The Midnight Tour

“So...like, other people might see them?”

“Is that a problem?”

“Sort of.”

“Well, considering your delicate age, I have no intention of asking you to disrobe.”

She blushed. “It’s not that.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t want a bunch of strangers looking at me.”

He smiled gently. “You want to be the subject of a painting, but you don’t want people to look at it? I’m afraid that does present a bit of a difficulty.”

“Suppose the painting doesn’t look like me?”

“And who should it look like?”

“Well, it can sort of look like me.”

“I should hope so. Otherwise, I fail to see the point in using you as a model.”

“I need the money.”

“I’d be happy to give you the fifty dollars. After all, you prevented Tyrone from stealing it.”

“I don’t want a handout.”

“And I want you to pose for me. You have a special radiance, a strange and wonderful beauty. I must paint you. Suppose I raise the offer to a hundred dollars?”

“That’s very nice of you, Blaze, but I’d still have the same problem even if you made it a thousand. The deal is, I’m sort of hiding from certain people. If you do a painting of me and they see it...” She shook her head. “It’d be really bad.”

Blaze nodded, scowling. “I see. You’re on the lam. A desperado, of sorts. That explains the gat.”

“The truth is, there’s a guy after me. This jerk named Steve from back home in Santa Monica. He’s got the hots for me. He sort of...attacked me. He raped me, in point of fact. When I was still a little kid.”

“My God, how dreadful.”

“Well, they got him for it and sent him to prison. But now they’ve let him out.”

They let him out? A man like that should never be allowed out of prison. Never! That’s an outrage!”

“You’re telling me. Anyway, I knew he’d be coming after me so I ran away from home. The way I see it, he can’t rape me if he can’t find me.”

“What about your parents?”

“Dead.”

“Oh, how awful.”

“I was living with an aunt. But she has a couple of kids of her own—little girls about the same age I was when Dad attacked me. So I figured I’d do us all a favor and hit the road.”

“Dad?”

“Huh?”

“Dad attacked you?”

“I didn’t say that. Steve.” But she realized that she had said it. Her phoney story had veered too close to the truth—and they’d collided. She could feel herself blushing. The blush was probably a dead giveaway.

“Steve’s your own father?” Blaze asked. “You were molested by your father?”

“Yeah”

“And you’re running away from him?”

She nodded.

And she could see the belief in Blaze’s eyes.

Why shouldn’t he believe it? she thought. It’s damn near the truth. Except that the name should be Roy, not Steve. And Roy’s pursuit of her had come to a messy end in Beast House a couple of years ago.

Comes right down to it, Dad is the reason I’m on the run.

Dirty fucking bastard.

Blaze, staring into her eyes, put both his hands on her shoulders. He squeezed them gently. “Do you need a place to stay?”

“No. Thanks, though. I have a place. It’s a good hideout, but its sort of far away.”

“You have a place, but no money.”

“Not much.”

“I’ll paint you. I’ll pay you a hundred dollars today. And you needn’t worry about being recognized. I’ll capture your essence and beauty but conceal your identity.”

“Do you think you can do that?”

“Bite your tongue! You’re speaking to Blaze O. Glory, the greatest artist of the age...whether anyone else knows it or not.”

Chapter Twenty-eight

OWEN TRIES AGAIN

Watching through the bars of the fence, Owen had seen Dana come around from behind Beast House with the other guides.

Near the corner of the house, three of them, all females, had walked toward the ticket booth. Dana, followed by the male guide, had headed for the front porch.

She hadn’t slowed down to walk with the guy.

Maybe she doesn’t like him.

Good taste, Owen thought.

Owen hadn’t seen much of him yesterday, but figured he knew the type. Handsome, big and muscular, arrogant, acts like he owns the world. Exactly the kind of jerk who always ended up with all the most beautiful women.

Like Dana.

The sort of women who couldn’t be bothered with guys like Owen.

Maybe Dana’s different, he told himself. She sure seems nice and friendly.

But I bet she wouldn’t go out with me.

Not that I’d have the guts to ask.

He’d watched her climb the porch stairs, her calves smooth and dark, the tan seat of her uniform shorts pulling briefly smooth against one side of her rump, then the other. Her shorts had rear pockets with button-down flaps. The pockets didn’t bulge. They seemed to be empty, the way they showed Dana’s curves.

The male guide had chased her up the stairs, dodged the legs of Gus Goucher, and opened the door for Dana. Then he’d followed her into Beast House.

Earlier, Dana had gone inside with the small, cute guide.

They’d come out about five minutes later. But Owen figured that she’d be staying inside, this time. She and the guy were probably taking their places to get ready for the tours.

Through the front window of the ticket booth, Owen saw a side door open. A guide entered and shut the door. It was the plump, friendly girl who’d taken their tickets yesterday.

Monica had gotten snippy with her.

Monica. Oh, my God.

Owen suddenly felt hot and squirmy.

What’ve I done?