Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
SHILOH
“What the fuck is a call up?” I spit out the words like they’re trying to insult me.
They kind of are. Since our date, I’ve gotten very accustomed to Donovan being within arm’s reach.
We both have busy schedules, but somehow we’ve managed to spend most of our free time over the past two weeks together.
And whether he knows that I’m watching him or not, he’s pretty much been the center of my focus since he decided he wanted to keep me.
It’s a good thing he came to that conclusion—stalking is fun, but it can get lonely when the other person never knows you’re there.
“It won’t be that long,” he responds, his fingers gentle as they thread through my hair.
He leans in, pressing his lips to mine like he can kiss away the scowl that I know I’m wearing.
Or maybe he just likes kissing me. When his arm slides around my waist and he yanks me to him, reminding me how strong he is when he easily pulls me onto his lap, I’m pretty sure it’s the latter.
My head drops after a moment, and I hide my frown against his throat.
“How long is not that long?”
He hesitates then sighs. “Could be a few days? I fly out to Florida tonight and the game is tomorrow. If Tobin is cleared to play, I’ll be on a plane home again the morning after the game.”
“Too long,” I grumble, setting my teeth against his neck and biting down. If he’s going to be gone so far that I can’t reach him, he needs to at least have some kind of permanent mark on his body to prove to everyone else that he’s mine.
Mine.
I never thought I’d want a person to be mine, but it’s the only thing I can think of with Donovan. Which is exactly why I hate it when he pulls back with a laugh, practically peeling me from him like a second skin.
“I’ll be back soon, okay?” And then with a little bit of a side eye, he continues. “I know you’re probably going to break into my apartment while I’m gone.”
“Yes, and?” At least we’re honest.
“Why don’t you just stay there instead? It’s close to your school and you won’t get caught out going back and forth.
” There’s a flash where there’s something like worry in his eyes, but it’s gone as soon as it came.
“Besides…” That grin comes back, and it’s all warmth and heat.
“I like the thought of you in my bed while I’m gone. ”
I have a million things to do. I have a class to sit in on at the Helping Hearts Youth Center, I have to get more art up on my website, I have classwork… and…
“Okay.”
That’s not the right answer, but the smile that streaks across his face makes me realize it’s the only one I was ever going to be able to give.
“I may not see the ice, I’m just going to be backing up their usual backup goalie, but…
. will you watch me play, California?” He ducks his head and whispers that silly nickname against my lips, and I nod helplessly.
It’s not like I need to go out and kill someone so I can get a fresh stock of paint or anything.
It’s not like Donovan being out of town would be the perfect opportunity for me to do it without him questioning my absence.
“Yeah, I’ll watch you play.”
“Good.” He presses another quick peck to my lips and then steps back. “I’m going to be wearing your artwork, after all.”
That thought pulls me up short. Donovan is going to be wearing the mask I painted for him for more than just an arena.
On television.
It’s better than any mark I could leave with my teeth—it’s my art, my blood… and…
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
I was careful when I set up a canvas in Donovan’s apartment—there’s a plastic sheet on his kitchen table and on the floor. It makes it look kind of like a crime scene… but that’s okay. It will keep his pristine floors intact while I work.
My medium is mostly paint—I have a little bit left from the man who attacked me, but not enough. I’d been watching the news and checking online, but there’d only been a brief article about it. Body found, man was a criminal…
It hadn’t exactly been safe to leave him there, but I felt pretty good about how I’d cleaned up my tracks. Especially since the article spent more time listing the man’s crimes than mentioning that he was dead.
Honestly, I’d done the city a favor.
And now my eyes were on a smaller canvas in front of me. I wasn’t painting anything solid this time—more thick, red, abstract lines. The sweep of a jaw, the catch of a few strands of hair. Wisps of a person engulfed in a storm of red snow.
The television in front of me catches my attention as I add another stroke of paint.
I’ve seen a few flashes of Donovan here and there, but the camera hasn’t focused on him. The game has been going on for a while, and I’m only half tuned in when I hear them say his name.
My eyes fixate instantly as he stands to his full height and pulls on his helmet.
My helmet.
And even though I know he can’t see me, for just a second our eyes connect through the screen, and I know that he knows I can see him.
He skates out to the net, and I feel almost drunk on the sight of him… tall and perfect and wearing my artwork like he wants to show it off to the world.
To the world. Everyone watching can see who he belongs to.
Fuck, everyone can know that he belongs to me.
My fingers keep working on the painting even though I’m only half looking at it. I’m too engrossed in Donovan on the screen, doing what he does best, even though I still don’t much understand it.
Donovan in reds and blacks…
Red on white.
Gorgeous on the ice.
And he’s mine.
My fingers keep working mechanically, but I’m glued to the screen until the game ends and his gorgeous body disappears from view.
Something inside me is burning, and when I glance back at the painting in front of me, I can see that it shows there. Red and black—a streak of motion. It’s not a man caught in a storm, but the storm in Donovan’s eyes as he performs on the ice.
As he performs for me.
I’m careful when I take a picture of it and load it up on my website… and as I do, my attention flicks to the other painting there. The one from the man I’d murdered.
The one that looks like Donovan.
I don’t want to share him.
With a frown, I go through my bank account and issue a refund, shooting a message to Sidney to tell him the painting was damaged during the drying process and I can’t send it after all.
I’m not even sure if he reads it before he messages me about the new piece. Three thousand, since it’s a smaller canvas.
My eyes linger on the red, the swirls… the storm.
On Donovan bleeding into every part of my art, every part of my life.
Into every burning part of who I am…
I delete the listing before anyone else can message me about it.
For the first time in my life, I feel like I’m the canvas, and Donovan is painting me red… like fire, like blood.
Like lust.