30. All I Need

CHAPTER 30

ALL I NEED

? AWOLNATION

I stand outside the door for a while, her hand in mine. I'm not back to my level of normal yet, but I'm getting there. Between ghosting her, the pills, the depression cocoon in the bed, and everything else, I expected her to run away. No one should want to stay with someone as broken as me, but her strength and resilience push me forward. She keeps asking if I want to stop or if this is too much. I can't remember the walk out here, but I'm standing in front of the garage studio door.

"Why haven't you opened it since that night?"

"I'm too scared. Too afraid that if I do, maybe I'd let out whatever was left of him. I'd be accepting he was really gone. If I kept this door shut, I wouldn't have to let him go."

"Is that why the room upstairs is shut, too? Was that his room?"

I nod as my hand slides down the weathered door, tracing the cracks and imperfections like I'm reacquainting myself to a long-lost lover. My real sanctuary—the place where I could flourish and create in peace. I turn to glance back at the house and I can see Chase and Natalie standing by a window, watching.

"I tried to clean out his room after the funeral," I reply as the texture of the door brings back memories. "I got through his closet and put the things downstairs so I could work on getting a collection put together to donate. It's what he wanted. He always said when he died, I shouldn't keep anything but the art that I wanted."

I take a deep breath and slip the key into the lock, half wondering if it will even open and only a little disappointed at the telltale click as the key turns.

"When I went back upstairs and saw the empty closet, I lost it. I didn't leave the room for three days. Natalie came to check on me and found me. She said I had passed out at the foot of the bed; she was sure I was dead. I spent two days in the hospital."

"You have a support system, now we just have to learn how to use them."

" We ?" I whisper, the hint of a smile pulling at my mouth as she nods. She squeezes my hand as I put the key back in my pocket.

"I was like that too, kind of." She shares. "When my dad died, I wanted to keep everything. I would sneak into their room when my mom wasn't around and take his shirts and hats, anything I could get away with and shove them into my backpack. I kept it hidden in the back of my closet. I didn't want her to throw him away. That's what it felt like when she donated his stuff after the funeral."

She doesn't need to be here, doesn't need to go through this with me. She should be at home or out with friends, out living her life. Yet here she is, clutching my hand and ready to walk right into the room that holds my grief. Ready to take it on with me. One step at a time.

"Lexi…"

"Come on, don't back out on me now, pretty boy. We can do this. If you want to take a break, we can. But we have to do this someday, so why not today?"

We . She really means it.

Behind the door, time stands still in the room. A cup with brushes sit on the bench he worked at, waiting for his return. Tubes of paint lay beside it at the ready. His palette is on the floor, probably knocked there by a rodent of some sort.

"Oh my god," Lexi whispers next to me, staring at the painting on my dad's easle. "Who is she?"

"His sister. That's the last thing he ever worked on, didn't even get to finish it. She passed when I was a kid."

"She's beautiful. The way he painted her eyes is just…it's incredible. So lifelike."

I walk into the room to my station, and that's when I remember why dad's palette is on the floor. Cans and brushes litter the area, violently scattered around the room. Splatters of paint go up the wall, some even reaching the roof. The piece I was working on that night lays shredded on the ground, the frame broken like a toothpick. The rage and grief come rushing back to me, crashing against me like waves in a hurricane. I can't hear anything but the blood pumping through my body while my heart races and I fall to my knees.

Dad.

"I forgot. I forgot I came back. I—" My lungs are tight and I can taste the paint in the air. I'm hyperventilating and I need to get out of here. I shouldn't be here. Then I see her. She steps in front of me and her hands cup my face, thumbs softly stroking my grown out beard.

"Look at me, not everything else. Focus on me. Tell me what you were making that night." I stare at her, unable to answer. "It grounds you when you talk about it—about the art and the process—so tell me about it."

"It was…it was a painting. It was supposed to be for him, a gift. I'd been working on it and kept it covered. He used to tease me that he was going to peek when I walked out of the room, but he never did. He never got to see it."

"Did you get to finish it?"

"I finished it that night." I pick up a jagged and splintered piece of wood, running my fingertip over the end as the memories come back in another powerful wave. "We kept wood pieces in a bucket across the room. I'd picked out some that were still in good shape and wanted to make a frame. I'd been working for fourteen hours straight. I was so tired, I passed out on the couch."

Lexi helps me stand and I toss the wood onto the pile of rubble that sits on top of my bench. I used to keep it so clean, like dad taught me. I blow out a breath and start straightening up the things on the bench. Her hand closes over mine as she picks up the brushes and places them in a nearby cup that—miraculously—hasn't broken.

"I had trouble when I was a kid, with a lot of things. When I stopped talking, my…my moth…" I take a deep breath, counting slowly down from ten and breathing with her. "My mother wanted to ship me off to some specialist. The night before I was supposed to go, dad found me in his art room, painting. That was the night he packed my things, and we left."

"He just took you?"

"The paintings he found, the ones I'd done that night, were of my mother. They were of some of the things she did to me. It was my last silent scream for help. She, uhm, she didn't want a little boy, and she made sure I knew it. She hit me with things, anything she could find. She would…do things to humiliate me in public. Traumatize the shit out of me. When she got pregnant with Elle, things got worse. Mom had a brother, sick fucker, and she let him—" The brush in my hand snaps and I drop it, jumping from the noise.

"You're safe. I'm here. You only need to talk about what you can. Don't force yourself, Jamie."

"She got pregnant right before their divorce and she did it on purpose, to trap my dad. She had all the papers drawn up and was just waiting to spring on him as soon as she knew the baby was healthy. It was all about her fucking company. I still don't understand it, something about shares that would go to her heirs or something."

There's a sniffle from somewhere behind me and realize Chase and Natalie are there. Not to judge me or force me to move on, but to show their support and be there if I need them. Lexi is right. They're my support system and it's a damn good one.

"Dad realized she was the reason I stopped talking. He found the bruises and scars just after we left. I think I was six, and no one knew because Mom was good at hiding them or blaming me for them. She was trying to use me to get leverage in the divorce. Courts tend to side with the mothers and she could lay it on thick, but around that time, the cops found out about her brother. Dad finally had the upper hand, even though he hated why. He could have taken the money and had power over the company. Instead, he made a stupid agreement with her that basically gave her everything she wanted so long as he got to keep custody of me. He tried for Elle, too. He tried so many times to get Elle. Especially after he found out mom had shipped her off to some fucking boarding school in the middle of nowhere…Switzerland, I think. I don't know."

"You're doing great, Jamie. Take your time."

"After Dad and I moved, he found me a doctor who worked with me while Dad started studying more about art therapy. Eventually, they taught me how to paint my feelings." Muscle memory has taken over as my hands move around the table, putting things where they once belonged, orderly and neat. "My father was also the one that taught me art was messy, like life. He saw how calming it was when I'd start putting everything away. I was methodical about it, like it was soothing. Everything had a place, everything but me."

She doesn't ask me directly, but I can sense the question when her hand runs along my side, over the scars. I nod and she gives me a tender smile that says I've said enough for now. I don't have to tell her which household items became weapons in my own mother's hands or the words she wielded just as sharply. I've opened the door; it doesn't mean everything needs to rush out at once.

Tears run down my cheeks, but I turn to her anyway, cupping her face for just a moment before I pull her close and sob into her shoulder. It doesn't hurt the way I thought it would. I know it's because of her and the way she helped me through this. She's given me a safe space, somewhere I'm allowed to feel what I need to. She's my safe space.

I pull back and look at her, and that's when it hits me. In a frenzy, I rush around the room, looking under everything until I spot the pile of canvases, already mounted and ready to go. I find one that's undamaged, then I scrounge through drawers and boxes until I find a full set of charcoals my dad gave me. I drop to my knees with the canvas and rip open the pack, mumbling to myself.

"James?"

"The eyes."

"What?"

"EYES! You said her eyes, the way Dad did her eyes. I fucked up the eyes. Every time I draw you, it's the eyes I get wrong. It's too much light!"

She kneels next to me, her hand on my back as my hands race over the fabric. I hear her breath stop as she watches me work. As she watches herself appearing on the canvas.

"I couldn't see it before. I couldn't get it right."

"See what?"

"The darkness."

"They'll be shrouded in the night sky that matches the shadows of my soul." Natalie's voice whispers the words with me from the doorway. "They'll be the reminder that the brilliance of stars can only be seen in darkness."

"Martin Luther King, Jr?" Chase whispers.

"Inspired by, yeah." Nat replies. "Jamie's take on the words."

I wrote them not long after my divorce. Natalie had been texting me almost daily at that point, trying to encourage me to date again, but I said I hadn't found the right person. That was my answer when she asked me to describe the right person. I'm a little dramatic when I'm depressed, but I was right. Lexi knows the dark, but she doesn't hide from it. She embraces it as her own and that's why she could always see my darkness. It's why I was so drawn to her from the start.

I grab Lexi's face and pull her to me, our mouths crashing together like freight trains that have run off course. I want her. I need her. Not just now, always. She breaks the kiss and leans back. Her face is a mess with streaks of charcoal from my fingers and somehow, it's made her more captivating.

"You're not a single light in the darkness. Your my gothic muse. You are the darkness that makes the light more brilliant." I trace her bottom lip with my thumb. "I'm not afraid anymore. I'm not afraid of love or life so long as it's with you. All I want is to drown in you. You're my ocean. My air. My home."

Lexi stares at me and I worry I've gone too far, said too much. Then she grabs my face and kisses me back, matching my ferocity.

"Ooh, I know where this is going. Come on, Coop," Natalie says softly as she shuts the door behind her.

We're all over each other in an instant, pulling and tugging at clothes—so many clothes. Our mouths can't seem to leave each other as the kiss intensifies and deepens. We're drinking from the last fountain on earth while the world burns into oblivion around us.

"James?" Her voice is airy and beautiful.

I pull back, holding her face again. I can see her worry, her fears. I can read it all now, like a book written only for me to decipher.

"I will never leave you. I will never let you go. I will never hurt you. I'll stand next to you forever." I run my nose up hers and close my eyes. I want to feel this moment. "I want your tomorrow, your yesterdays, your nows…I want you always."

"I want you, too."

I smile against her lips and kiss her again while she grabs my face and leans backward, pulling me down to the floor with her. I trace kisses along her jaw and to her ear while I settle on top of her.

"Open your legs for me, Angel."

She's so wet that I slide into her with one deep thrust, and we moan together. I lock eyes on hers as the soft squeak slips through her perfect lips. Already she's blissed out and we both know this is not a marathon session. I'm still as we look at each other, feeling each other for the first time. Her body tightens around my cock and I let loose a high-pitched whimper. I don't think I've ever made that noise before. This woman is a sledgehammer, breaking down long-standing barriers and dragging me to her heart. She's my escape from the prison I've built myself. She's my freedom. She's the one who will slay my monsters over and over, and all I want is to worship her for eternity.

Her fingers curl in my hair and her legs wrap around me, pulling me deeper. She sounds primal and exotic as I pull all the way out and thrust slowly back into her, releasing her own demons that have held her captive. I watch her find her strength and her power as she takes all of me.

"Say that you're mine," I whisper in a shaky breath."Say it, Alexis. Tell me you want me."

"For as long as you're mine to have, James. Yes."

"Always. I'm yours forever."

Heat builds rapidly inside me and we're dancing on the edges of bliss. Her back arches as my hips take over on their own. Our voices echo nothing but our names, clashing and tumbling together. My head falls to her shoulder as we gulp the dusty studio air, and she holds me there, whispering promises until we both fall asleep.

* * *

Waking up, I feel her fingers tracing over my scars. In my dreamy haze, I can see night outside the window, stars if I squint hard enough. I kiss her forehead and smile before I get up and head across the room to my dad's bench. Clearing the clutter, I open an old record player to find Rumors still sitting there waiting to be played again. My dad was in love with Stevie Nicks and even said she was his muse. As "Dreams" fills the air, I grab a couple of blankets from a trunk and walk back to the woman who forever holds my heart. Unlike dad, I have my muse here in more than just music.

"Fuck, you're beautiful."

She looks at herself and laughs. "I'm naked on a dirty garage floor and covered in art supplies."

"Exactly. You have no idea how badly I want to run into the house and get one of my cameras." I hold out my hand and help her stand, pulling her into my arms where I want her to stay forever.

Her fingers dance over my face and I can see the tears she's trying to fight. "James? Is this…is this what happiness feels like?"

"I sure hope so, Angel. I don't think I could take anymore without dropping dead right here." Her eyes glisten, and mine do, too. "I love you and I can't get enough of you."

"Not to ruin your perfectly romantic moment there, but yeah, I can tell." She glances down and then winks at me.

I wrap a blanket around her and I'm about to lead her over to a couch toward the back when she stops me and pulls me back. Dropping the blanket, she wraps her arms around my neck. "Dance with me?"

"How could I ever say no to you? You saved me, Lex."

"It's not over."

"It never will be, but at least I'm not alone in the dark anymore."

We dance for an eternity, with me running over and changing the records when they'd end. Every time I run back to her, she's full of giggles and kisses and warmth. I'm in my studio and for the first time in my life, I know what it feels like to be genuinely happy. I've found the darkness where I belong, the shadows that will highlight the beauty around me and let me fall in love with it over and over. In love with her.

"I wish my dad was here to see this. Not the sex or us naked?—"

"I know what you mean. I do."

"Oh, wait!" I lift her bridal style and carry her over to the couch. I pull on my jeans and dig through a couple of boxes until I find what I'm looking for. "If we're celebrating in the studio, we have to do it right. Do you prefer scotch or whiskey? Or I can run into the house and find some wine—if Natalie hasn't drunk it all yet."

"Whiskey!"

"That's my girl." I curl up with her on the couch and we take turns drinking straight from the bottle, laughing and falling deeper in love into the early hours of the morning.