Page 19 of Muzzled

She’d experienced periods of intense artistic focus in the past, but nothing like this. The images in her mind weren’t merely building up in a catalog for her to draw on later. They were clawing at her, forcing her to give them life. It was as though these dark visions were sentient beings using her hands to bring their experiences alive.

And it was terrifying.

But Ryan’s voice had settled her nerves immediately, the calming lull of his speech bringing her mind back from the frenetic pace it had been barreling toward for hours. She’d packed away her dulling graphite pencils and tucked her sketchbook into the bottom of her suitcase while he provided a detailed list of restaurant options he’d assembled for their date. As he listed the pros and cons of each, noting dietary considerations and commenting on the decor he’d seen online, she had lain back in bed with a smile, loving his obvious desire to please her and grateful for the break from the dark thoughts plaguing her.

She’d slept a solid seven hours after they’d decided on a well-reviewed Greek restaurant on the west side of town.

She was applying the last of her eyeliner when he knocked on her door, announcing himself as he did so. “Be right there,” she called out, taking a step back to assess her appearance in the mirror before she opened the door. “Hey! I’m r…oh, wow. Those are gorgeous.”

He held out a bright bouquet of Gerbera daisies, shoving his hands into his pockets when she accepted them. “I wasn’t sure what you preferred, so I asked the woman at the shop. When I told her you were an artist, she suggested these for the colors.”

Rifling through a battered box of unused kitchen supplies she dragged from place to place, she pulled out a tall plastic jug and filled it in the bathroom sink. “They’re stunning,” she assured him, clipping the elastic that held the stems tight together. “I can’t remember the last time I got flowers. Thank you.”

His eyes drifted to the drying painting against the wall. “I won’t lie,” he said slowly, tearing his gaze from the piece and smiling at her. “I’m hoping to influence your inspirations toward something a little more cheerful.”

Grabbing his hand, she led him out the door, then turned to lock it up and shake the disturbing faces and scenes she’d been sketching from the forefront of her memories. “Maybe I’ll spend the next week working on my still-life skills.” She smiled, linking her arm in his. “I was thinking of putting that one up on my website in the sale section.”

“Go for it,” he replied, opening the car door for her. “But let me know when you list it so I can buy it.”

*

Ryan carefully cuthis dessert in half and slid the larger piece onto Mike’s plate. “I’m definitely more of a feet-on-the-ground guy,” he stated. “I have no problem with heights as long as my feet are planted.”

She grinned, flipping through her photos and passing her phone over. “This was the view from the plane before we jumped,” she said, laughing when he muttered a quiet “nope.” “I thought my friend was going to faint during the countdown, but she managed to make the jump beside me.”

“Faint,” he scoffed, cringing at the thought of surrendering that much control to a cord and a piece of fabric. “I would’ve been tying myself to the seat to ensure none of you lunatics yanked me out with you.”

Her smile widened, her knee bouncing giddily under the table and brushing against his. “Take a look through this album. It was truly the biggest rush I’ve ever had.”

“My younger brother Bo is a total adrenaline junkie,” he said, flipping through the rest of the pictures in her skydiving album. “He’s had me in borderline heart attack mode since he was a pup.” Catching his slip, he swallowed and slid her phone back to her. “He was a handful when he was a kid.”

Her eyes became thoughtful. “I don’t think I’ve ever been an adrenaline junkie,” she mused, taking a bite of her baklava and chewing slowly. “While the rush was cool, it wasn’t anything I needed to hit again. It was the experience and the views more than anything. I always seem to be on the hunt for new angles and new perspectives, so that’s what tends to lead me.”

“And I suppose the nomadic-artist life plays into that,” he replied, digging into his own dessert. “New faces, new scenery.”

“Exactly!” she exclaimed, the earnestness on her face giving her sultry features a peculiar innocence. “I can walk down ten streets in ten different cities and have ten completely unique experiences. The accents, smells, even what a store has on sale in a region can tell you so much about a place. But you travel a lot, so you must have an appreciation for that as well.”

Thinking back on every move he’d ever done, he exhaled loudly. “Actually, no. My travel has always been job-related, so I guess I’ve never really taken time to experience the place outside of what it can give me to complete my work.”

Her hazel eyes softened and she set her fork down. “That’s depressing. What do you do with your vacation days?”

Head back to hell and sit around waiting for a good ear scratching.

He became acutely aware of the predicament he’d inadvertently placed himself in, his mind whirring as he thought up a lie he could both remember and spin to cover his tracks should he slip up.

“My boss is loaded,” he said slowly, swirling the ice in his glass. “He sends me all over to check on his holdings, scout areas, touch base with his contacts, and bring any problems to his attention. I have a few other accounting clients I use to fill my downtime, but I’m basically on-call 24/7.”

She shuddered. “I would die,” she breathed out. “Does it bother you? Always on someone else’s time?”

He paused. “I guess not. I’m good at what I do. I take a lot of pride in knowing I’m the one guy he trusts to complete his assignments.” Pushing Seph to the back of his head, he shrugged. “Loyalty to guys like him comes with a whole other set of rewards.”

“So how long have you been working for him?” she pressed, leaning forward.

He looked down at his empty plate, a pulsing guilt growing in his gut as he continued to tell half-truths to her. “Since I was old enough to,” he replied, anxious to change the topic. “So is ‘Mike’ short for anything?”

Her eyes narrowed for a moment at his obvious attempt to transition to a new subject. “I’ll ease up on the grilling for now,” she said, sitting back against the booth. “It’s short for Micah. Micah Mary Wheaton.”

*

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