A/N: So, a minor edit for Chapter 2's summary where I mention Kade's last name. I had to change that last name due to logistical errors later on in the story.
No smut in these two chapters, either, sorry. Thanks so much for all your comments. They are much appreciated!
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CHAPTER 5
Emily
My own scraping gasp wakes me in the dark. I bolt upright, fast and sweat-drenched. Sticky yet again. Except this time there's no need to finish myself off.
This time, I am
spent.
I lie back down and shift with groggy eyes, bed creaking under me. The black sky in the window is moonless now, clouded over. Rain drums against glass, jostles delicate leaves in the wind. Visions of Kade still press behind my eyelids, lick a wet trail up the center of my panties.
"This seriously needs to stop." I groan into my pillow, grateful that my sister took the couch downstairs tonight.
But the images won't stop. They burn bright and sweltering in every corner of my mind. A barrage of lust, sensation, heat. Desire builds again, makes me feverish despite the rain's chill. I move to touch myself, though I know another orgasm won't make the need fade. I'll only want another.
Then I remember that I have an escape. A long neglected outlet. Remember the blank sketchbook stuffed somewhere in one of my suitcases, empty pages beckoning.
It's been nearly a year since I've drawn anything, since I released the images building up inside my head, let them run rampant on the page. Coated my hands black with charcoal and ink.
No better time than now.
I click on my bedside lamp. Honeyed light glows. Memories of amber eyes shimmer.
Christ. Even light itself makes me think of Kade. It's like I'm never truly alone in this house. After stepping inside only once, he lingers in every room. Left a permanent imprint of sex and smoke and dark hunger.
I search my closet, pull out a large drawing pad and box of charcoal. Get down on my knees in my t-shirt and damp underwear. Ignore the awkward slick between my legs and simply begin.
To my relief, it doesn't take long to get into a flow. My hand moves of it's own accord, channelling something beyond myself. Twisting, weaving imagery that I have no control over.
Then something jolts my focus. A sultry twang of an acoustic guitar. Followed by a mean slide down the strings. I stop, charcoal hovering.
Come to me, baby...what evil have I done...
A haunting-rough voice quivers, seduces and right away I know it's my neighbour. Stripped down. Bare and raw. Goosebumps climb my arms, dance up my neck.
Fingerpicking blues. A dusty relic, fresh with passion. Straight out of a hot southern swamp.
Have I done you wrong? Oh yes, you know I care...
Holy mother of god.
Kade has a fucking gift. A strangely vulnerable one too, heart bleeding into every word. A part of me wants to go to the window to get closer to that unrestrained emotion, that honesty. But instinct makes me stay put, smear black pigment down paper. Let this blues-soaked spell unfold before morning breaks it.
Well, I gotta few more days to live, and they all belong to you...
A face emerges under my fingers. High cheekbones under strong brows. Downcast lashes. Carnal eyes.
My hands swirl, taper on the page as strings wail from afar. Sound braids with movement, compels each and every stroke of charcoal, each brush of my fingers. Until there's no separation between my body and his music, heartbeat in perfect sync with Kade's dark and lonesome chords. His voice drifts off as the guitar plucks it's final notes.
When I realize what I've created, a soft shudder wracks me.
A black wolf surfaces from behind what can only be Kade's head, it's fanged maw snarling. Eyes white, charcoal smearing so that fog envelops both figures. Wolf and man blend together, seamless.
Yet...something is missing.
Before I can think, I'm digging in my closet for a container of gold acrylic. I open the bottle, dip my index finger in thick paint, and carefully dab in two pairs of golden irises.
They look back at me, untamed, shimmering.
*
Kade
Mississipi, 2003
I stare at the kitchen wall where a gleaming guitar is pegged.
Elbows on the table. A half-carved wooden top in my hand, a carving knife in the other. Palms damp from the stuffy mid-day heat. Muddy Waters grates and howls from Mama's vintage record player in the living room, one of her favourites. Mine too.
She's stirring a bronze pot of something sour-smelling at the stove, wearing a long blueberry-colored dress, black hair up nice and pretty. She glances at me over her shoulder. "Remember, if you're a good boy you'll get that guitar for your birthday this year."
How could I forget? I've been aching to turn fourteen for too long. "Did Grandpa really play it on the radio?"
"You bet your ass he did." She flashes a dainty, gap-tooth smile, before turning back to her mystery concoction, softly humming. "He made the whole town fall in love with him. He could sing like an angel too."
Gazing at the guitar, distracted by a fierce wish to have known Grandpa, my hand slips, palm slicing open. Drops of hot blood splatter the table."Ow." My wooden top falls to the floor. It rattles before aligning itself into a slow, lazy spin.
Ma hurries over with a dish rag. Frown creasing, she plucks the crimson-stained blade from my fingers. "And that's why I don't like you playing with knives."
"There's nothing else to do," I grumble as she sits down, takes my wounded hand in her cool, soft fingers. "We don't have a TV and I already read all my books a hundred times."
"Should we do your visualization exercises then?" Mama presses rag to blood. It pools like ink on the clean white cotton, stretches towards the corners. "I know you
love
those."
