Page 6 of The Painter and His Poet

She shifts beside me, her arm wrapping around my back. Her scent wafts under my nose, andfuck, if a rainbow had a scent, it would be hers. Every hue becomes a perfumed aroma. There’s sweet rose red, citrus lemon yellow, freshly cut grass green, ocean breeze blue, ripe plum purple.

Christ, everything about her overwhelms my senses. Her perfumed scent, the sound of her voice, the touch of her skin, the colours she brings to life before my very eyes. I briefly wonder if she would taste as heady as I imagine.

“Must’ve been one hell of a day,” she replies, a soft laugh breaking free as her hand rubs up and down my spine. It’s a comforting gesture, and one that makes my bastard cock twitch.

“You could say that,” I reply, finally forcing my eyelids open as I blink up at her kneeling beside me.

She gives me a soft smile, and I find her molten brown eyes, flecked with green and amber and lined with dark kohl, staring back at me. I swallow hard, dragging in a much needed breath. God damn, have I died and gone to heaven? This woman is beautiful, made even more so by the colours still ebbing and flowing around her like a halo.

“Hey there,” she whispers, her gaze locking with mine as her short black hair falls around her face in a bob, the blunt fridge offsetting her sun-kissed skin perfectly. “I’m… My name is Friday.”

“Nice to meet you, Friday,” I reply, weak-kneed. It’s just as well I’m sitting down, because this woman is doing strange fucking things to me. Well, stranger than usual, at least. “Sterling,” I add.

“Sterling,” she whispers, cocking her head to the side, another smile tugging on her perfect lips as she ruminates on my unusual name. I mean, hers is hardly common either.

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” I retort foolishly.

Way to go Casanova.Could I be any more awkward?

“You’re English,” she murmurs, clearly an afterthought or a delayed reaction given we’ve been conversing for a little while now.

“I’m afraid so,” I reply, not sure if that was a compliment or simply an observation.

“Want to try standing?” she asks with a soft chuckle.

“I guess staying down here isn’t the best idea, might catch something… From the floor, I mean,” I quickly add, smiling a little. But even that is an effort.

“I know what you mean,” she laughs, the soft tinkle making the colour wrapped around her tumble and twirl. “This place is disgusting.”

But you make it paradise, I almost say. Thank fuck I don’t.

“Jesus,” I mutter instead, clearing my throat as I try in vain to suppress the unsuppressable.

My fingers curl into fists as I try to regain control once more. I’m itching to paint, but more than that… Fuck, I’m itching to pull her into my arms and lose myself inher.

That’s never happened before, this sudden intense desire to claim the object of my attention. This almost feral need is justas forceful as my need to paint. And, yes, whilst it might be true that when I’m under the influence of my condition, I fall for the voice, no matter who’s singing, my focus has only ever been on the process of bringing my art to life. It’s a feeling I can only describe as being akin to love, but it’s brief, and that feeling is always so tightly bound to the colours I see and the piece I eventually produce that it leaves me the moment I’ve finished painting. It has always been a brief love affair that culminates in a work of art.

Yet this unexplainable, immediate, overwhelmingconnectionI feel for this woman ismore. It’s sexual, I can admit that. Who wouldn’t be attracted to her, she’s fucking stunning? Christ knows it’s been too long since I’ve been with a woman, but it’s also… Fuck, I don’t know why it’s different, I just know that it is. Right now I don’t have the wherewithal to figure it out.

“Sterling? Do you need some water or?—”

“Iknewyou were on something,” a familiar voice says, interrupting Friday, the bouncer’s looming presence hovering in my periphery.

“I’m not on anything,” I grind out through gritted teeth.

“Yeah and I’m the fucking President. Up you go, it’s time you get the fuck out,” he retorts briskly, reaching down to yank at my arm.

“Get your hands off him!” Friday shouts, the sweetness in her voice turning steely, her outburst as shocking as the sudden protectiveness glinting in her eyes. “Can’t you see he’s unwell.”

“I’m not unwell… I’m just…” I mumble, not finishing my sentence, not wanting to explain what is actually happening to me or why for that matter. It’s too complicated, too personal, too fucking humiliating.

“Unwell?” the bouncer snorts. “More likehigh. GET.UP!”

Friday jumps to her feet, shoving her palms against the arsehole’s chest. “Back off!”

Her anger blazes brightly, catching me off-guard with her show of solidarity. There have been too many times my own father has told me to get my shit together when I fainted as a kid. To have someone care enough to face up to this arsehole is not something I’m used to, and I appreciate it. It also reminds me that I’m not usually like this. I’ve been in many brawls over the years, and can look after myself well enough. Just, apparently, not tonight.

“Fuck, don’t. It’s all good,” I groan, shifting my weight forwards as I reach for the chair I slid off and haul myself to my feet on shaky legs. I stumble a little, and Friday reaches for me, placing a steadying hand on my arm. I feel the heat of her touch through my damp sweater and it takes everything in me not to moan, to give in to this intensity between us.

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