Did he dream of me?

Was I the O he pleaded with or did he know another?

“Olive—” He thrashed as if fighting mercenaries of cruel illusions. “I’ll save you...I-I promise.”

Olive.

He’d never called me Olive in our youth. Oatmeal, Oreo, Oregano, yes. But never Olive.

His limbs seized with nightmare-induced energy, twisting the blankets tighter around his thighs. His hand thumped on the floor, indicating the thud I’d heard was just Gil struggling in his sleep.

I’d had my fair share of night terrors.

For months, I’d dreamed of tumbling through the restaurant window while glass sliced me to shreds. I’d woken up crying with imaginary blood on my fingers.

But those weren’t the worst ones.

The worst were the happy dreams where I flew into my dance partner’s arms—lithe and limber and forever graceful.

Gil’s lips pinched together as he grunted, sounding less coherent and sucked back into unconscious horrors.

I stood there a little longer—a watcher in the dark as he calmed and quietened. I didn’t move to wake him. I doubted he’d take kindly to my interruption, nor appreciate that I’d seen him at his most vulnerable.

I wanted to reassure him. I wanted to curl into his side and kiss away his troubles.

But I’d already pushed hard enough.

He needed to rest.

So do I.

Hugging myself from the cool emptiness in the warehouse, I backed away and headed through his office.

Entering his apartment, I padded to the kitchen and opened his equally empty cupboards. The sparse collection of glasses and the plastic cups meant for a child looked hauntingly sad.

Selecting one, I filled it with water and took it to the couch.

As much as I needed to rest, sleep was no longer an option for me. The clock above his cooker said dawn was only an hour or so away. I would wait to ensure Gil slept soundly and safely, and then I would go to work.

I had bills due.

I needed time to think.

And no amount of disgruntled, argumentative body painters could stop me.

* * * * *

Tiptoeing around Gil’s warehouse, gathering my stuff while he still slept an hour later, made my heart race.

I felt as if I was letting him down by leaving. I worried about him and his nightmares.

But I couldn’t stay—not with being such a new employee.

I had no choice but to borrow the clothes he’d given me, scoop up my belongings—no matter how paint-splattered and destroyed they were—and force myself to be an adult with responsibilities rather than a girl with useless wishes.

Staying as quiet as I could, I tucked my underwear, blouse, skirt, and stockings into my handbag, and dangled my high heels from my fingertips as I surveyed the carnage we’d left behind.

Unscrewed bottles lay forgotten on the floor. Paint splashed up the shelves and stage. A visible red handprint from Gil as he’d thrust into me on the floor was a perfect scarlet letter. A noticeable outline of my back and hair as I’d writhed beneath him the hint of exactly what we’d been doing, and a mix of yellow, black, silver, pink, purple, and blue created a story of violent need.

I blushed.

Blushed and wondered if I should clean up the mess, but Gil shifted on the couch, hinting that my time of escape was now or never.

Holding my breath, I turned from the colourful chaos and padded barefoot toward the exit. The door squeaked a little as I opened it. Throwing Gil a worried glance, I waited for him to soar off the couch and demand to know where the hell I was going.

Instead, he slung an arm over his eyes and stayed where he was.

Goodbye, Gil.

Stepping through the pedestrian access, I turned to quietly close the door behind me.

“Olin? Hi! What are you doing here so early?”

I stiffened, spinning around to face Justin Miller.

The man who seemed to have the worst possible timing in the world. He climbed from his car, his keys clinking in his fingers.

Hiding my heels behind my back and wishing I wasn’t in Gil’s baggy borrowed clothing, I smiled. “Good morning, Justin.”

He narrowed his eyes, looking me up and down. “Morning.” Coming closer, he stuffed his keys into his pocket before reaching for a red-stiff strand of my hair. “Gil do a commission today?”

“You could say that.” I rocked out of his reach, cursing the fact that I hadn’t showered properly and washed evidence away. Streaks of silver and crimson still decorated my chest beneath Gil’s T-shirt.

“He’s normally meticulous about clean up.”

“Yeah, well, not this time.” I shrugged. “I’ll get rid of the paint at home—”

The door ripped open behind me, gusting with air as Gil’s imposing presence pressed against my spine. A blizzard whipped around me as I turned slowly to face the man I’d seen in so many naked ways. Physically naked. Nightmare naked.

Yet I still couldn’t figure out a single secret he kept hidden.

“O.” His eyes pinned me to the spot. “Justin.” He looked at his friend. “Nice morning for a chat on my doorstep.”

Justin sniffed, eyeballing the yellow threads in Gil’s messy hair. He raised an eyebrow, dropping his inquisitive stare to the black smudge on Gil’s cheek and the red rimming his fingernails. “Had a busy morning, Gilbert?” His face twisted with mirth. “What have you two been—”

“Nothing.” I stuck out my chin. “We’ve been doing nothing.” Looking at an imaginary watch on my bare wrist, I chirped, “Oh, look at the time. Gotta go. See ya!” Tripping away, I tasted freedom before Gil’s dominating hand latched around my elbow and yanked me back. “Not so fast.”

I glowered. “I have to go to work, Gil.”

His nostrils flared as he shook his head. “Not today.” Pulling me back into his warehouse, he scanned the industrial area as if my mere appearance had encouraged the evil in the world to gather outside and plot their takeover.

Justin didn’t speak as he followed us inside and closed the door.

“So...” Justin rocked on his heels. “What did I interrupt?”

“Like Olin said, you interrupted nothing.” Gil stalked toward the couch where the blanket he’d used lay discarded on the floor as if he’d launched from sleep the moment he’d heard my voice outside.

Picking it up, he tossed it over the armrest before crossing his arms and facing his friend.

Justin’s friendly gaze danced around the space, landing on the paint smears, the wonky shelving, the handprint, the body print, the aura of sex still lurking on the stage. The camera waited where it had been abandoned, its casing dabbled with colours.

It was obvious what’d happened.

So embarrassingly obvious.

I prickled with heat, flicking Gil a furtive look.

He held my stare with dark, angry eyes. Not angry that we’d been caught. Angry that I’d tried to slip away while he slept. His biceps clenched as he rippled with tension, berating me in that silent, serious way of his, ensuring I knew I’d screwed up and would pay.

Tearing his eyes from mine, Gil looked at Justin. “Why are you here, Miller?”

Justin swallowed a chuckle, knowing exactly what we’d done thanks to the evidence of our activities. He cleared his throat, seriousness replacing his amusement. “Swung by to see what you think of the news.”

“News?” Gil crossed his arms. “What news?”

“Another girl has gone missing.”

I froze.

What?

Gil turned equally frosty and unmovable. “I didn’t know.”

“Yeah, painted again. Poor thing was tied and gagged. Couldn’t make a sound even while the cops patrolled the same area she was trapped in.” Justin brushed lint off his blazer. “She was painted to match the treetops where he’d hidden her. The killer is talented like you, Clark. I’m guessing the cops will be knocking soon to ask your opinion on how he managed to do the camouflage artwork while she was still alive.”