Breaking the Rules (Pushing the Limits 1.50)

“I’m out,” I shout at the manager.

“Noah!” he responds from the register. A line of people shift impatiently as they wait for him to ring them out. “Just a few more minutes.”

A few more minutes with Mia may cost me my sanity. “I’ve got to pick my girl up.” I clock out then bolt for the alley door.

The evening air cools the sweat crawling along my neck, and I lean against the brick wall to gain my bearings. A car honks from the main street at the end of the alley. Real life isn’t what’s happening in that fast-food joint. The real world is out here. It was last night under the stars and holding Echo in my arms.

We made love. Echo never would have made love to me if she wasn’t going to stick it through. Me and Echo. We’re good.

“We’re good,” I say to myself, and push off the wall. It’s time to find my girl and prove it.

Echo

Crouching on my knees, I brush the red paint along the curvature, and heat licks along my skin. Images flash in my mind, so hauntingly real, so utterly divine. It’s like Noah’s fingers are gliding against my body. His hands are rough from the wear and tear of his normal day, but they are also gentle. So gentle that with a simple touch he can easily coax my body to respond to him, and then those encounters of being with Noah leak into my dreams.

My mind is racing—so fast that my hand can hardly keep up. A stroke here, a smudge there, a blendi

ng of lines here to show how Noah and I were separate then merged into one. My eyes dart over the painting, searching for the next color, the next shadow, the next way to bring the canvas to life.

A curl swings into my eyesight, and my cheek becomes wet as I impatiently wipe it away. My fingers are slick, and a drop rolls from my hand onto my arm. It doesn’t bother me, but the slickness of the brush does. I readjust my grip yet the brush falls from my hands and rolls on the floor until it stops at bare feet.

Bare feet.

I’m not alone.

Fear rages through my veins, and I jump back. My heart gallops as if I was on a dead run, and my hand flies to my chest as if I could catch it. I assess the room filled with people, attempting to find the threat.

Filled? Maybe not filled, but full. My mouth dries out. Yeah, there was nobody here before. Hunter was here, but left, then it was empty and I was alone and now it’s full...almost filled...and every eye is gawking at me.

“Nine hours.” My head whips to the right, toward the sound of Hunter’s voice. “You haven’t moved from that canvas for nine hours. Not to think. Not to use the bathroom. Not to eat. Your hand moved like you were a machine. I’ve never seen a thing like it.”

I smooth out my clothes as if that would save me from this weird attention and try to maintain eye contact with Hunter. No threat. There is no threat. Deep breaths, Echo. Stop acting like a sideshow freak.

But still, there’s a room full of people—watching me. Not only are they sitting on the floor, they’re also lounging on stools or standing against the wall, but they’re all staring at me as if I’m twirling flaming batons.

“I get this way sometimes,” I explain, then clear my throat as a girl leans over to whisper in another girl’s ear. They share a glinted look then smile. Blood rushes to my pressure points. They’re probably disgusted by my scars. “I...uh...get lost in the painting.”

“Does it happen every time you paint?” asks Hunter.

“I usually get pulled out pretty quick.” By the school bell or Dad or Noah.

“But you didn’t answer my question.” Hunter weaves through the mass of bodies. His loafers click against the wooden subflooring. Most of the people in the room are young. My age or twenties. Over to the left there are several women with gray in their hair. For kicks there appears to be one or two token older men. “Is this what happens to you when you paint? Do you always become...hypnotized?”

Yes. And only my art teacher and Noah know. It’s something that’s private because...because I’m scared what it means at times. If I lose myself in a painting, what does that imply for my sanity?

Layers of paint cover my hands, and I fist my fingers, understanding that my face might be caked in color, as well. Great. I literally have an audience.

When Hunter reaches me, I ask my own question instead of answering his. “Who...” And I motion to...everyone else. Flustered as I am, “who” will work fine as a question.

“Echo...” A grin spreads across Hunter’s face. Dang. He’s definitely handsome. That is if I were into guys ten years older than me. “...this is everyone. Everyone, this is Echo.”

The greetings blow in like a storm gale. Most are hi’s and hellos along with a few what’s ups. All of them from friendly faces.

“Hi,” I shyly say back then whisper to Hunter, “Not what I meant.”

“I know. Some of them work for me, some study under me full-time and some are taking classes at various universities around the world and are spending the summer with me for credit hours. Summers can mean a full house.”

“And winters,” adds someone from the back.