But there was no denying the stage from his show last night.
Or the microphone stand with its janky leg.
My Polaroids were scattered around the eight-foot piece of wood I’d used as a base. I’d built the piece months ago from driftwood and a funky pallet. It had taken me hours to sand it down.
And I’d put him on it.
I flicked the sheet back over it, but Ian moved into my space. “Is that—”
“It’s a job.” Lie. Utter lie. My job had been the photos. Which I still had to digitize and turn into Lila. Not this. Even if I hadn’t been able to get it out of my mind since the show. And I’d happily shove him out the door to work on it again.
Except he swayed. Or maybe it was me. Both of us had reached hot-mess express status. I hadn’t slept in thirty-plus hours, had been nearly attacked, and I was pretty sure I’d only had a pretzel since this morning. Not good.
Evidently, working would have to wait.
I steered him away from my current work-in-progress and into the bathroom. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”
“That’s more like it.”
“Don’t get used to it. As it is, I’m going to have to disinfect my shower after you get out of it.”
He pulled away. “I don’t have a disease.”
“Easy.” Defensive much? “I mean because you’re bleeding everywhere. I don’t care who you are, that’s going to require a full bleach out after you clean up. Let me get you a towel.” I reached into the little built-in cupboard just inside the door. “No guest towels for you.” I pushed aside the plush sage-colored towels Lila had sent me as a housewarming present. I handed him the stained gray ones I used after painting.
“What did you wash these with? Crayons?”
“Crayons were so last year. Try acrylic.”
He lifted the towel to his nose. “Smells like primary school.”
“You went?”
“Occasionally.” He sneered as he went for his pants. “Gonna wash my back?”
“Might need extra triple antibiotic for that.” I shoved a washcloth into his belly and stormed back out.
Overreact much? Whatever. I wasn’t going to be another girl on his probably lengthy list of babes. And why that pissed me off, I didn’t know.
I lived in a community of artists. The word “monogamous” was as shunned as art critics.
I blew out a breath. I so didn’t need to get myself twisted about this. While the shower was running, I rushed around my studio, putting my paintings away. And because then it looked like I was hiding my work, I dragged out a few of my commission pieces and stashed them on various easels.
The only one I still couldn’t move was the one under my tarp.
Nope. Not that one.
It was still crazy wet. I’d put down so much paint it would take days to dry. “Stupid,” I muttered and peeked under the paint-splattered sheet. At least none of the paint had been smeared. That would have required a lot of damn surgery. Or even a total repaint.
Getting that utter blackness to the stage with the halo of white and purples had taken painstaking hours. And it had been worth it.
I arched my back in memory of how tight my shoulders had been late last night. And now, they were just as bad for a whole different reason.
A flash of Rattlesnake eyes superimposed itself on the stage.
The glint of his rusty blade made me twist my hand behind my back, up to where he’d cut me. God knew what was in my bloodstream. I dragged the shirt over my head. My blood stained the cotton along the back.
My fingers shook as I ripped off what was left of my bikini top. Loose pieces of hair from my braid were twisted in the knot. It was so thick and the curls were forever strangling me.