Bossed Around
Yet, one flick of her hand and I can barely remain standing.
Thea. The pebble who brought down Goliath.
Finally, she ends the painting session and I turn, momentarily replete, my back being supported by the gallery wall, my sides heaving with exertion. She lies on her back now in the grass, toes extended and wiggling, arms up over her head, the freshly-painted canvas nearby.
Sexual. Uninhibited. A goddess. Free.
But this is her only freedom, isn’t it? This late night indulgence of her inner beauty?
No.
No, I will see to it that she has more.
That she’s given freedom beyond her wildest dreams.
The piano wire heats like a promise in my hand, but I shove the device into my pocket instead. This is her world and I won’t make it feel unsafe for her. Not for a single second. I won’t visit death upon the only home she knows, because I know too well what that is like. Instead, I’ll speak with her uncle, threaten him unless he allows Thea her freedom. Then I will go.
Even as I make the vow, I know damn well it’s a lie.
I’m not going anywhere now that I’ve found her.
Chapter 2
Thea
A week later
I sit in the courtyard of the gallery, my eyes riveted on flecks of blue paint left over in the grass. I killed my uncle with my wild, sloppy art, didn’t I? My midnight acts of rebellion unbalanced the careful trust we held. I changed the shape of the universe by being too free…and his life snuck away like a thief, betrayed.
It’s a ridiculous belief, but all throughout Gardner’s funeral today, it was all I could think about. How, if I’d just stayed inside the gallery that night and completed the paperwork, just like he wanted, Uncle Gardner would still be here.
Is that what you want?
No, a voice whispers, but I rush to subdue it. My uncle was a peculiar man, a paranoid one. The classic traits of a tortured artist. He hasn’t allowed me outside of the gallery walls since I came to live with him, six years ago. After my parents relocated to Paris to recapture their bohemian lifestyle. He had no choice but to take in a bewildered twelve-year-old girl. It wouldn’t have been right to expect the man to change his ways, simply because a burden landed on his doorstep.
We never had love between us, my uncle and I. But I appreciated him. I had sympathy for him and his fear of the outside…and somewhere along the line, I began to believe him about the world being a scary place.
A cold breeze blows over the gallery walls, rustles the trees and balloons my black funeral dress around my thighs—
And then there he is.
A man.
No, a giant.
He’s standing ten yards away, watching me with such intensity that I am cemented to the stone bench where I sit. My scalp prickles with alarm, my brain shouting at me to run. I’m supposed to be alone here. There isn’t supposed to be anyone here from the outside world. There is a strict, thoroughly-scrutinized schedule of collectors that come here to view the art, make purchases.
People don’t just walk in off the street. There are walls. Gates.
My chest is heaving in my dress, breath sawing in and out of my lungs.
But as the giant stands there, stock still, as if giving me time to get used to him, I start to notice other things about him. His shoulders. How incredibly wide they are. Strong. Like he could pull a tractor behind him without getting winded.
I have a vision of my nails digging into those shoulders. Or my teeth.
I think of him carrying me room to room on those shoulders like a princess.
Who he serves.
Blasted with shame, my legs cross on the bench. Clenching. I buried my uncle today and these are the thoughts I’m having? Maybe I never deserved his protection and generosity at all. Maybe he was right and women are wicked, evil things. Just as depicted in every single one of his paintings throughout his life. Women stabbing men in the backs. Women conspiring in alleyways. Women starting fires, seducing men, practicing witchcraft.
If I’m evil, then maybe there is a good reason this giant has arrived.
“Are you here to kill me?” I ask.
The harsh planes of his face wince, ever so slightly. “No.”
He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t even act like it was a weird question.
But he does take a step in my direction, sending my pulse into a tailspin, and I have no choice but to study him closer. As if his body will solve the mystery of why he’s in the gallery courtyard at twilight, dressed in all black to match his eyes.
No.
No, they’re a deep, dark brown, I see, as he eliminates the space between us.
Dark chocolate eyes.
His hair is the same color, but with flecks of silver at the temples.