Only Trick (41 page)

Tamsen laughs. “Maybe when my prince charming sweeps me off my feet. Besides, I’m going to text you every day; you’ll be glad I’m not here so at least you can shut off your phone when you get tired of hearing from me.”

“Okay, ladies. Enough already. I’ve got a plane to catch.”

“Did Trick open the door when you went up to tell him goodbye?”

Both Grady and Tamsen shake their heads. “He just hollered ‘thanks for coming.’”

Tamsen laughs. “At least you can’t be mad at him; he’s still sort of spending time with you.”

“Or he’s cheating on you with you.” Grady snickers as they walk out the door.

The house takes on an immediate silence … loneliness. All I keep thinking about is the approximate two hundred hours that it can take Trick to complete a drawing. I have no idea how much he’s been sleeping, but I doubt it’s that much. Maybe if I’m lucky I might get to see him in another week or two.

*

Jellied toast with
eggs and cayenne gets me a kiss on the cheek as he opens the door just enough to accommodate the diameter of the plate. Catch of the day from a restaurant near the shopping district gets me a wink as he grabs the sack and shuts the door. But dinner … okay, I skip dinner and offer him dessert instead.

I knock on the door.

“Hmm?” It’s become the usual response.

“Hungry?”

“A little. What did you bring?”

I shake my head at the fact that we’re having this conversation through the locked door. “I brought what used to be your favorite.”

The lock clicks and the door opens a fraction. Trick’s lips part as his eyes roam over my
naked
body. “Our bedroom, five minutes,” he says, shutting the door.

Five minutes turns into fifteen, but I don’t complain because all that matters is he’s in our bed giving the real Darby, not a sketch, his full attention. Foreplay doesn’t make an appearance tonight. There is no sipping the martini; it’s a shot glass of sex … bottoms up—literally. I have to concede, although it’s quick, Trick’s precision is g-spot-on.

Damn him!

He kisses my forehead, slips on his jeans without fastening them, and walks out of our bedroom. Just as soon as my body floats back down to Earth, I am going to be really pissed at him—for something. I’m sure when my brain begins to form coherent thoughts again I’ll know what that something is.

*

It’s become quite
clear that Trick has found a way to feel productive again. I suppose it’s unrealistic to think our most worthwhile contribution to society is mind-blowing sex. After a lonely night in bed and leaving Trick’s breakfast by the guest bedroom door, I get ready to find my non-Trick purpose. As I open the front door I’m greeted by Declan in shorts and a muscle shirt with his hand fisted like he was just about to knock.

“Hey.” I smile.

“Hey. Sorry, are you on your way out?”

“Yes, I was just getting ready to …”
Find my new purpose?
“… run some errands. What’s up?”

“I didn’t know if you were serious about helping me with some of my online classes, but if you were—”

“I’d love to!” I grimace at my own eagerness. I’m a newlywed; I shouldn’t be jumping at the opportunity to get out of my house and hangout with the neighbor guy, but I am because I’m just that bored.

Declan’s eyes grow big. “Really?”

“Sure.”

He nods. “Okay, great. When’s the best time for you?”

I shrug. “Now works.”

His head jerks back. “Now? Weren’t you needing to run some errands?”

I wave a dismissive hand, closing the door behind me. “It’s nothing important. Your place?”

“Yeah, sure.” He gestures with his head toward his house. “So what’s Trick doing today?”

I slip on my sunglasses. “He’s drawing.”

“Drawing?”

“Yes, he’s an artist.”

“Wow, that’s awesome. What’s he draw?”

“People.”

“Well he’s come to the right place. Todos Santos is an artist’s paradise. Is he going to sell his sketches?”

“I think so. Although he’s working on a drawing of me right now. I don’t think he’s planning on selling it, but honestly I haven’t asked.”

When we reach Declan’s, he gets us drinks and snacks, grabs his laptop, and takes us out back. “So what made you want to become a PA?”

Slipping off my sandals, I curl up on the chaise lounge. “I job shadowed one my senior year of high school. She did basically the same procedures, diagnosing, and treating that the physician did but she worked three days a week. You don’t see too many part-time physicians. I don’t know if I’ll ever have children, but if I do I’d like to have the option of working part-time. Then there’s the option to change specialties without going back to school. Physicians can’t jump from surgery to dermatology without going back to school but PAs can.”

“What was your specialty?”

“I worked in the ER.” I grin. “An adrenaline junkie of sorts, but for me it was the challenge of putting together the broken puzzles.”

“You must be good under pressure.”

I nod. “Yes, in my job I was. No one makes the right decision one hundred percent of the time, but I’ve been good at going with my instincts.”

“Confident?”

“Yes. It’s hard though. Sometimes you can be overly confident. I work with some people who think they can do no wrong. For myself, I try to find that balance.”

“You ever kill anyone?”

I laugh. “Looks like we need to work on your medical nomenclature. Have patients
died
under my care? Yes. It’s unavoidable if you work in the ER long enough.”

After another half hour of small talk, we start working on his school work. I shoot off a quick text to Trick so he doesn’t wonder why my car is still at home but I’m not.

Me:
Helping Declan with his school. If you decide to take a break, I’ll run home!

A half hour later I get a response.

Trick:
OK

By the time Colby, Wes, and Mallory show up, we’ve put in almost four hours of tutoring. They invite me and Trick to dinner, but I decline this time, knowing that Trick will not be socializing until he’s completed his project. The eerie silence drowns me as I open our front door. A little part of me was hoping he’d been making dinner, watching TV, or even doing yoga, which he hasn’t done in days.

“Trick?”

No answer.

I go upstairs and knock on the door.

“Hmm?”

I sigh. “Let’s go out for dinner.”

“Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow.”

I lean my forehead against the door. “Please.”

“Tomorrow.” His voice is absent of emotion.

“Well I’m going.”

“Ok.”

Clawing at my scalp, I shake my head. This sucks. I don’t give a shit how fabulous this picture of me is; the resentment is going to take away from my full appreciation of it.

“Oh, and I’m taking your Ducati. Any special instructions before I leave?” I call on my way down the stairs.

The bang upstairs sounds like the doorknob impaling the wall.

“What did you say?” Trick stands at the top of the stairs in his jeans, no shirt—eyes wild.

Mentally willing the smirk on my face to hide, I turn around. “Welcome to the world again.”

“You’re not taking my bike.”

I shrug. “Who’s going to stop me?”

“Darby.” He squints his eyes.

I grab my purse and his key from the counter then sprint outside and around the corner to the carport.

“Darby!” Trick yells, chasing me in his bare feet.

I yank off the cover and grab my helmet. He jerks my helmet from my grip along with the key and picks up the cover from the ground.

“Not happening.”

“Take me for a ride, please.”

“Tomorrow.” He walks off toward the house while I fight back the tears.

T
he brain is
complex and some things just can’t be explained, such as the woman I’m drawing. I have to remember her. For God’s sake, I’m drawing her! It’s effortless for my hands to keep adding details; they know every single one. But what I really want to do is bang my head against the wall because she’s so familiar. I know her, but how? Is my memory coming back or just fucking with me?

I’m pissed, and paranoid, and … confused. Then there’s Darby. I can hardly look at her. What would I tell her? I’m drawing a woman sleeping who’s
naked
. I don’t make shit up. I don’t draw things I haven’t seen. My sketches aren’t imagination, they’re recollection. I’ve been with this woman.
Fuck!
I can even hear her voice, but not her words.

I need a trigger—a name, a location … something. It’s not finished, but as is the case with most of my work, I’m not sure it ever will be. I find details run to infinity. Eventually I just have to move on to something else. Sliding my phone from my pocket, I take a picture of my drawing and send it to Grady with a message.

Me:
Recognize her?

Grady:
Should I?

Me:
I fucked her.

Grady:
I hope not recently ;)

Me:
Cut the crap. I drew her but I don’t know why. I know her but I don’t know how. I’m fucking miserable.

Grady:
You have a beautiful wife and a promising future. Forget about the woman.

Me:
That’s just it! I can’t forget what I can’t remember.

Grady:
Thought you were drawing YOUR WIFE!

I don’t respond. There’s nothing left to say. I’m an asshole now and I’m pretty sure I was back then too.

S
omething is wrong
with Trick, but I don’t know what. His obsession with sketching me is going too far. He won’t let me see it. He won’t come out of that damn bedroom except to shower and go to the bathroom. He’s even slept in there for the past five nights. I’ve turned into his personal maid—doing laundry and catering food to “his” room. The motorcycle ride? Never happened. Sex? Haven’t had that either, and I refuse to stand outside his door naked again looking like I’m begging for it.