Page 57 of Muddy Messy Love

The words sting, and I tense. Silly girl. He’s just confirmed everything I feared. In comparison to Miss Blue Satin Sparkles and the refined women he’s surrounded by daily, I’m nothing but a silly girl.

“Hey,” he says, lifting my chin to make me look at him. My vision is blurry with unshed tears, and Cole frowns. One escapes, sliding down my cheek, and he swipes it with his thumb, staring at me with eyes that seem to readeverything. “Christ, you’re gorgeous,” he whispers, then drops his gaze to my lips. “Like a broken angel.”

Those last words end me, forcing my eyes to close as they swim dreamily around my heart, and it’s heaven for five whole seconds until more confusion rears, and the car grows stifling. I open my door and climb out, cradling my arms against the chillas I drag in fresh air and fight a barrage of thoughts. It’s all too much.He’stoo much.

Cole follows me, scrubbing the back of his neck as he stands to shut his door. He looks equally confused, but so he damn well should. What is he doing here, and what does he want?

“Avery,” he says, coming around the front of the car to join me on the footpath. “Did I—”

I cut him off. “You can’t say things like that to me.”

His steps halt. “Why?” Long grass and trees sway and rustle behind him, but Cole stands atop the hill, backlit by muted grey and twinkling lights, like he’s the only solid form on earth.

“Because when you do…” I shake my head, feeling pent-up and supremely flustered. “When you do, I want…”

“What do you want?” His voice is low and heavy, and he takes one step closer, clenching his hands at his sides.

I swallow but then fixate on his lips. “This.”

I rush towards him and press my mouth to his. If I can keep one taste forever, I’ll die content. I slide my fingers through his hair and skate my tongue across his top lip, pulling it between mine to suck and gently nip. He tastes divine, and I breathe him in, relishing the scratch of his stubble, worried he’ll push me away. But he doesn’t push me away. Rather, Cole groans the kind of deep, hungry groan that rumbles through my cells and yanks me harder against his mouth.

He finds my hips and hitches me onto the bonnet of his car, then settles between my legs, and the cold metal bleeds through my jeans in a heady contrast to the fire burning between us.

I moan as he kisses up my neck, his hot breath sending a cascade of shivers down my back as he reaches my ear. “I’m going to hell,” he says, but then he reclaims my mouth and kisses me like I’ve never been kissed. With ferocity. Fervour. Need I can feel in my bones. And it’s then I decide, if this is hell, then I’m definitely coming too.

Twelve

I don’t like towork sitting on a stool at a bench facing a wall. Rather, I prefer to plonk down on the floor right in the centre of my studio, cross-legged on a jumbo patchwork cushion, at the base of my spinning stand as if in worship. Or on my knees, scuttling from side to side, dancing with the piece as it comes to life. The classroom prevented that freedom, and it’s one I now cherish. Inspiration flows, creating its physical form before my eyes. Creativity is divine. It doesn’t come from me, rather through me from something infinitely more creative. Source energy. The universe. Whatever the fuck you believe in. All I know is I’m lucky, and when it stopped, my insides felt dead. But right now, they’re anything but dead. They’re tickly and squirmy. Hot and restless. I haven’t yet slept, and last night loops through my head on repeat. Was it even real?

Christ, you’re gorgeous.

The memory makes me giddy. Not even my imagination could fake such exquisite detail. Cole’s scorching-hot mouth. Hisfingers knotted in my hair. The press of his hardness against my jeans, and the rough, hungry sounds he made. It was real, all right. And my bunny-print knickers are the main reason I have any self-respect left. That and the fact just talking to Cole felt as magical as kissing him.

Like a broken angel.

A goofy smile finds my lips as I press my fingers into the wet clay and hum along with Coldplay’s love of shining stars. Adding one final detail, I smooth it over with my thumb. Hours disappear to dust when I sculpt. Time is lost, and what feels like an hour is usually four. So it’s no surprise when the sunset blazes through the studio window, wishing adieu in iridescent glory. The day has gone, but in its place sits what could be my best work yet.

Terracotta covers my hands, smears extending up my arms. My clothes are an artwork unto themselves, and so is my face, judging by the tight feeling across my cheeks and chin, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. I revel in the mess.

Flopping my legs out front, I toss the modelling tool next to the others and lean back on my hands. If I touch it even once more, I might ruin it. Rarely do I manage to replicate exactly what I envisage, but this time I have, and fast. My first duet—two lovers entwined—immersed in each other. The composition is balanced. The texture rich. Lines modern. It’s intimate and erotic, unlike anything I’ve ever done, but not in a raunchy, red-light way. A man holds a woman, his muscular forearm running up her back. He knots his hand in her hair and drags his other one down the middle of her bare chest. She’s arching back as her slender calf wraps around his thigh. And with her eyes closed, she stretches out her arms as though she can fly. Once complete, their scrolled-wire hearts will interconnect and circle them in swirls of copper. I only pray it survives the kiln.

I stare for a while and then snap a photo with my phone. A gentle knock sounds on the door. “Aves?”

“Just a sec.” I rocket to my feet, grab a pink bedsheet from the shelf, and sweep it up and over the lovers.

Beth’s soft voice reminds me how close I came last night to screwing everything up. How easily I broke our agreement even if I didn’t know. I thought about coming clean and concluded she’d forgive me post-Armageddon. But Beth leaves at dawn, and blighting her plans now would be a dick move, especially when there’s nothing more to fear. I’m well and truly done with Slade. That’s my new solemn vow, and it will have to do. I take a resolved breath, but it doesn’t quash the awareness I’m still a total jerk. “Come in.”

The door cracks open, and Beth peeks in. Grinning, she opens it further and steps inside. She scans my muddy clothes and then the lumpy pink ghost standing next to me. “New piece?”

I nod, and she ambles to where the others sit. Until now, she’s respected my privacy but made it clear she’d like to see my work before leaving, and I can’t deny her that. She stares at the girl crushed to the ground, but the longer she does, the more I itch to make excuses. “They’re not done yet. They still need firing, glaze, and metalwork. Usually copper or steel. Sometimes scraps, metal clay, or household items morphed into what I need.”

Beth acknowledges me with a silent nod, then steps over to the next piece: a bust of a man losing his mind. “There’ll be metal fragments circling his head when finished,” I explain.

A minute later she moves on to the child who’s cowered and blocking his ears—the third piece I made before court. When done, he’ll have a tin butterfly perched on his head.

After considering him, Beth moves on to the next two: the Alex and Ella wannabes, each sitting off the side of Beth’s bench, their faces alight with mischief. “They’ll both have rainbow hair,” I say.

Beth nods again, then moves on to the last piece: the woman on her knees, holding out her anatomically correct bleeding heart, begging someone to take it. I lift the clear plastic it’s drying under so Beth can better see.

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