Page 6 of Stained Protector

I open the camera app and switch it to her apartment view, knowing my infiltrated access is well hidden. I may not be as tech-savvy as some associates I know, but they don’t say no to a job, delivering the link within an hour.

Anya rushes to put her purchases away in her home and fix her mop of messy hair by the window. She sends a message to me, saying she’ll be at my studio in five minutes. I close out the app in time to see the final payment for the custom project I sent to an anonymous client.

Everything is off the books, deliveries through specialized carriers and payments through offshore bank accounts. When clients supply props for inspiration, the art piece becomes pricier.

I send a small amount to Anya’s bank account that she gave me to send automatic paychecks.

Her text asks about the money and wonders if it’s by accident. Most workplaces have a signup bonus, and I’m following the norms to overshadow how abnormal this situation is.

That job posting was for her eyes only, and it never had the intention to be in public.

She won’t willingly close our distance, so I’ll have to do it myself. Expecting her to make a move would be like pulling teeth, and I waited two years just to see how she steps out of her comfort zone.

Disappointed but predictable. We lingered on limited greetings because she doesn’t know how to interact with people. Even better, men can’t be more than passing strangers. I'd probably hurt the person she has feelings for.

Her knocking on the door pulls my attention.

When I open it for her, a little bolt from a stray heartbeat hits my chest in response to her weak smile. She has her hair up neatly, her clothes supporting a business-casual style, and her attitude sparkling with positivity.

My pretty baby, I think.

I gesture to the chairs where she can put her bag. For the sake of today’s purpose and not what I want to do, I show her the studio and have her familiarize herself with where things are.

I emphasize the room down the hall, where she can go in, but she must wear gloves because the chemicals will burn her hands. I prefer handling them myself despite her reassurance that she won’t mess up.

Her eyes impatiently explore the room, her plump lips parting in astonishment as her smile turns infectious.

It’s a regular art studio, nothing special about it. Although a little cluttered, the overall atmosphere is calming to work in.

She looks twice at the box of limbs, unable to believe her eyes as they exude horror.

A stifled rumble prods in my throat, my pulse skipping under my fingertips as fear circles her face. The startled tremor shakes her like a leaf, also resembling a petrified little bunny cowering at the bloody teeth of the predator inches away.

“They are props,” I clarify, swallowing a burst of laughter as she inches closer cautiously. “They won’t jump at you.”

Her ears bleed red, lips forming a small pout while narrowing her glare down at the pile of limbs. Hands, arms, legs, feet, and other body parts of different sizes aid a better visual when I paint. I hold a silicone heart to her and set it on her trembling hands.

She fumbles with the texture, turmoil battling with disbelief on her expressive face as she squeezes the fake organ.

“It’s so real,” she whispers, her eyes staying wide with skepticism.

“You didn’t think I’d use real bodies, did you?” I ask, and I’m serious about what seems to be a rhetorical question.

She laughs and shakes her head. “I didn’t know they could make it this real. It must be really expensive.”

It’s adorable how gentle she is with a lump of silicone. That small pair of hands would feel amazing as she maps out my body, trailing over hardened muscles and sharp grooves the same way I would trace her soft curves and delicate skin with callused hands.

Anya asks questions and trips over words from excitement, which I answer with surprising patience. She likes art, but she doesn’t have a gift for it. Many artists start with determination, working on basics and mastering their style to be a talent of singularity.

“I tried,” she says, grimacing as she wiggles her fingers. “It looked monstrous, and I was drawing a tree.”

“You haven’t found your style yet.”

Anya rubs her neck, roughly rubbing out pink marks while drumming her fingers on the column of her throat. I’d love to slip my hand around it, curling almost possessively to enjoy the sparks of distress and confused chaos in her eyes.

Would she regret trusting me? Am I playing a prank on her? Is this newcomer hazing? Am I going to kill her?

Too many questions, and I don’t have the answer for her. I wouldn’t know what to say, either. Do I make her happy and say it’s a joke? Do I make her upset and reveal my true intent?

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