Page 7 of Unyielding
‘I should get back out onto the floor,’ I stammered, picking up my purple lace and fleeing without even putting them back on.
‘Scared? I didn’t peg you for the type,’ she called after me. But she was dead wrong; I wasn’t scared. I knew what it was to feel real terror, and this was a touch of embarrassment and nervousness at best. There was only one man I feared, and it’s why I had taken a job under Zane and the De Luca family. I had heard the rumours of how he had created this safe haven, how he protected his girls and how he was the only man in the country who instilled blood curdling fear in everyone he came across. No one dared to cross him or the people who worked for him unless they were asking to die.
No, what I felt now was disappointment in myself for wanting something, or someone. Least of all, someone I barely knew. I just couldn’t. My feelings had fooled me before, and they had nearly broken me in the most literal sense of the word.
5
VALENTINA
Sunshine using my leg to get off was by far the hottest fucking thing I had ever experienced. I spent three days thinking about it. Zane had refused to give me her contact information, which I respected, but I was begrudgingly annoyed about it. Apparently, she only worked weekends; I found that out from one of the bartenders that night after she had run off like a deer in headlights.
Today, however, was a day filled with distractions. I wouldn’t have the time to even spare a thought for the endearing minx who made me feel things I hadn’t felt with anyone before, man or woman.
It took a long six months to settle the paperwork for this space, but thanks to my dear brother Xavier and the weight our family name holds, I finally landed the gallery of my dreams. It lay in the centre of the art precinct. As a child I had snuck in here to stare at all of the incredible works of art and dreamed of the day I would hold my own show featuring my own pieces. Now the day was here.
It smelled of fresh paint, and I could taste the bitterness of newly polished concrete in the air. The last month hadbeen a whirlwind of renovations. It felt expansive yet warm in this space, with mood lighting cast in every direction from the hundreds of lights lining the industrial ceiling. Right now, it was empty, but I planned to fill it soon enough with parts of my soul.
My heels echoed in the space as I walked to the side and down a hidden hallway. My legs burned from walking the two flights of stairs to get to my studio above the gallery. This room was equally large, but where the ground level was barren, this was overwhelming chaos.
I had multiple shelves, tables, and boxes overflowing with supplies. Streaks of sunlight warmed me to my bones as I walked by the windows that lined each wall, checking on the progress of all my work. The smell of oil paintings made me feel at home; the rough, jagged edges of my sculptures under my fingers called for the work that still needed to be done, and the smooth surfaces of my ceramics had me eager to glaze them.
Many artists seemed to only dabble in one medium of art, but I had a short attention span, and everything fascinated me. It helped to oscillate between my pieces when I got stuck and that’s exactly where I found myself now. Stuck.
Years I had spent dreaming of this gallery and my first show, and as I looked at all my work before me, none of it felt right. There was a disconnect between the girl who had started these pieces and the woman I had become. There was no clear theme or message. It was a collection of my trials and errors in trying new things, flexing my skills without any cohesion. This was not an exhibit; it was a mess.
I wasn’t allowed to go home until I figured out what my show would be about. This self-imposed sanction wasthe only way I could move forward with this dream of mine. I was paralysed with indecision and imposter syndrome, and I had been for some time now. Ever since I signed that contract, my drive to create had vanished along with the eleven million in my bank account that I paid for this space.
The only way for me to move past a creative block was to sit down and force myself to paint. I let my emotions, the colours and brushstrokes, pull out what it needed from me, without thought or worry. I painted just to paint.
Three hours had passed, and as I stepped away from the canvas to take in my work, I instantly realised what was staring back at me—or rather,who.
It was my little ray of sunshine. Unknowingly, my mind had drifted to thoughts of her; my brush followed every plane of her body that my fingers had touched. Not thinking too much of it, I went to look for the perfect red that matched the lingerie she had worn that first night I saw her. After forty-five minutes of emptying every drawer, box, and shelf of my paints, I was at a loss. Luckily, there was an art supply store at the end of the street that I had yet to check out.
The art store was almost cozy with its wooden floors and shelves. It was rich with supplies but I quickly noticed they only had the most high-quality brands in stock. This was an art store for true artists. Not those that crafted things on the weekend as a hobby. Walking through the first room that contained different types of paper, pastels and pencils, I moved towards the back room where the shelves were filled with brushes and paints. I stared at the options, almost at a loss; the decision of what shade of red to choose seemed to paralyse me. It had to be perfect. She was perfect.
Lost in my thoughts, I didn’t notice the sales assistantwalking up behind me. She asked me something, but my mind was singularly focused. Something light tapped my shoulder, pulling me from my reverie.
‘Excuse me, is there something I can help you with?’ a voice asked as she picked up the red paint I had been staring at, passing it to me.
‘Sunshine,’ I breathed. Her spine went rigid as her eyes snapped to mine, finally realising who I was. She looked different when clothed. Her hair was braided now, unlike her bouncy coils from last time. Her makeup was simpler, and her eyes were hidden behind her thick framed reading glasses. I wanted to pull them off and see those eyes without any barriers. It took her a moment to compose herself and push all the shock from her features. She tucked a stray hair behind her ear that didn’t exist as she drew her shoulders back.
‘Y-you’re painting a sunset scape then? This red would be perfect. Would you like me to ring you up?’ she stuttered, fumbling over her words, trying to brush past this moment.
Zeroing in, her name tag screamed at me. ‘Namazzi.’ It rolled off my tongue beautifully. Her body shivered at my use of her name. Without waiting, she took the red paint and strode towards the register.
‘You’re an artist?’ She didn’t meet my eyes as she spoke, a tinge of a blush shading her cheeks.
‘Trying to be.’ That got a reaction; her eyes snapped up to meet mine, looking at me curiously. I wanted to ask; I knew who she was, and I could tell she recognised me, but this was her job. I couldn’t; I could. I shouldn’t; I should. Losing my internal battle, the next words left my lips without restraint.
‘Sunshine, are you working tonight?’ Her eyes widened before she cast them down and shook her head in shame.The feel of her skin as I lifted her chin and her mind from her shame sent fire through my veins.
‘What time do you get off?’ I asked, still holding her face as my fingers slid to her cheek, my thumb caressing her jaw. She sucked in a breath and bit down hard on her bottom lip. She was waging her own internal war, but I wouldn’t let her hurt herself. My thumb brushed over her bottom lip pulling it slightly, telling her to release it. I dragged it over the indentations her teeth made, soothing the pain, and I repeated the question.
‘At six,’ she said softly, barely above a whisper, entranced by the strokes of my thumb.
‘I’ll be waiting outside at six,’ I said, tapping my card as I drew my hand back and walked away with my paint in hand. If I had stayed there for one moment longer, I would have lost myself.
I couldn’t believe she worked here, so close to my studio and gallery. This was divine intervention, if I had ever seen it. Z had all her records and would have known she worked near me, but he didn’t even hint that I should buy new supplies. Irritation flared, though I understood why he had done it. He protected them—all of them.
