Blues

10. A Shade Of Blue.

"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.