Shelter Me: A Shelter Novel Page 2

  I remained on the ground, drawn to him, wanting to rise but refusing to do so. Sheer stubbornness and self-preservation mixed together.

  He reached a hand down to help me up but I couldn't touch him. Not yet.

  I pushed myself up. He was at least six foot four to my five feet four inches. The difference was dramatic.

  He was so still, a predator, watching me with keen interest. I'd never been as intensely aware of a man in my life. I could smell his skin, wanted to taste it, put my mouth on his and forget everything else, including basic human decency.

  I blamed the art. The heat. My lack of proper nutrition.

  I stuck out my hand without saying anything, almost a dare. He took it in his and my pulse beat a tattoo. I felt the slow burn and then the aftershock quake through my whole body.

  There was a definite sense of street in him, a primal, easily willing and able to fight for his life street sense.

  His eyes were haunted, like maybe he already had.

  There was no doubt he'd won.

  "What the fuck is going on here?"

  I was relieved when Brayden's entrance broke the intensity in the room. I stepped backward, away from Lucas's flame in an attempt to break the connection.

  It didn't waver. It was too late for me. No saving me now. The “drowning ship, abandon hope all ye who enter here” must've shown in my eyes, because Brayden attempted to help me. It was too late. The ship was sinking, and Brayden needed to save himself.

  "We're closed," Brayden said angrily to Lucas.

  "The door was open."

  "I'm betting it wasn't."

  He and Brayden squared off, so I said, "I might've left it open," hoping to stave off a fight. Because Brayden could fight, and when he was younger he had, well and often.

  Lucas acknowledged my words with a nod, but he didn't take his eyes off Brayden.

  "And you're Lucas…"

  "Lucas Caine," Brayden growled in answer to me before Lucas could chime in. Brayden was hovering, protective, and it was chest to chest alpha males, and both of them nearly equal in height. Dark and light, facing off. It was only then I noticed Brayden's attention moved to the other man by the door.

  "He's with me," Lucas said, his voice a rough growl that smoothed my ruffled feathers. Nothing about him was particularly cultured and yet he reeked of money. Everything about him screamed feral, but the wildness didn't take anything from him. He was a complete study in contradictions.

  There were tattoos under all that clothing—I was sure of it.

  "And neither of you have told me why you're here," Brayden said.

  "It's definitely not to see you," Lucas shot back. His voice was the kind that would deepen to a rough growl when he was angry or aroused, as if there was a force of law command behind his dirty, wild voice.

  I wondered how his voice would sound during dirty, wild sex.

  I wished I painted nudes. I had to start a collection—that would be my next series.

  "What are you doing here?" Brayden repeated impatiently.

  "I came for the show," Lucas said innocently.

  "The show's not until tomorrow night."

  Lucas's shrug was meant for Brayden, but his words, his gaze, were all for me. "I wanted to preview Ryn's work."

  "We don't offer previews," Brayden said through clenched teeth.

  "I don't let that stop me," Lucas countered.

  Nothing would and God, I liked that.

  Lucas glanced at me. "You haven't been in town long."

  "And she's probably not staying," Brayden added, his protective nature ringing through loud and clear.

  "Is that right?" Lucas's gaze flicked across my face, seeking out the truth. "In that case, I'll definitely be back tomorrow."

  With a nod in Brayden's direction, he was gone.

  I was trying not to stare too long at Lucas's retreating back when Brayden asked, "Did he scare you?"

  "No," I scoffed, even though Brayden would know better. "What's his deal?"

  Brayden snorted. "He's an asshole."

  "I got that part loud and clear." I tried to sound casual, but Brayden read me like a book.

  "Don't," he warned. "You know better."

  Maybe I did, maybe I didn't but… "I'm just asking what he's like."

  Brayden shook his head. "He's complicated. And he's known to go through women fast. No strings, no commitments."

  That figured. Wanting something bad for me was typical—exciting and dangerous, which was always my first inclination.

  "He doesn't stop until he gets what he wants," Brayden continued his warning. "And when he gets it…"

  "He doesn't want it anymore," I finished.

  "Exactly—he wants nothing to do with them. They chase him and it's humiliating. And you deserve better."

  So Lucas was a self-destructive, one-night stand, “stop anything before it has a chance of working” kind of guy.

  I knew the type.

  I was the type, which made Lucas a challenge.

  "Maybe I only want one night—no strings," I said. Brayden frowned doubtfully but didn't say anything else. And that's one of the many reasons I loved him. He didn't pretend he knew every single thing about me. Rather, he let me live my life, and explore new things. And he'd be there to pick up the pieces, without saying the dreaded, I told you so. "It doesn't matter—he's probably just an asshole," I said softly, with no real bite behind the words, because I didn't believe it.

  "Definitely an asshole," Brayden echoed in a far more strident tone.

  “Is he your age?”

  “Make me sound ancient,” he muttered around his beer.

  “You mean thirty isn’t?” I teased.

  He frowned. “Yes, your new obsession is my age.”

  “Thank you. Was that so hard?”

  “Very.”

  This was no chance encounter, not on Lucas’s part anyway. But why not wait for the show? What necessitated the private meeting? "He acted like he came here just to see me. How did he know I'd be here?"

  "How does Lucas Caine know anything?"

  "Does he come here a lot?"

  "A couple of times a year," he said. "But he's never brought that bodyguard guy."

  "Not that you've seen."

  A small frown settled on his lips. "We've got work to do. And I have to get a better lock."

  I wanted to tell Brayden that it wouldn't matter, and I didn't know how I knew that. I just did. I was up against someone formidable with an intensity that mirrored my own. Instead, I simply told him, "I'm starving."

  As we settled on the floor, surrounded by my paintings, I dove into my burger and fries. Even as Brayden asked questions about the order of the paintings, trying to get my mind into the game, it was obvious it was somewhere else.

  "Maybe I can ask Lucas to come back and help you hang the paintings," Brayden suggested at one point.

  "He'd be more helpful than you're being."

  Brayden rolled his eyes. "He's just a guy."

  "I know that. Stop worrying—I'm not going to go home and call him or anything."

  "It's not like he gave you his number," Brayden pointed out.

  "You're such a prick." I threw a fry at him and he snorted. "Okay, let's take my mind off Lucas by depressing me with the magazine article."

  "Such an optimist." Brayden grabbed the magazine and flipped through until he found the article. "Want me to read it out loud?"

  It seemed like months ago when I spoke to Ann Maslow, the features editor of the art magazine. My carefully crafted responses which were subtly designed to hide the truth of my background but still tantalize with the intrigue. "Go for it."

  I'm looking at pictures that show the artist curled on the floor of the gallery amidst the chaos, and if anything, Cathryn "Ryn" Taylor looks at home, more than one might expect from someone who, by all accounts, is socially phobic, prone to panic attacks and notoriously private. A woman who would not meet me face to face for our interview, choosing to remain
on the other end of the phone line and give only partial answers.

  "So what—she's accusing me of faking that?" I interrupted.

  Brayden had the nerve to look amused. "And she'll also be at the opening."

  "Thanks for the warning, I guess," I muttered. "I don't know if I can do this. I'm not the sweet, quiet artist everyone expects."

  "They don't expect that. They're looking for the half-crazed woman who's one step away from her nineteenth nervous breakdown."

  "That's great. Very comforting, Bray. Points for the Stones reference."

  "Hey, I've seen you defend yourself. You've got a hell of a temper."

  "And you're about to find yourself on the receiving end of it," I warned.

  It was Brayden's turn to give me the finger.

  None of the people who'd interviewed me knew about what I'd gone through in my past. Not that I did—the amnesia took care of my memories with a startling efficiency, leaving me a blank slate from the age of seventeen, after I'd woken up in a hospital after being unconscious for several days. I'd been left outside the emergency room, saved, and later taken in by a woman who would end up introducing me to my best friend in the world.

  Brayden knowing all about it was a huge step for me—and the biggest help of all. I pushed the magazine article aside in disgust. "She made me seem completely unstable."

  "Flaky," he corrected, "Quirky."

  "You mean fucked up."

  "If you weren't, they'd be disappointed. People don't expect artists to be normal, and if you were, your art wouldn't be seen. Any springboard you can use, hon. It's about getting noticed. Then, it's up to your talent if you sink or swim."

  It was amazing that my anxiety would be what got me noticed in the first place. Every story written about me noted my panic disorder. Of course, I couldn't share where the roots of that disorder lay. Could only hope that my past was far behind me, that no one from that time would recognize me. I looked different.

  As for everything else? I had no clue what I'd been like before the amnesia. I was trapped in present day, and my art reflected that—the dark place I couldn't escape, no matter how hard I tried. Like a mouse trapped in a never-ending maze with no incentive to get out.

  Except for Lucas Caine. Was he finally the jolt I needed?

  Chapter Two

  Several hours later, Brayden was leaving me off at my apartment door after he'd ultimately helped me put an order to my paintings and calmed me down.

  "Just make sure you don't neglect your muse. I know how cranky you get when you don't paint," he warned as I let myself inside.

  His concern had nothing to do with money—he was absolutely right that missing even a day of painting left me anxious and irritable. Two days was a lifetime. At times, I avoided painting because the subject matter was difficult and exhausting, and it was Brayden who'd finally told me that I was a bitch when I avoided the canvas.

  "And lock the damned door," he called through it. Granted, I'd been about to walk away from it without doing so, and I managed to click the double bolts before I kicked off my sneakers and wandered toward the easel.

  When I blinked, it seemed like maybe five minutes had passed, but I knew better. At times, I could lose five, six, seven hours to the muse I'd come to nickname "the beast."

  Feed the beast before it eats you alive.

  Now, I realized night surrounded me. I'd been painting nearly in the dark. At some point during the frenzy, I'd turned on the small studio light, but the rest of the apartment was in total darkness. The heat was more oppressive here than it was upstate, with no nighttime relief. I'd bought myself a selection of flowers that I separated and spread around the apartment in bunches. I smelled the flowers strongly, probably because I'd kept the windows closed and the air off.

  I jerked the windows open for relief from the sweet smell and continued painting. At some point, I went to the kitchen for something to drink and squished the stems between my toes.

  The flowers were on the ground, as if someone had dumped them from their vases, except there were no empty vases.

  Daffodils. I hadn't bought daffodils. I'd grabbed Gerbera daisies…and those were still in their jars. But the daffodils were spread along the floor like a path that led to nowhere.

  I stared stupidly. Maybe I'd taken my anti-anxiety meds without realizing it? I rubbed my arms at the sudden chill that went through my body, and I rechecked the door. I flicked on all the lights in the apartment, but it was just me, my paintings and the flowers.

  I rubbed my eyes as exhaustion and panic began to overtake me. I grabbed for some of the homeopathic remedies I'd been using instead and sent a text to my therapist about a Skype session.

  I'd probably knocked the flowers over in my rush to get to painting. It wasn't like I hadn't spilled or forgotten things before when painting was on my mind. But still, a chat with my therapist wouldn't do me any harm.

  I'd gotten to a good place with my anxiety, but the months before arriving in New York had me refilling prescriptions for anti-anxiety meds and speaking with Dr. B a little more often. He was the same therapist I'd used in the Catskills, because the idea of switching to a new one made me too anxious. I needed an anchor to the past, a tether to the only place I remembered as home. And Dr. B was a family man. Former military. Kind and trustworthy. But certainly, no pushover.

  And I pushed.

  These days, I was proud of myself. Beyond my first week, I'd been able to manage my anxiety without meds and I felt calmer and safer now. The interview and the upcoming show was a lot to manage, but painting helped me.

  But seeing the flowers was stirring something—a memory or a dream…and I was getting the uncomfortable, chest-tightening sensation. My skin was clammy and I heard the harshness of my breath in my own ears.

  Does someone know? Did they recognize me?

  Daffodils. An innocuous flower. Why was I having such a reaction to them?

  Because you're tired. Shaken up. Even with the modicum of success I'd just gained, I realized how difficult being successful actually was. Being on top of the mountain, or close to it, was more pressure than wanting it.

  I stopped myself. Reminded myself of Dr. B's words, that "fear, stress and no sleep do strange things to people's minds."

  I had plenty of fear, stress and no sleep—I'd been riding on pure adrenaline for days. I assured myself that I'd probably knocked the flowers over at some point in my painting frenzy, and that Brayden had been the one to send them. He was always making sure the apartment was well stocked with food and flowers—the finer things, he called them. He knew if left to my own devices I'd live on takeout and never have anything living in my apartment except mold growing on old food in the fridge. That was easily evidenced several hours later, after a great, calming session with Dr. B, a hot shower and Brayden in my kitchen making breakfast.

  "You're such a guy," Brayden was complaining after pouring an entire expired milk into the sink. "Good thing you've got me."

  "We live a door away from a deli."

  "Exactly." He tossed the empty milk and unpacked two new ones. He started the coffeemaker and soon the smell of brew filled the room.

  I didn't bother asking him about the flowers. I told myself I'd just forgotten to do so, but really, I didn't want to deal with any of it today.

  Tomorrow. I'd deal with all of it tomorrow.

  By five that evening, I was dressed in a stylish little black dress, my hair up in a loose, elegant knot, sparse makeup—enough to emphasize those baby blues, the makeup artist had insisted—and inside the gallery as the doors opened. Brayden told me I was stunning, and for once, I believed him.

  There was something magical about this night, the magic of all possibilities unfolding at my feet. Of course, this was because the doors were still closed.

  When they did open, I was worried the panic would slowly wrap around me, fighting to squeeze me in an anaconda grip. That was how I'd made Brayden understand what the attacks were like when we watched t
he movie of the same name. He'd laughed with me, then sobered and said, "That sucks."

  I knew then we'd be best friends.

  Now, he either kept a hand on one of my shoulders or threaded a hand in mine as small talk ensued. He was part promoter, all bodyguard, stopping people from getting too close, smoothly edging me away when it looked like I was about to get surrounded.

  He'd told me I could escape to the quiet of the back room, and I'd had to take advantage of it only once so far. Admittedly, I was disappointed, as I'd hoped to find Lucas back there, smirking at getting past the security measures of the storeroom areas.

  But Lucas came through the front door tonight, two hours into the show, when it was at its most crowded, and I swear, the entire gallery stilled for a long moment when he walked in. I know I did.

  The whole gallery seemed to come to an immediate stop, like a breath drawn inward and not exhaled unless given permission.

  When Lucas finally gave it with a nod to my corner of the gallery, business and pleasure restarted as normal, although there was still that hit of electricity spiking the air.

  Lucas seemed used to it. Maybe he even expected it. But it didn't deter him from his path, which was coming directly to me, his eyes locked and loaded on mine. I was unable to look away and he was devouring me. That was something I'd normally be embarrassed to even think, but there was no substitute for the word.

  His physical presence had the most extreme push to it. I'd never registered anything like that from anyone. He was so still, a predator, watching me with keen interest. I'd never been as intensely aware of a man in my life. I could smell his skin, wanted to taste it, put my mouth on his and forget everything else, including basic human decency.

  I blamed the art. The heat. My lack of proper nutrition.

  When he was directly in front of me, he smiled. "It looks like your dreams are coming true."

  Such double meaning to those words. He hadn't said congratulations. Because he knew I saw this as a mixed blessing. Was it understanding or mocking? Did he know how scared of those dreams I was?

  "Thanks for coming," I told him as Brayden said, "More people to see," with a glare in Lucas's direction.