Heavenly Lover (2 page)

Chapter 2

What am I doing? What the hell’s wrong with me?
Daniel staggered over to the gas shutoff on the fireplace and turned the handle downward. He coughed, covering his mouth from the cloying, unforgiving smoke. He was as irritated as his throat felt. Irritated with himself, with his painting, with everything in his life. “
Filch da puta
,” he cursed, kicking the remnants of the painting he’d dismembered and thrown into the fire not more than twenty minutes ago. He used to gaze at the image that stood guard over the fireplace when
she
rode him there on the green velvet settee, on those long languid evenings when they’d drunk too much wine. All he could think about had been filling her little pussy over and over again near the devilish orange glow. It was the same settee she’d screwed the doctor on a week ago when he caught them in his living room.

My own fucking house!

He used to get hard looking at the painting when she was at work or out with her friends, so strong was his craving for her, like some kind of addiction he didn’t even want to think about shedding. Except now he had to.

“Don’t sell it,” she’d said. “I want you to think of me, how we are made for each other.” It was the first blue leopard he’d painted. Those big green eyes the size of fists used to stare back at him no matter where he was in the room. When he was creating the piece, he’d paint for a few minutes, think of her, and then get so hard he’d drive all over town to find her.

Never before had he felt this way—felt this insatiable lust for a woman. His cock had been in a constant state of arousal. They’d made love in closets, at the supermarket, at the nursery, and many times at the gallery, Craven Image, her favorite place. His mind had been in a constant fog, temporarily cured by a few precious moments when he’d sink himself deep into her pink folds. His attempts to satisfy himself without her body had been a dismal failure and only made his craving worse.

He could hardly have lunch with her in public he was so driven, the ever-present tent in his pants making it even difficult to cross his legs. The big blue leopard had kidnapped his desire for her deep in those green eyes, holding his lust like a vault at the bank, like his talent had been plucked from his body and held for ransom in the soul of this beast. It was the sum total of several months of work.

But now he’d destroyed it, like he’d destroyed his life.
I can’t paint worth shit.
It wasn’t a self-indulgent thought. It was the awful truth.

The faint siren was getting closer. He’d have to deal with them next.

He felt something warm against his back. Turning around, he glanced down, expecting to see some female companion, maybe Audray, but instead his gaze traveled to three more sets of yellow eyes on big cats in his jungle paintings hanging at the stairway. They were waiting.

“
Va se foder
!” he swore at them in Portuguese, but they didn’t tell him to fuck himself in return. They sat there with no expression.

Maybe I’ll burn them all. They’re worthless pieces of garbage anyway. No one wants them.

He had been halfway ready to forgiving Audray’s infidelity. She’d tearfully apologized and the makeup sex offered had been the best ever, though excruciatingly painful. The sex had been a bit rough, and not his usual tastes, but Audray had no limits, and showed him things he’d never considered. He’d tried to forgive her—told himself he did anyway—and had spent twenty-four hours screwing her so many times he’d lost count, but in the end, it was obvious she’d moved on, even though he hadn’t. And his need of her and her body only increased the more he was without her.

He’d even convinced himself punishing her could help purge the self-loathing he felt for not being able to walk away.

Yeah, he could understand the guy getting caught up in the moment—Audray knew what she was doing, bringing the doc here under the guise of selling him a painting. The guy probably could feel the scent of lust and sex as soon as he walked in the room and before she took over. Like she’d done to Daniel months ago at the gallery party. No, he couldn’t blame the poor son of a bitch for a little dalliance, even at Daniel’s house. Just one taste of that sweet ass and he was hooked, hogtied, able to be led around by the nose. God knew, Daniel himself had been living that way for months now, almost a year. Daniel had always been a one-woman man, and had convinced himself he might be able to withstand the pain of her infidelity, as long as she came back to him.
Am I nuts? What was I thinking?
He didn’t like the man he had become, the boundaries he had crossed, and had continued to cross every day he spent in her proximity.

But the last straw had been today when she told him the gallery was dropping his paintings. She was so sorry, she’d said. Then she’d told him it was difficult to be around him, since her feelings were compromised.

Compromised? Was that what it was, all that screwing?
“Fuck you and your toilet seats,” he’d shouted to the room. The gallery owner, Beau Bradley, had been the lead guitar for Spacetravelers, a rock and roll band from the ‘60s. Beau had gotten into autographing toilet seats and doing flashy canvases so wealthy owners could have a “Bradley” signature in their living room. The sales also helped with the cost of dialysis a couple of the boys in the band were under due to their past drug use. But was it art?

He leaned backward with his face to the ceiling. “When will this be over?” he groaned.

Now.
He didn’t hear it. He
felt
it. There was a warm tingling sensation against his back again, like a woman’s chest leaned up against him, like he’d been held in invisible arms, a cloak of safety surrounding him. His pulse quickened. It was unmistakably female.

“Who’s here?” He whirled around, searching the room, the stairs and the balcony at the top.

The animals were silent. Even the bubbling painting stopped crackling in the fireplace. He raised his arms out to the sides and thought he saw a shimmer of dust slide down his forearms to his fingertips.

He rubbed his scalp, shaking off the crazy sensation, noting the steady beat of the heart he had tried to stop earlier this evening. He couldn’t figure out if he was happy or sad to be alive.

He felt just as poor now as he had in his barefoot beginnings at that house near the beach, the one with no windows, the ocean as his shower. Difference was, back then he’d thought he was a talented artist and the world was his oyster. Now he wondered if he could ever stand to touch another canvas. The unsold inventory hung like tombstones at Beau’s gallery. Of course they had to move him out. They were not in the charity business.

Leopard eyes were laughing at him. He didn’t like their smirk. He’d rip that smug look off their faces, send them to a fiery grave just like their sibling. He was halfway to the stairs when he heard a tap at the front door. Turning, he saw a tall shadow in the frosted window, and felt a chill.

Might be a neighbor
. Well, screw it. Let them see the bonfires of my soul.

Darting back to the entrance, he swung the door open so quickly he almost fell over. White fog with pointed tendrils snaked into the room. Daniel scented the exotic spices that always surrounded Josh and heard some kind of music. “God, Josh. Your timing is pretty pathetic.”

“That’s a hell of a way to greet your agent. I’ve come to check up on you. Got an inkling something wasn’t right.” Josh was dressed in black: leather knee-high boots, black jeans and turtleneck. Covering everything was a long black rain slicker, giving Josh the look of an oversized crow.

Daniel stepped to the man and gave him a stiff hug, which was not returned. “Thanks.”

Josh remained at the doorway. “May I come in?”

“Might as well. Cops are on their way, though.” Daniel shook his head and winced.

Josh marched into the center of the living room as Daniel closed the front door quietly and kept his eyes down.

“I see.” Josh said after a quick survey, nodding. “We’re having a temper tantrum, are we?”

“Fuck you,” Daniel barked. He noticed laughter on Josh’s pale face. His dark hair, pulled back in a ponytail, was shiny, and a lock of it had come loose, draped over Josh’s left eye.

“Not what an agent wants to hear, my friend.”

“Yeah? Well, I didn’t send out invitations.”

“Invitations? Invitations to what?”

“My demise.”

“Ahhh. Now I see.” Josh walked over to the fireplace and jabbed the still-smoldering painting with the toe of his boot. “Well, if you ask me, you got rather close. This time.”

“This time? There’s never been another time.”

“True.” Josh nodded in agreement, smiling.

Something about that smile disturbed Daniel. “You like my new piece?” Daniel gestured toward the paint smeared on the wall. When Josh didn’t reply, he added, “I call it
Death of an Artist
.” He picked up watercolor crayons scattered about the floor and smeared them against the wall, creating a burgundy paste. The cool, sticky substance made a mushy sound as he swiped his hands across the wall. “There. I call it finished,” he said as he threw the remnants of the crayons at his feet. He wiped his hands on his black pants, already smudged with paint.

“Ah, yes. Death. That the friend you were seeking tonight?” Josh scanned the room as if searching for something. He sniffed the air, then coughed.

Daniel continued to wipe his hands and tried to focus on Josh’s face but got dizzy. His stomach began to gallop.

“Don’t you think this is a bit of an overreaction, my friend? Or, was it what you wanted?” Josh watched Daniel without expression.

Daniel focused on Josh’s voice, which seemed to settle him. “What I want? How about a decent night’s sleep? How about something to erase my memory? Everything I look at reminds me of
her
. How’s this?” Daniel leaned over and snatched the knife at the floor. As he aimed it at his chest, he felt it slip out of his hand, as if invisible fingers wrenched it from his grip. Dumbfounded, he watched the trajectory of the knife as it flew through the air, clattering on the floor in the corner, and out of reach.

Josh crouched in a defensive stance and he searched the room, his eyes wide and fully alert.

“How’d you do that?” Daniel asked, in shock.

“You mean send the knife flying? You honestly think I did that?” Josh’s dark lips lightened as they formed a thin line. “You’re hammered. You couldn’t hold onto your dick if your life depended on it.”

Daniel leaned towards his agent, anger searing a hole in his gut, ready to argue against the accusation, but as nausea overtook him, he had a change of plan. He ran for the bathroom.

When he came back, stomach contents gone, he found Josh sniffing the wall. Both men turned as red lights strobed through the living room window and front door.

“Not a word about your intentions tonight, hear me?” Josh said.

“Sure.”

“You take anything?”

“Just the Meritage, on an empty stomach.”

“Ah yes, the Meritage. The wine you were saving for your wedding night.”

It hurt more than Daniel expected, and again, his first reaction was anger. Then he heard pounding on the front door and took a deep breath to face the consequences of his behavior. Josh beat him to the door, opened it, and bowed to two uniformed policemen standing on the stoop in the evening fog.

“Good evening, officers.”

“Officers Lopez and Sprague. We got an alarm call.” The taller officer, Lopez, waved the smoke from his eyes and winced.

“Where’s the fire? Is anyone hurt?” Sprague asked and stepped close to Daniel, giving him a sniff.

Josh cut in before Daniel could answer. “Problem with the fireplace. No one hurt. Ego bruised a bit is all.”

“Yeah?” Lopez said as he looked from Josh to Daniel. He took out a pad and pen from his breast pocket. “Need some ID, fellas. Who owns the house?”

“I do.” Daniel shoved a hand in his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He displayed his driver’s License. “I’m Daniel DePalma. This is—”

 “Joshua Brandon. I’m his friend, and his agent,” Josh said, opening his wallet up to examination.

“May we come in?” Lopez asked.

“Why not?” Daniel said and stepped aside to let them pass.

“What the hell happened to you, sir?” Officer Lopez asked, pointing with his notebook to Daniel’s chest, stained with wine and smeared with paint.

Daniel bristled.

“We walking into a quarrel between you…two?” the officer said and gave a crooked smile, showing no teeth.

Daniel boiled at the implication. “What the fuck is
that
supposed to mean?” Josh grabbed his arms, restraining him from going after the officer, who had put his hand on his gun.

“Hold it, Daniel,” Josh murmured. “Not wise. You’re being an asshole.”

Josh’s strength surprised Daniel. He shook Josh loose and rubbed his arms where his friend’s fingers had dug in.

The second officer, Sprague, Daniel thought, stepped in front of his partner. “Anyone else here?” he asked, before beginning to search the downstairs.

“No. He lives here alone. I just got here myself,” Joshua answered.

As his partner wandered through the living room and to the open kitchen, Officer Lopez examined the alarm keypad that dangled by the two wires. He raised it delicately with his pen.

“I think the smoke tripped the alarm,” Josh offered. “Then Daniel had an unfortunate accident with it, trying to get it to stop.”

Dropping the keypad, which hit the wall with a light tap, the policeman pulled on latex gloves as he walked over to Daniel. He flashed a light in Daniel’s eyes.

Daniel flinched. The bright light hurt. He was having difficulty standing up. Lopez twirled Daniel around and the room kept spinning. First checking Daniel’s pockets, both front and back, Lopez then examined his back and hands. Lopez paid close attention to the small abrasions on Daniel’s left forearm where he had nicked himself with the knife.

“When did you do this?” he asked Daniel.

“Roses. He pruned his roses Monday. Or was it Tuesday, Daniel?” Josh volunteered.