A Dirty Business (Kings of New York #1)(83)
Logic went out the window when the heart was involved.
The dangers aside, I couldn’t get the pictures of those women out of my head.
My heart was back to feeling squeezed.
Why the women?
“Did you touch them?”
“Who?”
“Those women.”
“No. I didn’t even want to. It was all for image.” He stepped up behind me, so close that I could feel his body heat.
“Jess.” His voice dropped low, raspy.
“What?” I didn’t turn around. God. I wanted to . . .
“Why do you paint? Why do you come here and do this?”
“I’m not a parole officer in here. I’m not Chelsea Montell’s daughter or my brother’s sister in here. I’m no one. Painting takes it all away, and it lets me breathe.” My heart was pounding. “I paint because I have to, and when I wasn’t—I can never return to that again. I’m not naturally an artist, but I think that somewhere deep down in my soul, I am. Painting is helping bring that part of me back.”
I wanted to close my eyes, lean my head back.
I wanted to rest against him, let him hold me. The ache was so strong, so fierce, but I couldn’t. We were back there, all over again. The same woes and feelings. All angst and drama and yearning.
The same hurt, but I just wanted to touch him.
He dropped his voice and his head. I felt his lips almost grazing my shoulder. “I want to talk to you about it. I’d love to be able to do that, but I can’t. You know who I am and what I do, and there’s no getting around it. Even if I wanted to leave that world, there are steps I have to take in order to do that.”
He was right. All of it.
Why did I feel more alive in the last few minutes he was here than the three months he was gone? And why did I feel the pain that came with him too?
“You know . . .” I stepped away from him, going to the canvas. Dipping my hand down, I started working, and I spoke at the same time. “I was overseeing this supervised visitation one time. A guy, one of my parolees, he was seeing his kids. I had to be there, but they had a therapist there too. I think about that therapist sometimes, what he said.”
“What’d he say?” He sounded farther away.
I kept painting. “He said that sometimes people get addicted to crisis. They grow up in it, and that’s what they know. And if somehow they find their life is going good, somehow they’ll do things to bring drama back into their lives. I wonder if that’s you and me.” I paused, glancing over my shoulder to him. He was staring back with hooded eyes.
My mouth went dry, but I focused on the painting once more. Or I tried. He got in there again. In my head. Under my skin. I could feel him, and my movements changed too. I wasn’t so choppy in what I was creating. My movements were slow, tender. Cautious, but sensual at the same time.
“You’re talking about self-sabotage.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. Subconscious for sure. I think that’s you, but it’s more. It’s how I grew up with my family. I’ve started remembering moments growing up. Like, my dad was a cheater, and I didn’t remember that until the other day. My mom and dad were fighting one time when I was in my room. I went and overheard. They were talking about a woman in the neighborhood. And my mom used to drink when I was little. I thought she only started when my dad died, but that’s not true. She started drinking again. And my brother.” I hadn’t visited Isaac, either, for so long. I almost forgot about him. How horrible of a sister was I? He was in prison, and I forgot for a full week. Then it was two weeks. “He took drugs, even when he was a kid. It’s weird, remembering these things now. I knew it was happening back then, but somehow I’d forgotten. My brother was sober when he went to prison, so I’ve been operating on that narrative this whole time. He was sober, but that’s not the truth. He took a lot of drugs in high school. I was in college when it happened, when he—you know. My dad. When it all fell apart, or that’s how I think of it.” I stopped painting as more memories were rushing in, old pain right with them. “I used to blame myself. I think I blamed myself so much that it became a part of me, like in my foundation as a person. Funny how I started realizing that stuff, you know?”
“You blamed yourself for your dad dying?”
Oh yeah. My throat choked up. There was the old searing pain I used to always feel. It burrowed deep, settling up right next to where my heart was.
“I was in college, thinking about going for something else. Art therapy. I wanted to work with at-risk youth, but then my dad died. My brother went to prison because of it, and it all changed. I guess. Like, if I’d been there, none of that would’ve happened.” Another realization hit me hard. “My mom blames me, and I’ve always let her. I blamed myself too. That’s why I’ve—” Why I let her say the things she said to me. Jesus. I believed her, so I accepted it. I expelled a deep breath. “Starting to know why some people can’t handle silence. Because they hear what’s in their head. That’s fucked up.”
“I think it makes perfect sense.”
I looked. His hands were in his pockets, and his head was leaning against the wall. His eyes flashed, meeting mine, and his head moved forward, but he didn’t step away from the wall. He stayed there, half lounging but now more focused on me.