Page 56 of The Muse
Everything about me engages in what we were because of the realisation. Wewerethat painting. We were light and happiness for a while, beauty and carefree. I was—all because of her. I want that again. I do. And I want it with her alone.
My hands and body push her towards the easel, paint smearing us both as we move over the discarded palette and knives. Just us and that first painting I did of her. The blues and blacks can wait. They’ll come again. I know they will, but for now, it’s nothing but bright reds, golds and passion.
Her legs are spread the moment we’re under the easel, my frame travelling lower down her body so I can get rid of the skirt. Bare, that’s how I want her. Naked and exposed in a room that means so much to me I can’t even explain it. I need her in it with me, all her flaws and problems with her. We’re together in here, nothing in our way but my own mind and its flaws.
Both the skirt and underwear are thrown, and she bucks as my mouth goes between her legs. Her hands grip tightly in my hair as I devour her with the passion I had before. No barriers now. No pretence or distance. No thoughts of family anymore, either. Just us and that feeling she manages to pull from me.
My fingers run the paint on the floor in circles at the thoughts, eventually picking some of it up so I can cover her in it. Magenta, Ultramarine, and Ebony smear her skin as I move up her body again. Fuck, it’s too much. She is. Always damn well has been. I’m ravenous for her now that I’m letting go. No anger in it, no bitterness either. We’re just here, her and I, falling together rather than fighting it. And her mouth catching mine—as I push deep inside her—only heightens that sensation.
I can feel her in my mouth, taste her in my throat. We’re one in here. No care for anything outside this room and no time for it either.
“I love you,” she says, twisting my face back to her. “I do.” She tightens her legs, gripping me to her so there isn’t any room between us at all. “Just you. Always you.”
My paint-covered hands go to her face, hips stilling, and I smear murky grey through her hair and onto her cheeks. Love. Is that what this is? Maybe. Whatever it is, it’s more than it was, and my mouth covering hers again proves it even if I can’t say the words back. She’s got every piece of me for the time we’re in this paint. She’s part of it, part of me, and part of the art she’s become. What happens when it’s done is unknown, but I’m not thinking about that now. Now is for living, for creating. It’s what this room was made for.
It’s what I’m made for.
Chapter Twenty Two
PERSEPHONE
My head pulses and slowly drums at my skull until I’m fully awake. The morning light shines through the window, beckoning me up. Scott’s sprawled out body still warms the bed beside me. I pull back the covers and attempt to stand, but the moment I move, my body protests. Everything in me hurts—my head, my back, my heart.
Yesterday felt like the longest day. Filled with emotion and pain, and the aftermath is lingering in my body. It’s hard not to draw a comparison to my performances—months and months of hard work followed by pain and damage to my body that lingers with me for days after, as well.
Smears of paint still cover the floor, and I follow their marks, like breadcrumbs, back to the screens. As I look through, I see the devastation of the area. The smell hits me first. The pungent hit of oil paint is becoming both familiar and unique, almost as if it's a part of him. Splodges rain down on the floor around the painting that Scott vented his anger on. I watched as he cast his vicious and hateful strokes to create the image he now sees of me.
Looking at the scene in this light, I can’t help but get choked up by the memory. To see someone whose painting of me was so striking, so beautiful, turn to something so dark and filled with hate, was painful beyond compare. My heart squeezed in my chest tighter and tighter as he attacked me with paint, laying bare his own feelings. But he was fuelled with a hatred I’d never ever imagined.
I can’t deny the cathartic nature of our lovemaking. Symbolic in so many ways. But this morning, as I stand here gazing at the nearly destroyed version of me in this painting, I’m riddled with doubts.
Is this it? Are we through with the pain and hurt? Will he ever really forgive me?
“Morning." Scott’s gravelly voice whispers over my shoulder, and I jump in fright.
“God, Scott. Don’t sneak up on me.”
“No sneaking.” He plants a loose kiss on my shoulder. “What are you doing?”
“Just looking at the mess.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
But it matters to me. I'm scared that the mess of this will follow us around, and that perhaps all we accomplished yesterday was simply finding a way to vent Scott’s hatred. The facts remain. I'm a Broderick. He's a Foxton.
“Can we go out?” I ask, turning to look at him. His brows are downcast, and the spark behind his rugged appearance is still in shadow.
“Sure.” He doesn’t look at me, though. He’s looking at the carnage we left in our wake, as if mesmerised by it. It's not something either of us need to linger on. At least, not the argument. Pulling his hand, I lead him away from the screens back into the kitchen to set about making a coffee. We can get dressed. Go out. Get some perspective.
The air is stilted between us as we both mill around and drink. Quiet.
So much happened yesterday; it feels like we’re stuck in a vacuum in this apartment. Maybe letting the coffee do its thing will help the atmosphere. I can hope, anyway.
“Can we stop at the hotel? I need a change of clothes.”
“Fine. Why are you even at a hotel? Actually, at least it means I don’t have to deal with going back to Earlwood.”
“Don’t, Scott. We don’t need to start this already.”
