only a matter of time before he got something more concrete about her. Didn’t mean he couldn’t start preparing now, however. So Desmond made two charcoal sketches of her. The first was of her scowl after he said he dreamed of her. There was no forgetting that-her eyes had darkened to near-black and she looked ready to kill him with her bare hands. The second had her wearing an expression of doubt, with eyebrows drawn together, full lips pursed. It didn’t make her any more attractive but Desmond thought she looked ready to give an angry kiss. She was uglier, true, but his cock disagreed. So he was grateful that she’d slammed the door to his face and threatened to call the cops on him when he insisted on speaking to her.
The angry growling of his stomach alerted him to lunch. Desmond put away the sketches in a drawer with care before closing it. Then he gathered up his supplies and put them back in their shelves. Usually he just ate a salad and a sandwich but his body demanded something more substantial today. He went out to get a meatball sub with four different kinds of cheese.
While he was out, he went to his favorite art supply store. He stocked up on paints, paintbrushes, paper, charcoal. Desmond ordered by the bulk, quick to surrender his credit card and signing his name on the slip without even glancing at the amount at the end. He would have to wait three days but the store promised to rush some of the items. It felt good knowing he was sure to do something in the following days. The better feeling was knowing he was actually going to see it through the end.
Desmond went for a walk around the city before deciding to turn towards home. His earlier euphoria had wiped his mind clean of what today entailed. As he opened the front door of his loft, he heard music. His face was grave, anticipating that intruders had broken in, when a dark haired woman walked right in front of him, holding a mop.
From an early age, Desmond had trained himself to see and observe. The woman’s profile faced him but it was enough to confirm that she was pretty. Thick, brown hair in a no-nonsense ponytail, high cheekbones, a soft, gentle arc formed where her jaw connected to her throat. She was slim but her black-and-navy uniform looked good against her. Desmond realized that this was the cleaning service Orissa had hired. He was supposed to be out while they worked. He closed the door, the sound quiet, but the girl’s head turned toward him, pale blue eyes widening when she was him by the door.
He held up his hands. “It’s okay. I’m Desmond. I live here.”
She was young. In college most likely or in her early twenties. Her loveliness may have incited attraction and lust from men but not Desmond. There was no denying that she was one of the more beautiful faces around, and despite the t-shirt and shorts, he could tell she had a good figure. Full, thrusting breasts, a narrow waist, curving hips, slender, long legs.
After Desmond had looked his fill at a person, the next question he asked himself was whether he wanted to render him or her in a painting.
No for this girl. She was. . .generic. Boring. Predictable.
Now she was frowning at him and she pulled out a sheet from her pocket, reading it. “Desmond Gorman?”
“That’s right. That’s me.”
As she put it back in her pocket, she said, “You’re not supposed to be here. It’s okay, but we still have quite a lot of work to do.” He had to smother a chuckle. This girl was implying with smooth subtlety that though he was paying them, while they were working, he was in the way.
“I understand. I’ll just need to get some things from my room then I’ll be out of your way,” Desmond said, walking past her and launching up the stairs.
“My partner’s there,” she called after him then resumed
