RAIN
Chapter thirty
Dipping my finest brush into the beige on my pallet, I place the last dot in the inner third of the right eye and centre to the bridge of her nose, lightly tapping the brush to the canvas. Placing the palette and brush aside, I take a rag to wipe my paint-splattered hands.
This time, I am stroking my ego, because this painting is a fucking masterpiece. While I’m sure Blade would argue it is the subject that is the beauty, my hand brought it to life.
I should’ve slept, but once I started this painting eighteen hours ago, I felt a flow and kept going.
I jump when floorboards beneath me thump with a beat, and I toss the rag to the table and open the door, continuing past the first accessible banister to the farthest and swinging myself around.
There are times I’m infuriated with my brain.
Last time, I ascended the right staircase, so I go down the right.
The time before that, I came up left and went down left.
When I come back up, it’ll be left again.
It’s something I started doing when I was six, and I’ve never been successful in breaking the habit.
I messed up once when I was chasing after Alexa, and I haven’t been in sync since.
Each time I begin to ascend or descend a staircase, I’m always reminded it should be the other.
I can’t go back and correct it—I’d already fucked up and my brain continuously reminds me of that.
Just Pretend by Bad Omens blasts through the sound system, rattling my brain as I step through the stairs, an icy breeze shooting through the open glass concertina doors across the room.
“Fucking hell,” I mutter, stalking out to the back porch.
The pool emits its usual green glow to the left, the tennis court at the far end visible in the moonlight. I pause, spotting Blade laying in the middle of the grass, the neck of a bottle of whiskey clasped in his left hand, a cigarette burning between fingers of his right.
He looks like a sad sack of potatoes drowning in toxic substances.
I slide my hands into my jean pockets, the cool night chilling the metal draped around my neck.
Stepping to his side, I look down and cock my head.
“Are you depressed?” He doesn’t spare me a glance, he simply points his cigarette above, the tattoos covering his arms and torso appearing more menacing in the moonlight.
I tip my head back and realise why he’s out here.
I sigh and look back down, an orange glow now lighting his face. “I finished the painting.”
He cocks a brow, releasing the puff of smoke. “Already?”
“I work fast.”
“Not fast enough.”
“I’m doing what I can.”
“Again,” his dead, icy eyes glow with the moon, “not enough.”
“Get up.”
He stumbles to his feet and follows into the house, muttering something, most likely reciting his plan for my death. Once we’re standing before the painting, short, erratic bursts replace his usually calm breaths.
“I know you said grey, but—”
“It’s what I wanted,” he whispers.
“Tell me,” I chirp.
“No.”
“Say it, or you don’t get your painting.”
“I’ll beat you for it.”
“I’ll swipe my hand over it and ruin it if you try.”
His lips twitch with reluctance, like it’ll kill him if he utters the words. “Thank you. You’re a good artist.”
Well, that lacked any fucking emotion. His eyes are dead as he stares at me, but once they slide back to the painting, a small glint of life emerges.
He’d said grey, but I got a little carried away, using black and white to add dimension, then beige to emphasise the light freckles over her nose. Her expression is neutral, but I added life to her eyes, so he’s not staring into the void he forced upon her.
“I want it above my bed,” he informs, gaze lost in hers.
“It’ll need to stay on my easel for at least a day to dry.” He nods. “I have a plan for Smith.”
“So, tell me.” He takes the chair from the corner and spins it in front of the painting. Dropping himself down, he leans against the back, resting his chin on his arms to stare at her.
I catch his lips twitch. He just fucking smiled; it was small and barely noticeable, but he actually smiled, genuinely.
I cross the room to sit on the window seat and crack the window. Placing a cigarette between my lips, I flick the lighter. “How’s your back?”
“Explain,” he commands.
“Lure him out. He hasn’t passed through the airport or any private airstrips, or the Eurotunnel from France, as far as I know. We hire someone who looks like me to drive a car registered to me and have them go somewhere private.”
“He’ll send people to follow the bait.”
“Then we take them and torture them until they give away their form of communication to him. Then, I offer to meet him.”
There’s a very real strain for him to drag his gaze away from her. “He’ll know that’s a trap.”
I rub my sore eyes and take another drag, forcing myself to stay awake. “I’m not staying hidden anymore. I want this shit dealt with.”
“This is your fault.”
“I know,” I spit. “Hence me offering myself as bait.”
The wide grin doesn’t meet his eyes as he places the bottle on the floor and digs into his pocket, pulling out his phone to call Prison Guard.
I chuckle. “What’s my contact name?”
“Sacrifice.”
“You plan on killing me?”
“Maybe.”
“Blade,” Dad greets unenthusiastically.
Blade stares at the phone. “You’re never happy to hear from me.”
“Whenever you call, it’s never good news.”
“Rain has a plan,” Blade explains, relaying what we just discussed as he stares at Alexa. “But I want to be the bait.”
I sit up straighter.
“I know where this is going,” Dad laughs dryly.
“I do this, and you let me bring her here,” Blade negotiates.
He always has a plan.
“Your precious son will stay safe, and you know I’ll kill whoever I need to.”
Precious? Fuck him.
“I’ll think about it,” Dad sighs.
Blade stares at the phone. “Twenty-four hours, and I want an answer, or we do it my way.”
“You do not give me terms, Blade.”
“I’m losing my patience.” Blade smiles.
Nope, this isn’t good. The motherfucker’s smiling.
“And that’s the problem,” Dad says calmly. “You can’t control yourself. Say I bring her here for you, what happens when you get caught up, and you choke her to death?”
“I wouldn’t do that.” The calm, collected tone returns. “And do you really think you can manipulate me, Dad?”
I’ve never known what true darkness looked like, felt like, until I realised Blade could suffocate a room merely with his presence. Right now, I can hardly breathe. Sleeping at Rome’s house the past two nights has been blissful peace.
“I wouldn’t kill her,” Blade emphasises when Dad doesn’t reply.
“Are you sure about that?”
“Are your trying to piss me off?”
“Dad,” I call, and Blade’s enraged eyes snap to me, noting the loss of composure in my tone. “We need a way to draw them out.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Three beeps echo as the line cuts.
“I need you to help end this.” Blade drops his chin back to his arms, staring at the painting. “You’re the only person besides her who I trust.”
Hot ash falls to my lap, and I hiss, jumping up to bush it to the floor and grinding my cigarette into the ashtray on the table beside me. Blade chuckles, because that’s who he is—he laughs at others’ misfortune.
There have been a few moments when I allow myself to imagine what my life might have been like had he not appeared that day.
Then I remember the six months before he started at school, when we read psychology and emotional intelligence books together, and I’d help him study various subjects so he could enter junior year with me.
I read those psychology books so I could understand people better; he read them and used his newfound information as a tool to manipulate. Many people have mistaken our simple laying out of the facts as rude. It’s not our fault society can’t handle harsh truths.
That’s why Blade and I get along—we’re honest. While he can detect someone’s lie easily, there are times I still need to go through the process of replaying the conversation over to focus on every cue that may indicate their words hold truth.
I’ve always been frustrated it takes me longer, but Blade saw the fact that I can recount every detail of a conversation as a positive.
I’ve started to think of it that way myself.
Being around my parents for years, I understood them easily.
I learnt Alexa’s habits and mannerisms, but she’s an expert at masking emotions, so there were times I mistook I’m fine as the truth, only to discover later that she was lying.
I tried to make her understand she needed to communicate and stop masking everything.
Blade can’t help who he is, and neither can I—that’s the reason I love him. We’re fucked up and different, but at least we’re together. Neither of us could do what we do without the other.