Chapter 27

Chapter 27

Imogen

Busy. I needed to keep busy. Sure I could've hung out in the room I was given and had a sook about what happened, but where would that get me? It wouldn't have Phil putting my door back on its hinges, all my stuff un-pissed on. Instead, we walked down the headquarter's hallway, Kyle giving me suggestions about what to add to the shopping list.

"Could we do a roast?" he asked and then groaned at his own suggestion. "God, a lamb roast, not overcooked, and with rosemary."

"And lemon," I added. "Thyme also works really well with lamb, but roast's are a prime cut of meat. That'd be expensive to do for…" I turned to look at him. "How many people do you have staying here?"

This was important information, something I'd need when we put the grocery order in, but right now Kyle didn't have my attention. An open door lured me forward. The room was both completely empty and yet full at the same time.

Full of kids' art.

There were paintings and drawings hanging in frames throughout the entire building, but this room positively exploded with it. Large pin-up boards had been installed on the walls and there were artworks pinned to every spot. More still were neatly stacked on a drying rack. Rows of paint bottles were lined up on the bench by the sink, brushes placed in jars along the wall. Charcoal, pencils, scissors, paper, and a massive box of coloured pastels drew me forward.

There was nothing like going to an art supplies shop. The rows upon rows of rainbow colours, the textures, the different products, each one was all potential. You could use the materials to make anything, and that's what had me stepping inside the room.

In my head I saw it, my hand moving swiftly across paper with just a little tooth to it, the texture grabbing at the pastels as I sketched out a rough shape. Sharply pointed pencils that drew precise lines, then were used to shade in areas, the strokes overlapping to create the illusion of three dimensionality. Soft, liquid ink that dripped on the page or was swished around in fluid strokes. A metal pen could be loaded up with the black liquid, used to apply the ink in precise cross hatches.

"You can go inside if you like." Kyle's warm voice and smile broke the spell I was in, making me realise I'd just been standing in the doorway staring like an idiot. I went to step back, but he was there, stopping me. "This was supposed to be an art therapy room. We had a therapist that specialised in it for a while, but she moved on. We keep it stocked. A lot of the kids like to come in here, their mums bringing them in to do some art." He shook his head slowly. "There's a lot of killing time when people first come here, and while we've got a games room and play equipment, some kids…"

Were drawn to the paper and the paint, the mess of creativity. I knew exactly what had them stepping closer, because it was what flared up in my chest, burning hot right now. Most kids loved making art and some of us, we never grow out of it.

I needed to get out of here. Seeing what Phil did to my apartment, it damn near broke me, but I was rallying, coming back stronger, so why did a room full of art supplies threaten to break me all over again? Because this room was all too familiar.

The art teachers at my school knew that with each year there were a cluster of misfits who tolerated every other subject, only coming alive when they were in the art room. We were allowed in during recess and lunch, a teacher sitting in the classroom and working on their marking as we had half an hour of pure, unfettered creativity. Each time the school bell rang I was yanked out of it, what I was working on, but more than that, out of a magical place that just made sense to me. My hand knew how to move to draw the shapes my heart dictated, my fingers clasping the pencil tight. My injured ones ached right now, ready to wrap around a pencil, a paintbrush, even delve into some clay.

But I couldn't.

What would I draw? My subconscious had been scoured clean of inspiration after years of not doing anything creative. Mike had taken that from me. He'd come to the art room to find me because I was his girlfriend. A possession that needed to be reclaimed, he'd sneer at the teacher on charge, then nag me until I put the pencil down. Walk away from the only part of myself that made sense to me, to what? Go and hang out with his friends on the far edge of the oval, listen to them talk shit, watch them smoke cigarette after cigarette, my happiness wafting away just like the bluish plumes of smoke.

Keep busy, my mind prompted, knowing somehow that I needed to keep moving, just like a shark. If I didn't, well, there were bigger things, far more scary things in the ocean and they'd catch up to me if I didn't keep swimming.

"If we're going to get burgers on for dinner, we better get a wriggle on," I told Kyle, but before he could answer, other people came rushing into the room.

One in particular.

I knew Scott. He was Mary and Phil's son, but the last time I saw him, he hadn't looked like this. With a shock of brown hair and eyes that sparkled, he was cute as hell, some part of me wanting to count every single freckle on his nose.

"Mum!" he shouted, looking back over his shoulder, but it was when he turned back that I gasped. One eye was bright, raking across the room, looking for the paper he was working on last time he was in here, but the other? A sick-coloured purple bruise forced the lids to swell almost shut, and that's when I sucked in a breath, unable to let it out.

"OK, Scott, OK." Mary hoisted her toddler up on her hip and then walked in after her son. "Oh, other people…" She was going to say that he needed to share the space with us, somehow I knew, but when her eyes locked with mine, they widened. "Imogen?"

"Mary?"

We both took tentative steps towards the other, much like wary animals might. Not because we were a threat to each other, but… We were cataloguing the other's wounds. She took in my arm in my sling, while I took in… A very familiar ring of bruises. Phil had used his hand to wrench me forward, and right then I thanked any god that was listening that the guys arrived when they did, because I saw then what he would've done next. She wore her own grotesque necklace of bruises, the imprint of each finger clear against her pale skin.

"What are you doing here?" She flushed when she realised how sharp her tone was. "Mike didn't…" Her brows creased and her lip trembled right before she thinned them down to a line. "He didn't…"

"He didn't," I confirmed and when Kyle got closer, I knew she didn't want to hear the truth. "Phil…"

I didn't need to finish the sentence because just saying her husband's name was like a slap to the face. Her cheeks went bright red, then deathly pale in seconds. A hand fluttered like a falling leaf to come to rest on her chest, right as she sucked in a breath, then another. The toddler, Charlie, I remembered that belatedly, seemed to sense his mother's mood, and his face screwed up as he began to cry. That snapped her out of whatever that was, her arms going around him as she held him close, soothing him in a series of nonsense words until the child settled again, but her eyes remained on mine.

"I'm sorry…" I wanted to stop her, to protest that she had nothing to apologise for, but she kept on saying those two words like a litany. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry, Imogen."

"Don't be."

I didn't know Mary especially well. We went to some of the same parties our guys went to, but partners rarely attended. The men seemed to crave male attention the most, forgetting their girlfriends or wives the minute they arrived. That lack of interest meant we often didn't even bother to go, but she and I knew each other's names, knew enough about the other's lives to have an insight into the pain each one of us had experienced. Mine was far less than anything she'd experienced, and I needed to tell her that.

"I'm fine." I lifted the sling and regretted it as I felt a sharp stab of pain, but I didn't let that show. "Just a bit sore."

"How did…?" She sucked in a breath then let it out slowly, Charlie wiggling until he was allowed down to go running off after his brother. "What did he do?"

"Nothing." That replay came automatically. Denial, pretend like everything was fine, that was the only way I'd gotten through the last few years, but right now that wouldn't work. "I mean something happened, obviously, but?—"

"Imo?"

A boyish voice had me turning around, and I didn't like what I saw. A need to come running over, because I'd spent time keeping Scott amused when he was bored at parties. Mike thought it ridiculous that I'd pretend to be a lion, tiger, or bear to keep the kids laughing, but he didn't want to know what I thought about him and his fucking mates. Alongside that, though, was something I'd never seen in Scott, a wariness that hurt my soul. He eyed me, Kyle, and his mother before following his first impulse and running towards me.

"You're hurt?" His eyes seemed just as sharp as his mother's, taking in the sling, but his reaction was quite different. Like a young wolf finding his fangs, his brows jerked down. "Who hurt you?" He looked behind me to where Kyle stood. "Did you?" He was only ten, but his chest puffed out, his hands balling into fists, making me think I knew how he'd ended up bruised and battered. "Did you hurt, Imo?"

The boy grew by the second as he marched forward, but I stopped him.

"No one hurt me, Scott." Lies, always lies, that's what Mike and his mates had me doing, but I couldn't regret that in this instance. "Well, I did. I tripped over a pair of my shoes I left out on the floor and sprained my wrist."

"Oh." Scott seemed to deflate by the second, looking me over for signs that this was the truth, then shooting Kyle a quick apologetic look. "Mum's always telling me that will happen when I leave my sneakers out."

"Now you know why they need to be put away," Mary said, using her best motherly voice, only a tiny waver making clear that it was all an act.

"Scott." Another voice had us turning around to find Elodie standing there in the doorway. She smiled at the attention. "I thought I might find you here. What're you working on today?"

The tension seemed to leach out of the room then, the boy distracted by the prospect of an audience. He dragged out his painting, laying it on the desk before stepping in to remove the paintbrush his little brother was about to shove in his mouth. At the sound of their chatter, I pulled back.

"Better get going," I told Mary, unable to handle her haunted gaze a moment longer. That made me feel bad, but I couldn't seem to stop it. "Looks like we're making burgers tonight."

I didn't wait to hear what she had to say about that, stepping out of the room and striding down the hall.

"Imogen!" Kyle called, but I didn't stop. "Imogen."

He appeared in front of me, that huge body shutting out the hallway, reducing my focus down to him and only him. Those massive hands of his landed on my shoulders, the warmth of his touch bleeding through the thin cotton of my borrowed clothes. I wanted to shove him away, make a break for it, run and keep on running until I couldn't see Scott or Mary, or even Phil, in my mind's eye. But also I wanted…

My eyes ran over him, inspecting Kyle like this was the first time I saw him. Those broad shoulders, the way his muscles popped in his forearms as he held me right where I was. That information came unbidden, but once I noticed it, I couldn't help but see it. Dream Asher was leaner than real Kyle, making me wonder how they were similar and how they were different. I could imagine comparing the two of them quietly, thoroughly, in a room lit only by the late afternoon sun coming in through the curtains. I shook my head as if to dislodge that train of thought.

It was like I was defrosting. Being with Mike had frozen me solid, because how else could I get through the feeling of slowly hating the man that was your partner in life, the hatred growing with each day? Kyle, he was like an open fire, flickering brightly in the darkness, luring me closer. But getting nearer meant that ice would thaw, dropping from my limbs and leaving the nerves raw and aching, throbbing with each pass of the wind, completely unprotected.

"Burgers," I said, my smile and the word a barrier I was erecting hastily between us. "You wanted burgers."

"Imogen…"

Kyle's sigh made clear he wanted to say more, but he didn't, and I was thankful for that. I marched forward because that's all I could do. Keep on moving, keep busy and maybe, just maybe, with each step away from my past, I'd heal, emerge whole again and be able to stand by the fire with impunity.