In Flight (Up in the Air #1)(50)
I was shocked by his words, though his tone was almost light. I studied him intently. He, like me, had a long and sordid history with violence.
Stephan had been raised with a strict mormon upbringing. He was an old-fashioned gentleman because of it, which I always found irresistibly charming. I was also convinced that this was what had made him a hopeless romantic, always thinking everyone should get a happy ending, with their one true love. This charmed me as well. He had so many deeply ingrained, good, wholesome qualities that I had always believed stemmed from his deeply religious beginnings. But he hadn’t quite fit into the mold his parents had designated for him.
Stephan had been nine when his uncle had begun to abuse him sexually. The sicko had been his father’s brother. He’d also been a pillar of their religious community, holding a position a few steps higher than Stephan’s own father.
Stephan’s father had looked up to his older brother, and when a ten-year-old Stephan had tried to talk to his father about it, he had been sharply reprimanded. Stephan had told me that there had been no violent abuse from his father before that time. But there was plenty after that.
His father had called Stephan a liar, while still blaming him for events he wouldn’t even admit ever happened. He’d begun to take offense at every little thing Stephan had done, calling the young boy ‘wrong’, and ‘queer’.
The beatings had increased and escalated until Stephan had begun to fight back. He was big from an early age, and he had told me he’d made a decent attempt at defending himself against his father, after a time.
Stephan put up with the near-constant abuse until he was fourteen, when he said he’d become so fed-up he didn’t even care if he lived anymore. He had confessed to his parents then that he was g*y. His father had beaten him severely, taking nearly as much damage himself from a then strong Stephan, then ordered him to leave.
Stephan had always hated violence, but his bastard of a father had guaranteed that he was good at it from a young age.
I poked Stephan in the ribs with an elbow. “You hate to fight,” I told him.
“Yes, I do. But I’m good at it. And I’m guessing Mr. Cavendish never had to fight in a ring to keep from starving.”
I flinched, remembering those days. “It won’t come to that, ok? I’ll be just fine at the end of this thing, and you won’t even think about throwing a punch.”
Stephan nodded, but I wasn’t entirely convinced. I finally dragged him into the store. We’d spent enough time dwelling on unpleasant things.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Mr. Doting
Stephan headed straight for frames while I went with a shopping cart and replenished my supplies. I stocked up well.
I was in a mood to create. I grabbed several varying sized canvases and even more watercolor paper. I selected a few new acrylic colors carefully, finding a blue that was absolutely perfect. Painting was all about color for me.
I grabbed half a dozen tubes of watercolors that just needed replacing. I stocked up on some cleanup supplies that the paint shop had cheaper than everywhere else. The prices at the eccentric shop were what drew me from across town to resupply.
It took me a good five minutes to locate a tiny sable brush that I used for details. It was a brush I had to replace often. When it’s bristles started to soften, it didn’t do me much good. I bought two, and some new oil paints, since I would be saving money now at the grocery store.
It was a nice feeling, quite a relief really, to be able to get a few extra goodies for my coveted hobby. I tried not to feel guilty for allowing someone to help me out in such a way. But it had been hard not to refuse the offer. The order, rather.
My cart was uncharacteristically full when I finally sought out Stephan, who still agonized over his frame choice. He was very particular about his home decor. That made it doubly flattering to me that he chose to decorate nearly all of his walls with my paintings.
He showed me the five choices he’d narrowed it down to. I zeroed in on a heavy, dark, roughly carved pattern immediately.
“This one,” I told him.
He gazed at me me, sending me his best ‘Puss in boots’ pleading look. I smiled, starting to put the frame together for him. I had planned to, anyways. Stephan would butcher it, and I had the touch for this sort of thing.
I got wrapped up in the process, using the picture Stephan had brought to double check my work. I hammered the V shaped nails in lightly and slowly, which was the trick. Stephan tended to hammer them straight through to the other side with one strike.
When I finally finished, I held the finished art up to Stephan, smiling. He beamed back. He had been engrossed on his phone nearly the entire time I’d worked, which was his habit. He was the social butterfly of our duo, constantly texting someone, updating his Facebook page, or throwing out Tweets.
I went first through the one open checkout line. I was starting to feel a little remorseful about splurging as the price began to rise even higher than I’d anticipated. I really didn’t want to have to put some things back. That was an embarrassment I hadn’t had to suffer for years.
It would be a close thing, I realized, as the price grew higher. But as I got my debit card out, the checker held up a hand.
“It’s all been payed for, Ma’am.” I was speechless as she bagged the last of it. I felt grateful and helpless all at once.
Probably his intention, I thought absently.