Chapter 9
Nine
The first two weeks were rough. Eric watched her like a hawk and never gave an inch on any rule he laid down.
Colin had let things slide all the time, probably because baby girls were expected to break rules and make mistakes.
Eric never treated her like a child. Maybe if he had she would’ve responded better because she could’ve slipped back into old familiar roles where rebellious former foster kid Laci didn’t exist.
Instead, he made her keep to a schedule.
When he got up in the morning, he expected her to get up, too.
It was a huge battle the first few days.
He actually carried her into the shower and turned the cold water on.
He’d had to block her means of escape of course, which meant he ended up drenched by the icy water, too.
This did not put either of them in a good mood.
One good thing was that Eric didn’t sulk or hold grudges.
They might be silent while drinking their coffee, but when she glared at him, he didn’t glare back.
Instead, he moved on with their day. He’d check the news stories on the net and mention things he thought might be of interest to her.
She sulked a bit at first and gave surly responses like, “I don’t care,” to questions he asked, but eventually she chilled out and started to let him engage her.
It helped that being exhausted from getting up early helped her sleep all night.
She thought he might end up spanking her all day long, but he was measured in that, too.
After she was spanked hard once during the day, the next punishment wasn’t a spanking.
She had to swish and spit with soapy water for five minutes for calling him a fucking asshole.
He made her stand in the corner several times and twice made her read aloud from some of Colin’s excruciatingly boring engineering textbooks.
It was mind-numbing, but she couldn’t simply resist because if she tried to walk away from Eric, he physically stopped and restrained her and that quickly turned too sexy for comfort.
She found it easier to comply than to risk getting too close to him. Also, most of his rules and routines were simpler and less disruptive to her day than Colin’s had been.
By the third week, they’d settled into a routine that was actually pretty great. She was even painting again. True, she’d mostly gone out there at first to escape him when things turned too hot between them, but eventually she started working and then everything changed for the better for her.
She felt a little bit guilty that Eric had been the one to cause her to start painting again since it was Colin’s illness that had stopped her from being able to do it.
Colin had discovered her and, from then on, had been her biggest supporter and patron.
Eric had never studied art history. He didn’t know anything about painting techniques or any of the important works of the past fifty years.
Still, he came to the studio each day in the late afternoon before dinner and checked in.
She turned the pieces she was working on because she wasn’t ready for them to be seen, but she let him in and showed him her older works.
The things he liked most were really different than the ones Colin loved.
There was one called Fallen Fighter that was a mix of deep colors like plum, black, umber, and merlot.
She’d laid the paint on heavy, scraping it violently in places to give it sharp edges around the periphery of the canvas.
In contrast, the figure lying on the pavement was done with light strokes and exquisite detail, every bruise and scrape showing.
Every drop of blood and line on his face flawlessly rendered.
“The brighter colors in the lower right corner, flashing lights?” Eric asked.
“Yes. You’re the first one to realize that. Emergency vehicles on their way.”
“Is he dead?”
“What makes you think so?” she asked, coming to stand next to him.
“Something about the way you’ve painted his face so slack, and the way the blood glows next to his mouth, like his soul is passing by.”
She stared up at him and smiled. “A lot of people think the blood shimmers because he’s breathing and disturbing it.”
“What do you think?” he asked.
She smiled. She liked that he asked her as if hers was just one opinion, but one that mattered to him.
“He’s dead,” she said.
“Did you come across him when you were living on your own before Colin?”
“No. I mean I did paint this before I was with Colin, but the painting was inspired by a picture I saw of a man killed in Chicago. I saw it, and a whole story came into my head. It happens that way sometimes. Or used to.” She stole a look at him to see his reaction.
“You should never stop painting, Lace. Never,” he said emphatically.
She smiled, feeling as happy with that compliment and with the feeling behind it as any she’d ever gotten.
“You can skip dinner if you want to keep working.”
“That’s okay. I’m mostly done for the day,” she said, stretching. Her shoulders were sore. She was getting used to working long hours again. “Give me thirty minutes.”
“Take your time,” he said, glancing once more at the fighter painting before he left.