"Feeling trapped in a shell, wishing that I could spin the wheels of change."
A shade of blue by Incognito.

Chapter 10:

I stand there, facing the front door. My heart pulsates in a disarrayed rhythm, and the unadorned, wooden door has nothing to do with it. It's what lays beyond that does. More like who. I take a few steps forward, and then back, feeling somewhat disinclined. My hand tightens around the paper that possesses his address. I wish he didn't give it to me. I would've found an excuse to bail out; an excuse to feed myself in order to neglect his offer.

But he had to lure me into his den, and I'm only human. I crave the sin.

I knock twice, praying that he doesn't answer. He doesn't, at least for a while, granting me the chance to dash toward the stairs. But then I hear a click followed by a squeak, declaring the unlocking of the door. I freeze for a moment, before I spin to face him, and I wish I didn't. I can't help the breath I instantly suck in, utterly bowled over. He's standing there, leaning sideways against the doorframe, with an impassive look on his cunningly beautiful face.

And shirtless.

I try not to look. I really do, but I can't help it when my eyes wander. He's wearing nothing but a pair of loose fitting jeans, and I can't deny the V that he has. It's cut in a roaring magnificent way. The mass of muscles he has warrants that he has a workout routine that he never blows off. He's not bulky, just rugged and cut in a way that makes mouths go slack and butterflies tango. His ripped six-pack makes my abdomen clench, reminding me of the last stomach workout I have compassed, which happens to be weeks ago. I inwardly cringe, remembering how I used to think that running is too formidable for anyone to handle.

I notice a painting brush in his color-tinged hand. Its bristles are covered with merlot red. I take a deep breath, and look up at him, silently praying that I didn't take long gawking at his drool-worthy body. "Am I interrupting something?" I mentally slap myself when my voice comes out coarse instead of humorous, manifesting how affected I am by his looks.

He totally ignores my question, gazing at me with dark intensity that captures my eyes in a very sizzling eye contact, and it feels like he's stripping my thoughts bare. Was I that obvious? Stupid me.

His dark eyes remain locked with mine for a few seconds before he orders, his voice a bit hoarse. "Come in." Just like that, he swerves and goes back inside, leaving me to follow him.

I don't stay dumbfounded for long, before I descry a lettered tattoo on his shoulder blade. It consists of two lines written in what seems to be Adine Kirnberg. I go after him, squinting to catch what's written, but it's too small for me to read. It reminds me of my constant desire to get a tattoo.

The place doesn't look any better than the last time; in fact, it's the opposite. I screw up my face, biting my tongue to refrain from saying a sardonic comment. Dylan disappears into the hallway and I stand there, pondering whether I should follow him or not, but then recall his sarcastic comment from the previous time and go after him. I don't want to spat with him right now.

I find the door of his painting room open, but I don't find him in it. I wander in, noting a canvas affixed to the stand, and a stool facing it. There's a table beside the stool, with colors mantling its surface. I gape at the new canvas, intently scrutinizing it. A redhead is leaning back against a brick wall, looking aside, as if she were hiding from someone and anticipating their abrupt arrival. Her fiery, red hair is enshrouding her face, but I can sense how hysterical she is.

"It's still unfinished." A deep voice comes from behind me, startling me.

Unfinished? It looks magnificent to me. His hands are made of magic.

"It already looks stunning." I admit, turning to face him. He has a black tee on now, and I can't decide whether I feel relieved or disappointed.

He doesn't say anything to that. He just looks at me for a moment before he frees the canvas from the stand, and gets a new one, fastening it. He leaves the room for a minute, leaving me to explore the beauty of the room, before he comes back, holding a can of beer and another of regular coke. "I don't have diet coke." He explains, handing the coke to me.

"Aren't you feeling hungover?" I blurt, eyeing his beer.

His eyes shoot up in bemusement, before it dissolves into understanding. "No, Candy. I wasn't drunk yesterday." He affirms, and memories from yesterday invade my mind once more. Is he indicating that he wasn't drunk when we had our.. Inappropriate dance last night? Then why would he dance with me like that? Why would he mesmerize me with his moves and make me feel things I'd lost sense of?

"So how are you going to teach me?" I ask, hastening to change the subject.

"Sit." He orders again, motioning to the stool that is positioned in front of the canvas stand.

I cross my arms. "Stop ordering me around." I grit out.

He briefly closes his eyes in what seems to be frustration, allowing me to gawk at his beautiful face without him spotting my every move, before he opens them and approaches the stool, pulling it back. He looks at me, plastering a fake smile on his face as he sarcastically grits out. "Would you please sit down, M'lady?"

I roll my eyes, finally conforming. The moment I sit down, he walks directly behind me and in one sudden movement, he pushes the stool closer to the stand so that the canvas is separated from me by a mere foot. I'm dazed, staring at the spotless, unalloyed whiteness, and it looks like I'm staring at a parallel world which has yet to be stained, and I'm the one who's going to taint it.

"That's better. Now you're partly focused." He says as he removes the colors from the table beside me, replacing them with every shade of blue I've ever seen, before he does a bizarre thing. He walks to the light switches, and for a moment I think he's going to turn off the lights, but he dims them. I close my eyes and open them, adjusting to the change. The dimmed light gives the room another whole atmosphere: Warm and palatable. A moment later, I hear classical music starting to play. I don't recognize the track, maybe because I don't listen to any piano music. Dylan finally terminates his journey, making his way toward me. He stands directly behind me, before he murmurs in a voice that is softer than a feather. A voice that is intended to tranquilize and alleviate, as if he knows how timid and agitated I am. "Focus on the white canvas in front of you."

Is he trying to hypnotize me? If so, he's doing a very good job.

I don't quibble about his command this time, I just comply, looking straight ahead. The composite of placid music, dimmed light and whiteness make me want to hold a brush and start right away, but I'm afraid that I'd draw only one person. Maybe his back, with that mysterious tattoo and..

"Touch it." His soft voice interrupts my thoughts.

"What?" I exclaim in a voice that is far from peaceful. I wince, realizing how high-pitched my voice sounded in the serene room.

He stays motionless for a moment, not uttering a word, before he extends his hand, caressing the whiteness in front of me. "The canvas, Candice. Feel it against your fingers."

I don't know why my body detonates in goose bumps, and I have no idea which name I like more coming out of his mouth. Candice or Candy. Both sound just as good. I realize that he's not in a playful mood, so I comply. I don't want to quarrel with him and ruin the creativity that aviates in the air.

I touch it, gliding the tips of my fingers all over it, and a weird feeling strikes. A feeling of crashing avidness. I want so bad to sketch on that immaculacy. To express my phantasm and stain it with pictures of my forlorn past.

To make it blue.

"Think of something you want to draw. Focus and come up with something new. Something you've never drawn before." He still whispers, his voice neither sounding close or far. The track shifts to another, and I find my ears getting accustomed to the dreamy, gentle sounds of the piano.

I concentrate on the canvas and music, trying to obliterate the images I have of him, but it's hard. With him behind me, in his apartment and listening to his music, I can't manufacture anything else on my mind but him. "I can't." I whisper, my voice barely audible.

"Try again." He simply says, as if he's heard that complaint millions of times before. Maybe from himself.

"Can't I just do one of the things I've painted before?" I ask.

"Not yet. I want something innovative. No matter what you paint, I won't judge you."

Surprisingly, his words reassure me. I don't know how much it takes me to expel him from my mind. I do come up with something. It's a bit lousy but it will do. "Alright. Let's do this."

He doesn't ask me what I'm going to draw. Instead, he pulls the table closer. "Have you painted on canvas before?" He asks.

"Yes. I use my sketchbook more though. It's easy to carry. " I answer, and I have, but not as big as this one. I'm not going to tell him that though. I don't want him to make any sardonic comments.

"What about oil colors? Have you used them before?"

"Yes, I have." I say, getting frustrated. I'm not ignorant and I know damn well how to use colors.

He doesn't notice my lash, or maybe he refuses to acknowledge it. "Go ahead then." He says, crossing his arms and leaning against a nearby wall where he has a full view of the stand and me. "What are you waiting for?" He asks when I don't move a muscle.

"How am I going to do anything with you watching every move I make?" I question, placing my coke on the table.

He sighs, striding to stand before the stand, facing me.

"That is not helping either." I cross my arms, amused.

He huffs in vexation, advancing toward the door. He stops just before he exits, turning to face me. "Next time I'll stay and watch." He warns, before he swerves and walks out, closing the door behind him.

It takes me minutes to blend in the atmosphere once more. Piano tracks keep playing and I finally begin, my hand shaking. I layer a coat of Alice blue. I use a flat brush for that, covering the whole canvas with the subdued color. I take deep breaths, trying to still my wobbling hand. After a short while it does, and I start to use navy blue for the main sketch. With the soothing piano sounds, I find myself getting into it, the place becoming more familiar that for once I don't feel out-of-place. I don't know how much time I consume before I finalize the painting, feeling rather fatigued with an aching back.

I stare at the painting, feeling satisfied with it. It's been a long time since I've drawn a normal character or object. Just before I move to stand, planning to fetch Dylan, I hear the door slowly opening. He waltzes in. his eyes shooting straight to the painting, as if it's all he's been thinking about. He comes to stand beside me, frowning as he dissects the canvas in front of us.

"A bird?" He muses, his eyes never leaving it.

"It's a Great Egret." My voice comes out somewhat defensive.

He looks at me, raising an eyebrow. "And what is a Great Egret?"

I furrow my eyebrows. "A bird?"

He rolls his eyes, snorting, before he turns serious all of a sudden, crossing his arms. "Why only in blue?" He catechises, looking straight into my eyes.

"Why are you so persistent?" I ask, crossing my arms too.

"I'm just curious." He shrugs, before he reaches for a round brush, coating it with white paint. He advances toward the painting but I hastily step in front of him.

"What the hell are you doing?" I ask.

He raises his eyebrows. "I'll just add a little detail. The thing looks like a chicken with a stick shoved up its mouth."

I gasp. "How dare you? You said you won't judge. Besides, it doesn't look like a chicken. It's a Great Egret and I'm sure its stick is more beneficent than yours."

Did I just say that?

I mentally slap myself. Damn me and my unfiltered mouth.

He pauses, staring at me in astonishment for a few seconds, before he bursts into helpless fits of laughter, and I find myself gawking at his flawless face, restraining myself from laughing with him. "Don't worry. Its stick is nowhere as beneficent as mine." He smirks, reaching out again with his brush toward the canvas, but I move fast before it makes impact, and the brush catches my neck and shirt in a zigzagging line.

"Oops." He mutters.

I look at him, only to find him pressing his lips together, trying not to laugh. Does he know that he's doing a shitty job? I grab the nearest brush, which happens to be coated with powder blue, and aim at his face. Here asshole, let me highlight your cheekbones.

He quickly ducks, catching my wrist in his big hand. He tugs on the brush multiple times until my hand gives way. I reach for another one, but he facilely wraps an arm around my waist and I feel my feet leaving the ground. "Hey! Put me down. Right. Freaking. Now."

He doesn't respond, walking out of the room as he effortlessly carries me with one arm. I don't think I'll ever have weight insecurities again. He lowers me in front of another door. "Wait here. Unless you want to see my bedroom." He raises an eyebrow in suggestion, and I flip him off.

He rolls his eyes, disappearing into his bedroom. Truth is that I don't mind seeing his bedroom, but I'm not really eager.

A minute or so later, he emerges with an oversized white shirt in his hand, handing it to me. "Just in case your shirt is ruined." He offers, beckoning to the door I'm leaning against. "This is the restroom. Good luck."

............

I stare at my reflection in the strange mirror, and I discover that the paint looks worse that I expected. I clean it with toilet paper first, and thankfully the paint is still fresh so most of it comes out. The soap finishes the job, but my wet shirt becomes a mess. I slide it off, and shove my arms into his instead. It's too big, but I roll the sleeves up, and tuck it into my jeans. I take a final look at the bathroom, noting peach flavored toothpaste. I snort. Who brushes their teeth with peach-flavored toothpaste?

After I'm finished, I leave the bathroom, ready to castigate him for ruining my shirt, but then stop when I find out that he's not alone.

Seated on the couch with a leg crossed over the other, is Claire. She catches me the moment I storm out of the hallway, her eyes widening. She looks between me and Dylan, before her eyes settle on Dylan. "What the fuck is she doing here?"

*Holy Molly! Do you think Claire will give up? Gimme your opinions on this one;)

Your comments seriously make my day. Thank y'all x.

Raghda.*