Page 63 of Deliverance

“Are you at least going to tell me what it is?”

Ignoring the desire to continue exploring his physique, I quickly pat his knee and rise. “Just hang tight.”

He grins up at me. The man has the patience of a saint. At least for someone who’s always so hyperactive. It’s quite a surprise, just like everything else about him.

He really isn’t what I thought he’d be.

Satisfied with my work so far, I make my way to the back where I keep the rest of my supplies and grab what I need next, then detour to the table to pop in a different CD. “Remember I said I wasn’t a serial killer?” I spin on my heels to face Zander, a large roll of film in my hand.

He cocks a brow, his eyes widening at the sight of it.

“I lied.” I unfold the sheet of plastic and snap it a little for show, hoping to sound menacing.

He laughs. “I take it my body won’t be found.”

“Nope.” I circle the paper, my feet brushing the edges but not stepping on it.

The music playing in the background is fast and aggressive and evokes something in me. A sense of urgency. I know the paint won’t dry too fast—I have at least a couple of hours, but I also know it’s late and my mind is tired and no longer able to make sound decisions, especially when it comes to Zander, who’s splayed out on my studio floor like an edible.

“Try not to fidget,” I tell him, descending to my knees and placing the film on the floor. “I need to get the imprint now.”

“Imprint?”

“Don’t worry. It’s not going to hurt.”

He laughs.

“Well, maybe a little.” I flash him a grin.

I work in relative silence for the next thirty minutes. Zander must have sensed that this part is usually the hardest. The film needs to touch every inch of his skin with no wrinkles. One wrong move and the paint job will go to waste. Besides, no matter how much I like the sight of him, especially shirtless, I can’t keep him here forever. It’s been one hell of an evening and it’s only fair he makes it home before sunrise.

We exchange only occasional sentences as I carefully spread the plastic out over his body.

“Is this how some of those pieces I saw at the gallery were made?” Zander asks.

My fingers dance over his collarbone. “Not all, but many.”

“What about your new collection?”

“Same concept. Different objective.”

“Where did you learn how to do this?”

“Nowhere.” I press the film into the hollow of his neck and fall back for a second, my dirty hands locked together on my lap and my knees aching from the contact with cold cement.

Zander’s scent is too distracting, almost like toxic gas, and shutting it out becomes harder with each passing moment. “I started out by capturing life the traditional way, but it just wasn’t enough for me. The subject, whatever it is—a person, a mood, a concept—is always textured. There are layers and layers of essence that a photo or a simple portrait aren’t always able to recreate. But don’t misread what I just told you. While this method works for me, it may not work for another artist. We all choose a medium that speaks to our muse. Just like you choose to play an instrument that speaks to you.”

Zander stares at my face without saying a word and the time between us stretches on and on. Until I almost forget why he’s here. All I know is that he is and it’s wonderful.

“I’ve never met anyone like you.” His whisper breaks me out of my daze. “And I’ve met a lot of women.”

“There is no one like me,” I joke as I bring myself closer to inspect my work, then begin peeling off the film.

As I remove it, he watches me. His eyes rake over my arms and legs and I regret not changing into something more appropriate for work, but at the same time, I enjoy it. Tonight, he’s awoken that strange, almost forgotten feeling in me, just like the day he came to the gallery to look at my pieces. The feeling I didn’t think I’d ever get to experience again. The feeling that I’m scared to trust because the first time around, it led into the arms of Rhys Jacoby.

I slowly lift the sheet marred by the slabs of paint and rise to my feet to move over to the clean side of the paper, where I lay out the imprint, strokes down against it. It takes me a few minutes to spread and arrange the film to my liking. Once finished, I shift my gaze back to Zander. “Let me clean you up a little.”

He doesn’t move. His hair has dried. Cobalt violet and cerulean blue coloring the unruly tips make him look like a prince out of a fantasy novel.

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