Page 35 of His to Haunt
Kimmie and I sit down, quietly analyzing the space, waiting for his cue.
The lights are dim, with candles burning along a shelf near potted plants. It smells woodsy and chemical at once. The windows are wide open, cool night air breezing in, and there is fresh wet paint splattered upon the large canvas before the velvet sofa. This portrait does not depict an outdoor scene as theothers we spied, but an interior room—red and black damask walls with a black velvet sofa, a replica of the gold one, save for the color.
Just add model.
Kimmie pours wine into two glasses.
“Would you like a glass, Zand?” she says.
He glances over. “Not now.”
Kimmie is the only one drinking. I’ve had enough alcohol for one night.
“I’d rather keep my clothes on,” I say to Zand, who frowns.
“I want you in your bra, initially. Is it lace?”
My cheeks flush hot as I imagine what I’ve put on under my LBD tonight. I want to tell him it is none of his business.
“Y-yes,” I stutter.
“Color?”
“Black.” The flush in my cheeks deepens.
“That’s fine,” he says, focusing on the easel.
“But I’m wearing a dress,” I say.
His eyebrows pinch, and he glances up at me.
“Pull it down to your waist or take it off,” he says simply.
I look over at Kimmie, knocking down her glass.
“That was good shit,” she slurs with heavy eyelids, settling back into the plush leather sofa. The flickering candlelight is like a lullaby after such a crazy night, and the sofa is too comfy. She isn’t going to last long. But I don’t have the luxury of passing out yet. I have work to do.
Posing for art may be nothing new, but it’s new to me, and the last couple of days have been rough. Mr. Painter Byron the Third is one of the reasons. But now I must strip, knowing that my very own neighbor will never look at me the same again. At the very least, he will have a permanent record of my bra and breasts.
Is there no way out of this?
I could stand and leave. But I don’t. Because Zand Byron has the upper hand, for now. I want that key. I want what he has and won’t get it unless he gets what he wants from me.
“Go ahead, Leena,” he says, motioning me to the sofa with his hand amidst a gently snoring Kimmie.
“Where is your bathroom?”
He nods in the direction of his bedroom zone. “Through the curtain.”
I pass through the kitchen, past the black dividing curtain and his large bed that smells like him. Masculine. Alarming. Strange. I pass the nightstand, finding a narrow door that leads into a small bathroom with a shower.
Closing the door, I look in the mirror, smoothing my auburn hair, then pulling the pink-tinted lip gloss from my purse and dabbing it on my lips. Did Rachel stand in this very spot looking into the mirror before posing for him for the paintings of her? Zand, her unhealthy obsession. Was he obsessed with her, too? Or was it one-sided?
Did she sleep with her cousin in his large bed?
Never would I have imagined how darkly bizarre living inside Rachel Byron’s former life would be.
Deciding that I’d rather pull the straps down after getting into position on the sofa rather than walking out there half-dressed, I leave the bathroom, noticing a white box on the dresser labeled blood kit. Hm. Wonder what that’s for?