“Poor bastard. Why is there never any help for people like this?”
“Because it happened a long time ago. We all have coping methods that work for a while, but slowly those barriers they erect start breaking down, and we see things like this.”
“Can you see into his childhood?”
“Do I have to?” Stefan asked, fatigue in his voice. “It’s abuse as a child. Mother and father. Possibly a brother. Hard to say. The images are all torn apart, and the pieces bundled together for safekeeping.”
“You’d think he wouldn’t want to keep any of these memories.” Richard sure as hell wouldn’t.
“It’s all he has of his childhood.”
Then, without warning, in a voice that made the hair on the back of Richard’s neck rise, Stefan and the homeless man started to sing at the same time.
“Good boy. Bad boy. Good boy. Bad boy.”
*
Later that evening he asked if she’d shown up for her new appointment today with Cayce. She nodded and said, “It went well.”
He smiled.
She looked at him and said gently, “I’m not leaving you, you know?”
He sagged in place. “You probably should.”
She walked over, gently reached up a hand, and said, “Frankie, an accident caused this. As soon as you heal and are relaxed about it, your art will come back.”
He leaned into her hand. “Maybe,” he whispered. “But it feels like I’ll never be as good as I was before.”
“You will be,” she said gently. “You just need time. And I don’t really care about being a body model. I’m doing this because you feel like I need to.”
“I just know that Cayce made Elena’s career, and maybe she could make it for you too.”
“I get the idea that Elena and Cayce shared a special bond,” she said.
“But you did see her today?” he asked anxiously.
She chuckled. “I did see her. She was just walking out of her gallery with some guy, but she stopped, came back in, and said that what she was doing was a favor to you. I don’t need you to do me favors. I want to make it on my own.”
“But—”
He froze when she put a finger on his lips. “No buts,” she whispered. “Just let it be.”
“She did say that she’s got the next two art pieces picked out. Yet she’ll be trying a bunch of new models,” he rushed to add.
“And that’s good,” she said comfortably. “I also have a photo shoot tomorrow. Remember?”
He beamed. “You’ll make it. You’ll be famous,” he whispered.
“I don’t want to be famous,” she said. “I’m happy where I am now.”
He shook his head. “I don’t even see how that’s possible. I couldn’t even begin to be happy with where I’m at now.”
“Because you know that, prior to your accident, you were something different,” she said. “And I think that’s where the problem is. You’re trying to recapture something that maybe is gone, but you’re not willing to try something that’s very new and different.”
“I don’t know,” he said, his gaze darting to the side and the door that he kept locked.
“Anyway,” she said, “I’m going to bed. I’m really tired.” She got up and turned to look at him. “Are you coming now?”
“I’ll stay and work for a little bit,” he said. He stood, walked over, gave her a gentle kiss and a hug. “I’m so blessed to have you in my world.”
“Just keep remembering that,” she said with a laugh.
He watched as she walked out, headed to the bedroom. He’d have a good couple hours in order to make some of whatever it was that he wanted to produce now. The trouble was, it was just so damn hard to produce when he wanted to.
He waited until she was through in the bathroom and then listened as she got into bed. Afterward he turned and headed to his locked room.
Just as he reached for the doorknob, she called out, “Maybe you shouldn’t work tonight.”
“Why is that?”
She said, “Because I’d much rather have you spend that time with me.”
He froze, chuckled, and said, “Does that mean you want some nookie-nookie time?”
She chuckled. “I’ve never known you to refuse a bit of cuddling.”
“Hell no,” he said. “I’m coming right now.” He turned and walked away from his locked door. Whatever was behind that door could wait. At least for tonight.
*
It was going better. It was going much, much better. He smiled in joy as he looked at his paintings. He almost had it. Another few days, few weeks, few months—it didn’t really matter because he had improved so much that he clapped his hands in joy.
Finally dropping the paintbrush into the large jar that he kept for just that reason, he stepped back, wiping his hands on this smock. She would love it. He just knew she would love it. He didn’t know if she got the message over the signature or not. He often found that women didn’t have the connective brain matter to understand the importance of such slight differences like that. Did she understand that she was improving his work and that soon she would be the next? He hoped so. It would make the transition that much easier for her.
The ice show was only two days away. Time had passed at an incredible pace. But he was ready. He was so ready. He just needed to see her amid her artwork one more time. He figured that would do. Maybe one more model, one more opportunity.
He glanced around his room, shadowy dark, full of myriad paintings and attempts. He could see and track his progress as he moved his gaze from wall to wall to wall. It looked so damn good, and he was so proud and so happy with what he’d managed to get done already. He walked to the sink and washed his hands. He straightened, stretched, and rolled his shoulders.
In the background he could hear somebody crying out. But he ignored it. There were always odd sounds. He ignored
