Break Me Beautifully Page 9

  He doesn't finish. I wish he would, just so I could hear the faint promise on his tongue. The admission he doesn't want to use me and walk away; that taking my virginity was more than a notch on his belt.

  Marshall isn't blocking himself off from me now. The wall he propped up after we had sex at his place is gone, his face etched with strained lines as he pushes not just his cock into me, but his emotions, his own anger that mirrors mine. I was pissed at him for thinking he was done with me. He was just as angry I'd dare to think that.

  "Marshall," I whisper, throwing my forehead against his shoulder, embracing him as my skin ripples with another orgasm. "I want you, too. I need you. I need you so much!" And I need to understand who you really are, I think, before I come and can't make cohesive thoughts anymore.

  Clutching me tight, he folds over me in the bushes, groaning into my eardrum. It's my only warning before his cock jerks inside of me as he comes. It matches the pace of his beating heart.

  I don't know how he doesn't drop me. His fingers dig into my thighs, keeping me still until he's finished. Even when he's empty, he continues to roll his pelvis. Marshall is just like my fantasies; a man never satisfied, always seeking more. I love it.

  He sets my heels on the ground. I lose my balance, but he catches me in a cradle of muscular arms. It's weird that it's fabric I feel across his chest; we had sex without getting undressed. I didn't even lose my panties this time, though they're around my ankle. I lean on him, my strength completely evaporated. "Marshall, I'm sorry," I say.

  He tilts my chin so I have to look at him. "For what?"

  "For acting like such a brat. I was just—"

  "Stop." He says it so sharply I do. "I don't need any apologies from you about your feelings. Our actions now are what matters the most. That's always how it is."

  I crinkly my forehead, trying to understand. It's almost like he's talking about something other than us. Cold wind tickles my legs, reminding me of our situation. Blushing, I tug my panties over my knees, checking around Marshall for any sign that someone saw what we did. The area is empty.

  Turning, he follows my stare. "They all went inside. We should, too, before our hosts notice us missing. I told a lovely woman who wanted to buy a few paintings from a reluctant seller that I'd get back to her soon with other suggestions. Come on."

  "Okay," I say, straightening my dress.

  He curls something into his fist as he buttons his pants. I catch his eye; he grins. "Condom," he explains, walking towards the small trashcan near the door. "I'm not going to litter. What do you think I am, a monster?"

  I smile broadly, unable to keep myself from laughing. This feels so easy. Why was I such a wreck earlier? Why had I gotten so into my own head over what was happening between Marshall and me? He's funny, and sexy, and he knows how to do ... lots of stuff. I'm beaming as I hurry to follow him.

  Marshall is standing in the brightly lit entrance; I'm still out in the cold when my phone vibrates. Baffled, I tug it from my purse on impulse. It takes me a second to make sense of what's on the screen, because the conversation I had with my sister feels like it happened years ago. My heart trembles, palms so slippery with perspiration I can barely hold my phone.

  Me: Do you think Marshall could hurt me?

  Katy: Yes.

  Chapter 11.

  "Open your eyes."

  Marshall instructs me from behind my shoulder. His voice is pleasantly decadent, tickling the tiny hairs on my bare neck to life. I've done as he asked since we walked down the street from his condo—kept my hands over my eyes while he held my elbow, guiding me safely, though I felt slightly foolish with the people on the sidewalk staring at me.

  We hadn't walked for long. Now, pulling my fingers away, I blink at the squat brown building wedged between an alley and a busy street. I don't know what I'm looking at until he unlocks the door, pushing it open. Then I gasp.

  Light streams into the massive industrial space. The room is minimally decorated with sconces pressed into brick stands at regular intervals.

  To the average eye, it's unimpressive. But my heart swells the longer I stare, and when I spot the arrangement of easels, of the piled canvases and table with the art supplies I'd bought, I know what this is. "You got me a studio?" I whisper.

  "It's just a rental," he says, chuckling. "But yes. This is your own space to do your art for the gallery. It has everything you need, and it's an easy walk from my place." He jingles a key at me. "Go on."

  My hand snatches the key, cradling it in disbelief. The rush of emotion is too much, I have to get it out, channel it. Throwing my arms around Marshall, I hug him while laughing. "Thank you! This is amazing!"

  His arms don't circle me back, he's holding them out to the sides, hesitating to embrace me. I slip away, leaving him standing there awkwardly. Adjusting the collar of his heavy jacket, he clears his throat. "It's nothing. I'm sure you had a nicer studio back home."

  "Hardly," I laugh. "My mother and father never supported my artistic dreams. That's why I was surprised you offered to take me on."

  He squints at me in disbelief. "Your estate is massive, there had to be a room for you to work in."

  "Rooms? Plenty." Hooking my fingers behind my back, I turn away, wandering in a circle as I study the dirty windows in the ceiling. "It wasn't about what was available. My parents are ruthless. Money is all they care about. That's why it never mattered how much I begged them to let me go to art school, or to give me a single room to use as my own studio to show I was worth taking a chance on."

  "You're twenty years old. Why not just move out, sign up for classes without their permission?"

  "And how would I do that?" I ask with a dry chuckle. "I don't have my own money. I couldn't afford college, and getting a loan is impossible. Any bank that runs my family name will know my parents are rich. Financial aid is a pipe dream."

  "You still could have tried."

  His curt observation twists a knife in my gut. I glare at him over my shoulder. "What, you think I could run off without a penny and survive? Who could make it on the street with nothing?"

  "I did it," he says somberly.

  "What?" I face him fully, hands drifting to my sides. "Marshall, what do you mean?"

  "I told you, my father died when I was your age." Shrugging like it's the most normal topic, he tucks his arms into a knot over his wide chest. "I did what I had to survive. But then, I didn't have a choice."

  My mouth drops open. "I didn't mean ... you make it sound like I never tried."

  "Because you didn't."

  "How dare you?" I snap, storming forward until we're toe to toe. "Do you have any idea how much I suffered living in my house? My parents ignored me whenever they could, and that was the best part of my childhood! The second they started telling me what I had to do, how to do it, what my future was going to be no matter what I wanted, I wished I was back to being invisible!"

  "It couldn't have been so bad if you stayed, Leona."

  "Are you crazy! I would have died on the streets! I'm not that strong, I'm not like you."

  He shakes his head, staring me down with furious storm clouds in his eyes. "You don't know how strong you really are. No one does until they're forced to choose between living or dying."

  "Is that what you did?"

  His mouth straightens, the scar tugging until it changes from a curve to a brittle line that could snap in two. "Yes. That's exactly what I did. What I still do."

  Swallowing loudly, I lift my hand, my fingertips grazing his lips. "How did this scar happen?"

  Marshall snatches my wrist, pulling my hand away but not releasing me. "You don't want to know."

  "I do," I insist.

  "Doesn't matter." Letting go of me he walks towards the far wall, checking his phone with his head hanging low. I can see his stern expression and it makes my heart twinge.

  I do want to know, I think in frustration. But my sympathy is stronger. I don't want to force him to share something he isn't
ready to. "What now?" I ask warily.

  "Now you get to work." He points at the paint without looking away from his phone. "I'll be back later. If you decide to go to my place before I show up, let yourself in with the spare key."

  "Where are you going?"

  Marshall puts his phone away. There's a moment where I think, or hope, that he'll tell me the truth. Even a sliver of information would soothe my aching heart. I hate this thing we're doing, this dance where I don't know all the steps and he refuses to show me.

  "Leona," he says, my name fascinating on his tongue.

  "Yes?"

  "Don't ask me that anymore." He grabs the door handle, looking at it instead of me. "I'm going out of my way to protect you from things you shouldn't see. Stop trying to peek behind the curtain." He leaves without waiting for my response. I stare at where he was for a long minute. I was so happy when I entered this space with him at my side. How could that mood dissolve so damn fast?

  Taking a deep breath, I fill my chest until I want to burst, then I fill it some more. "Asshole!" I shout, the word echoing on the bare walls. "Stop treating me like I'm made of glass!" Breathing heavy, I stamp my fists onto my hips and scowl. "Fine," I say to the empty air. "Have it your way."

  Dropping my jacket onto the only chair in the room—a pathetic, dented fold out metal one—I roll up my sleeves. I have work to do, I tell myself, eyeing the canvases stacked in a pile. That's why I'm here. Not to pry into Marshall Klintock's life, and definitely not to get worked up over his opinions on how I've lived until now.

  Placing my phone on top of the chair, I set it to my favorite playlist. Working in the sun and open sky is my usual method, but without that, music is a close second. Thinking about my days spent in my family's garden, sketchbook on my knees, ear straining for warnings I was going to get caught and chided for wasting my time, makes me remember what Marshall said.

  What does he know? I think angrily. Who is he to lecture me about running away?

  I wouldn't have survived on the street. Without support, I would have ended up freezing to death in an alley. From the second we met I knew that Marshall wasn't someone easily shaken. He was bold, cocky, unafraid of what would happen next. I wasn't like him.

  But I want to be. The thought makes me freeze. That's right. I forgot. I'd been intrigued by his bravery. Jealous, even. Looking at the blank canvases, I realize something. I keep insisting I'm not like him. But I could be, if I struggled like he had,

  if I found the guts to try and make it on my own.

  "Choose between living or dying," I whisper to myself. A rush of inspiration makes me stand tall. I grab a canvas and eagerly set it on the easel, standing back, observing the textured white surface with rising excitement.

  Marshall told me to get to work.

  I'm ready.

  ****

  I don't how long I've been painting until my phone stops playing mid-song. Lifting my head, I wipe my wrist across my face to get some hair from my eyes. I set my brush down, crouching over the metal chair, frowning at my phone's dark screen. I poke it to make sure. Dead battery. What time is it? Scanning the overhead window lets me see the bruise-blue sky. Did I seriously not notice the sun setting?

  Cracking my back with a groan, I scoop on my jacket, stuffing my useless phone safely into a pocket. It clicks on top of the keys. I guess I should head back to Marshall's place. Where is he, anyway? He'd told me he'd be back. Something was keeping him busy.

  I nudge the door open, gasping at the blast of icy wind. "Jesus, it's cold," I whisper, my breath creating translucent clouds inches from my lips. Clenching my teeth, I hug myself tight to try and keep my body heat from escaping. At least it's not a long walk back to the condo.

  Locking the door behind me, I glance side to side. The street is quiet, the lights perched on tall poles flickering with orange hues. The buildings are dark and dead. This section seems so different at night, much more ominous. Something clatters down the alley beside me. I stumble backwards, staring into the pitch black in distress. Probably a cat or something, I assure myself. When I visited New York City as a kid, I never went anywhere alone. I was always surrounded by my chattering siblings, or the hawk-like eyes of my parents. Back then I'd wished for freedom, holding a childish fantasy that I could slip away and meet someone new and interesting, like someone from the books I devoured.

  Reality is never so charming. I slip my sneakers backwards on the sidewalk, making my way towards the distant corner that will take me onto the block where Marshall's place is. If I can just see the building, I'll feel safer.

  "Hold up, cutie," a sing-song voice comes at me from behind. Electric signals of warning shoot through my veins. I start to run without looking to see who's speaking. I don't get far before another figure steps out from the overhang of the building in front of me.

  It's dark, but I see his gap-toothed grin, like some horrific Cheshire cat. I pull up short before running into him. "Slow down, where you off to?" he asks with a scratchy laugh.

  "Stay away!" I shout, right before a set of hands cover my mouth from over my shoulders; the first man caught up to me. I'm sandwiched between the strangers, struggling to get free as my terror grows.

  "Calm down, calm down," the gap-toothed man says sweetly. He looks over my head. "Stop fighting my friend so hard."

  "She's strong, Cap," the man grasping me tightly says, grunting. I slam my elbow into his ribs, but he just laughs, tangling my hair in his fist, then throwing me sideways into the alley.

  I land hard on my hands and knees. Coughing, sucking in air, I don't waste time screaming. I bolt forward into the shadows. Run, go, get away! It's all I can focus on as my instincts force me to move. Briefly I flare with hope, thinking I'm quicker than they predicted and that's why they haven't grabbed me again.

  In front of me is a brick wall. I skid to a halt, scraping at the rough, dirty surface until my hands are numb. There's laughter again and it echoes around me. "Where you think you're going?" Cap asks.

  Shaking in my bones, I slowly turn, eyeing the pair as they block the exit from the alley. There's enough light radiating from the skyscrapers above to let me see the faces of my attackers. The gap-toothed man, Cap, is the biggest, his maroon sweater hanging loose on his body, but not camouflaging his broad muscles and thick neck.

  The second man smirks at me as he gets closer. He's wearing all black, which is why I didn't see him in the depths of the alley earlier. "Cap and I just want your wallet," he says.

  "That's right. Harlow and I aren't gonna hurt you. Just give us what you have in your purse and pockets."

  I will my teeth to stop chattering. "That's really all you want?"

  "Do we look like we'd lie to you, honey?" Harlow asks.

  Scrunching my eyebrows suspiciously, I toss my wallet at their feet. "Fine. Take it."

  "Your bag. Give the whole bag," Harlow demands.

  I clutch it fiercely. "There's nothing else in—hey!"

  Cap rips it from my clinging fingertips. "There, see? Painless." Crouching, he methodically explores the contents. His nose wrinkles when he finds my sketchbook. He barely flips through it before abandoning it in the bag so he can check my wallet. He whistles softly, eyeing me with new appreciation that turns my heart to stone. "You got some fancy looking credit cards in here, girly. Got a rich dad or something? Maybe we should drag you to an ATM for a withdrawal."

  Tightening my jaw, I say, "You promised to let me go."

  "Who the fuck cares what we promised?" Harlow snorts, advancing on me so suddenly I'm caught off guard, his wide hand circling my throat, his whole body shoving me against the alley wall. "You don't tell us what to do. Got it?"

  I'm lightheaded, my nails digging into his arm but not making it through his thick clothing. My mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

  Harlow gives me a shake that rattles my brain. "You don't boss us around. No one bosses us around."

  "No one?"

  All at once I can breathe again. It
hurts, like shards of ice in my throat, but I gasp for every delicious morsel of air. Without Harlow grasping me I drop to my knees, cradling my neck to see what they're both staring at. Standing in the alley just behind them is Marshall. He's dressed like he was when he left me earlier, with the addition of one thing: charcoal leather gloves. I've never seen them before.

  Cap stands shoulder to shoulder with Harlow. "Whoa! Whoa! Easy bro, we aren't looking for any trouble."

  Marshall's voice is silk and black death. "You found it anyway."

  "Cool, it's all cool," Cap assures him. The corner of his upper lip trembles the way a dog ready to bite does. "I think you're confused by what's happening here. We're just taking some loose change from this girl. She's not even from around here, what do you care?"

  I fight down a wave of unease. Of course, he saw my ID when he went through my purse. He knows I don't live in New York or anywhere close.

  Marshall pulls in a patient breath, closing his eyes. When he opens them, they're different. Deadlier. The eyes of a killer. I should be relieved he's here, but the energy crackling off of him paralyzes me. Marshall has transformed into a stranger. Maybe he always was, and I'm naive for daring to think I was beginning to know him.

  "Pick up her bag," he says flatly. "Hand it back to her. Say you're sorry, then get the hell out of my sight."

  Harlow and Cap share a look. "The fuck is she to you?" Harlow asks Marshall.

  "Harlow," Cap cautions.

  "I'm serious. Who the fuck is this girl to you? Why are you getting involved in our beat? This is our territory, brother."

  "Harlow! Shut the fuck up, don't you know who that guy is?"

  "Yeah, someone who needs to retreat before he gets a bullet in his skull." Harlow tucks his hand to the small of his back, reaching for the hilt of a gun. I see it because his sweater lifts when he makes his move.