Beauty in the Ashes

“You didn’t know that rescuing idiot damsels is my second career? You really need to brush up on your Google searching skills. You’re lacking,” he tilted his head to the side. “Now that I know you aren’t going to die, or be raped, you can leave,” he waved his hand dismissively towards the door.

“You disgust me,” I spat, trying to get my wobbly feet to hold my weight so I could stand.

He lay in the bed, his arms crossed behind his neck, smirking at me.

And I was staring at his chest.

I really needed to stop that.

“Like what you see?”

His words snapped me back to reality. “No.”

Lie.

All I did was lie, or so it seemed.

When I moved my head to avoid staring at Caelan my eyes landed on a canvas lying against the wall beside his bed.

My mouth fell open slightly, studying the colors and the woman’s face.

“That’s me!” I finally cried.

He turned his head slightly to look at the painting I currently pointed an accusing finger at.

“Yeah,” he said in a lazy drawl, like the fact that he had painted my image was the most normal thing he could do. “So what?”

“It’s creepy!” I squirmed, realizing that upon further inspection I was sleeping in the picture, my features relaxed, and he must have done it last night. Which meant he’d watched me sleep. Weirdo.

“I paint lots of people’s pictures,” he waved his hand lazily to encompass the apartment. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

If I had been holding something I would have thrown it at his face to have something to do.

“You are—”

Before I finished speaking, he was out of the bed and had me pinned against the wall. He really had an annoying knack for slamming me against things.

“Don’t finish that thought,” he whispered, his eyes flicking down to my lips and then back up. My heart thundered in my chest, threatening to break free.

“What are you going to do, Caelan? Kiss me?” I challenged.

“No,” he shook his head, so that the slightly wavy strands of blond hair tickled my forehead. “You can beg and plead, but I won’t be kissing you again. Now, get out of my apartment,” he released me, turning for the bathroom. Before he could close the door, I was assaulted with a memory of last night.

With a gasp, I asked, “Did you hold my hair back last night while I was puking my guts up?”

He stopped, his back rigid. “Absolutely not,” he said without turning around. “That’s something a nice guy would do and I am not nice.” The bathroom door slammed shut and a moment later, I heard the shower turn on.

I knew he had held my hair back, the little liar. I couldn’t remember much from last night, but bits and pieces were now starting to trickle in.

If he thought I was just going to let myself out, he was sorely mistaken.

Like the nosy bitch I was, I scanned all his drawers, and opened all the cabinets in the kitchen.

Basically, the only thing in the kitchen was varying bottles of alcohol. Not much food—unless a half-eaten box of Frosted Flakes counted as sustenance for a twenty-something male.

I never did find any stash of drugs. I knew he had them somewhere. I’d seen the evidence on the table and he’d admitted such. I got the impression Caelan didn’t see the point in hiding his addictions. When you don’t care, you have nothing to lose. I wasn’t sure what I’d do if I found them—throw them away maybe? Move them to a different spot to mess with him?

I heard the shower cut off and figured I better get my ass out of there before he found me. I wasn’t in the mood to argue with him thanks to this terrific headache.