He isn’t like the kids from high-school.

No, he was worse.

A thousand times worse.

Back then, the worst pain a student could carry was caused by a parents’ divorce or the death of a pet. I knew how to help with that. Knew how to be there for them until they were ready to talk and heal.

But Gil...

He harboured something monstrous.

Something that cannibalised him from the inside out. Something so black and vicious, it had twisted him into two versions of himself.

The Gil I knew was generous, protective, and kind.

The Gil I didn’t was violent, distraught, and full of malice.

He needs—

It doesn’t matter what he needs, I’m not allowed to go back.

I screamed into the cushion, pressing my mouth to the yellow fabric and exhaling my fear and frustration. I couldn’t just accept his command to forget about him. I’d never been able to walk away from something so inexplicably broken.

He was Gil! The boy who chose me above anyone.

I couldn’t just—

You don’t have a choice.

Memories of our kiss interrupted my internal argument. He’d kissed me as if he’d been drowning—as if I was untainted air, free from the filth around him. He’d claimed me as if he’d been dreaming of such a thing since he’d walked away from me.

A kiss like that couldn’t be given and then taken away.

A kiss like that demanded further investigation.

You. Are. Not. Allowed. Back. There. Remember?

Scowling, I plotted a way to disobey Gil and tried not to be carried away with daydreams of us.

You truly are a sucker for—

My stomach snarled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten my cucumber sandwiches and adrenaline from kissing Gil had burned through all my reserves.

My plan had been to buy groceries.

And that is what I shall do.

New task. New purpose. No more worrying about Gil. No more torturing myself if I should stay away or go back.

Hauling myself from the soft couch, I padded barefoot toward my bag where I’d thrown it onto the kitchen table. Rummaging inside, I pulled out the envelope of cash Gil had paid me and opened it for the first time.

My legs promptly deleted all bone and became useless.

I slammed onto a wooden chair, clacking my teeth at the force.

No.

This can’t be right.

Shaking hands pulled out a wad of fifty-pound notes. A pile far too thick to warrant the few hours I’d spent being his canvas.

One, two, three, four, five...fifteen hundred pounds.

Holy shit.

Was that the going rate for a model, or had he—?

He never wants to see you again. It’s bribery to make sure you stay away.

Don’t read into this!

Oh, who was I kidding?

My heart raced, tumbling down the rabbit hole of why he’d given me so much.

I hadn’t been able to earn this sort of cash in an entire month doing other jobs. It meant I had rent and utilities covered. I could eat semi-decent food. I could—

I can’t accept this.

My shoulders rolled, fisting the cash with possessiveness.

It might be the correct rate for all you know!

If it was...why didn’t it feel right? Why did it feel far too much for the tiny role I’d played?

If we’d discussed payment beforehand, and I knew this was what he paid others, then maybe. But now, it just felt dirty. Wrong. I didn’t know why, but it reeked of charity from a boy who couldn’t stand the sight of me.

And that made my hungry tummy knot because he’d cheapened me. He’d added yet another sensation of not being worthy. He’d bought my silence and my obedience to stay the hell away so he never had to set eyes on me again.

Tears prickled.

You’re making this stuff up. Don’t jump to conclusions.

It didn’t stop pain lancing through me, remembering our kiss. Reliving the way his tongue touched mine, his taste in my mouth, his groan in my ears.

How could he kiss me as if I was utterly priceless and then fob me off with heartless cash?

He paid you for being a canvas! He didn’t pay for the kiss, O.

How could I be so sure? How could I be sure he didn’t give me far too much to ease his guilt over destroying everything?

I might be making up tales. I might be totally blowing things out of proportion, but Gil was the only one who made me irrational.

All I wanted was him. Yet he’d pushed me away, his money a firm goodbye.

Well, I had a good mind to give it all away.

To prove a point that I might be destitute and made a total mess of my life, but I wasn’t a charity case and I couldn’t be bought by a man who’d gone out of his way to confuse, ridicule, and condemn me.

I wanted to march back there and throw the money in his face.

I wanted to kiss that face and—

You can go back.

I stroked a fifty-pound note, a plan rapidly unfolding.

This was my reason to return.

This was my excuse to knock on his door, stare him right in the eye, and demand to know what the hell was going on.

But what if he doesn’t ask me to leave next time?

What if he threw me out physically? What if he hurt me like he had when I’d pushed him too far at school?

Ripping my fingertips off the money, I couldn’t be alone with my chaotic thoughts anymore.

Kisses and curses, hopes and fears.

I was hungry.

I was angry.

Today had been a cocktail of past and present, sex and shame.

I needed wine.

* * * * *

Sipping on my second mug of cheap supermarket pinot, I winced as I logged onto the laptop that I’d hammered to death looking for work. Instead of going to familiar websites and trolling for employment, I clicked on the icon of my least favourite location.

Facebook.

Ever since my accident, I hardly went on there.

It was too painful.

I wasn’t mentally ready to look at the photos of my fellow dancers, see their scheduled performances, read posts of friends complaining about early morning practices and late-night curtain calls.

Eventually, I would be happy for them.

But right now...it was a pitchfork to the heart.

Tonight, I managed to ignore my newsfeed and the urge to click on my dance troupe’s page, and instead became a sleuth, stalking the Master of Trickery himself.

I sipped another mouthful as I typed in Gil’s name, bracing myself for the search results.

Nothing came up.

Other Gilbert Clarks appeared—one in Scotland and a few overseas—but none that sounded, looked, or came close to the one I knew.

Strange but not really.

Gil had never been one for company.

Topping up my mug, I tried another angle.

Gil might not use Facebook personally, but I had no doubt he’d use it for business.

Total Trickery.

The second I pressed enter, his page popped up, complete with fifty thousand likes, hundreds of comments on his photos, and an overall gush fest on his talent.

For a while, I lost myself in the haze of colour and creation, studying the girls he’d painted, the animals he’d brought to life on their bodies, the landscapes he’d painstakingly used to camouflage human flesh.

Not one image was subpar.

And not one image showed it was Gil painting.

In each one, he kept his back to the camera, his black hoodie obscuring his face and messy hair, turning him nameless—a god of pigment and nothing more.

There was no mention of his biography, where he learned to paint, or his accolades or aspirations. He was as incognito online as he was in his photos; no hint he was the virtuoso that conjured such beauty.

There was also no photo of me from today.

Why?

I clicked on the little message icon, tensing as the bubble popped up to send him a note.