He sank into the couch and pulled up the pictures he’d takenon his phone. Settling on one, he studied it, and different elements came tolife. The light had illuminated her eyes in such a way that they appeared tohave gold dust sprinkled in them. Beautiful. Warmth pooled in hisstomach as he pictured Natalie hugging Ford’s neck, and he drifted for amoment, his shitty day compartmentalized in a virtual penalty box.
An errant thought struck him. Thinking of her made himhungry, and not for food.
Christ! How fucked up was that? I nearly kill May, then move in on his girl. No, he hadn’t moved in on her.But Jesus, he wanted to. Bad.
Refusing to give it any more thought, he fed and walkedFord, then poured another hefty drink. He lowered himself into an overstuffedrecliner, staring through the floor-to-ceiling glass at the mountains beyond.He raised his drink to the window and the world on the other side of it, then threw back a mouthful. Ford submarined his nose underT.J.’s forearm, and T.J. stroked his head reflexively. As he ran his hand overFord’s fur, a different texture snagged on his fingers, and he pulled a darkbrown strand from the dog’s neck. It seemed to go on and on. Turning his handover, he inspected it closely.
“Huh,” he muttered. “Now she’s leaving her hair on you, youlucky mutt.” An image of Natalie hovering above him floated into his mind, adreamy smile on her face. Her soft hair cascaded over her shoulder onto his,looking like chocolate draping a cake. She was naked, her bare skin kissinghis. His fingers sifted through her tresses, and her eyes fluttered closed, herripe lips parting. He clutched a handful of hair and pulled her to him.
Ford’s yelp yanked him from his fantasy. The imagined hairT.J. had been relishing was the dog’s coat, so he released him with an apologyand groaned at the manifestation of his daydream.
“I’ll deal with you later,” he mumbled to his stiff cock. Tohimself, he said, “Gotta get her out of your head,dude.”
He refilled his glass.
.~* * * ~.
Sometime in the night, he awokefacedown on his bed, his head pounding as though an army of monkeys had beenlet loose on bongo drums. Gingerly, he lifted it and looked around. One bedsidelamp glowed, revealing that he was fully clothed in the same sweaty gymclothes. But for the outline his body had pressed into the comforter and thedrool where his mouth had been, his bed hadn’t been disturbed. Ford lay besidehim, head on a pillow, squeaking softly, his paws quivering in a franticimitation of full-out running.
Shit! Did I let him out one last time before passing out?Jesus, maybe having another living thing depend on him was a really badidea.
T.J. rolled over cautiously and pulled himself up, wincingat the steady tattoo in his skull. He wobbled into the bathroom, flipped on alight, and peered at himself in the mirror. A strange reflection stared back athim, and he blinked. Blinked again. It didn’t help. Venturing another peek, hecringed at his reflected image.
What the actual hell?
Streaks of gold, canary yellow, red, rust, pink, and brownstreaked his hair, his shirt, his shorts. His fingerswere covered in color. He looked as though he’d been bombarded by a flock ofloose-boweled fowl. Stumbling to his living room, hestiff-armed the wall to keep himself upright. Where the birds had blitzed him,something else entirely had blown up his condo. Paper was scattered among tubesof paint—acrylic and watercolor—pencils, brushes, pallets, and jarsfilled with cloudy gray water. An art store had been attacked and detonated inhis living room. And dining room. And kitchen. When hiseyes landed on the empty Jameson bottle, fuzzy puzzle pieces began fittingthemselves together.
Yes, he had taken Ford out one last time—Thank Christ!—which alsomeant the brown stains were not from the dog. Yes, he had hauled outevery artist’s accessory he owned—and hadn’t touched in a decade—and attemptedto paint … What?
Sinking to his knees, he began sifting through scads ofpaper. Evidence of his inner Claude Monet, sadly, was absent. A mess of dabs,blobs, and lines of color convinced him he’d been going for aPicasso-crossed-with-Andy-Warhol theme in an imitation of a disjointedCampbell’s soup can. Or Van Gogh with a dash of SalvadorDali. Definitely not Monet. This artistextravaganza was a mixture of Jameson and Shanstromall the way.
The farther into piles of paper he dug, the morerecognizable the images became. Eyes? He’d been trying to paint eyes? Or brownpeacock feathers? He shook his head and immediately regretted it.
Aliens transported me to a science lab and investigatedthe paint while I was being experimented on. Or the condo was thescience lab.
“And what the hell was man’s best friend doing to protect mewhile all this was going on?” he mumbled aloud.
T.J. unearthed a piece of paper about six inches by sixteenand stopped short. A pair of amber eyes layered with copper and bronze shonefrom beneath long, lush sable lashes. The sweep of a forehead above dark,arched eyebrows showed a sliver of gleaming chestnut hair—just enough to hintat its silkiness and touchability. The aspect was slanted,as if the woman was side-eyeing him. Guile, amusement, and somethingunidentifiable but altogether alluring danced together in a sensual,tantalizing combination that held a promise of pure delight. It was as if he’dtaken the photo and added an essence—Natalie’s essence—that transcended thepicture itself.
Damn, it was the most beautiful piece he’d ever painted.
He’d never been good—a rank amateur who found a sort ofgrounding pleasure in applying strokes that blossomed into a world of shapesand color—but this was a vision worthy of staring at all day long. Apparently,he did his finest work in the company of Jameson. Or was it the subject?
After clearing a spot on the kitchen island, he carried thepainting over as though he were handling a delicate tower of spun sugar. Heplaced it carefully and softly blew specks from its surface.
Curiosity sent him searching for his phone to compare thephoto against the painting. And that’s when he saw texts he didn’t remembersending. Scrolling through the screen, his
