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He cut me off, his fingertip silencing my mouth. The slightest breath kissed his tip.
He didn’t want me to be sorry. He shook his head, strands of messy hair falling into his eyes. A second later, his hand left me to rake through it.
I don’t want you to be sorry. I can guess what happened. I feel what happened. I’m sticky and it’s uncomfortable, but I don’t blame you for it.
His handsome face scowled at the glaring red light.
“He hasn’t given a task today.”
Good, a new note said. But don’t worry, it’s probably my turn.
I sucked in a heavy breath and shook my head, not wanting it to be either of us.
Hating the silence I caused, because I was the only one who could speak, I reverted back to distracting him, distracting me in the process as I let a question roam in the air. “So, you’re an art dealer?”
Mission accomplished.
A boastful look that made him look even more handsome crawled onto his face.
“I love that.” I smiled. “I’m a painter, not professionally, but I am. I was, I mean. I haven’t indulged in many hobbies since the accident.” My fingers moved subconsciously, remembering how it felt to hold a paintbrush, how it felt to glide colors across canvasses. I smiled over memories that would never fade.
“My mother was an artist, too. She was semi-successful. Her name was Madison Thelassa-Serrano. Have you heard of her?”
A curt and respectful nod told me he had and that he respected her work.
She was very good. He handed the note to me. The crayon was blunt now. He ripped at the paper around it that stated the obvious color, tearing it down so it wouldn’t prevent him from writing future notes.
“She was amazing,” I agreed.
He dropped the paper to the floor, scrunched in a tiny ball, and flicked it across the room. We watched it bounce off the wall, having had little amusement here.
Bet you follow your father, was the first note written by the exposed crayon. He was taunting me. A playful bite of his lip made it obvious there was no real malice in his words.
“I don’t, actually, and if we ever get out of here, you’ll be begging for my art.”
Waving a hand at me, he laughed, again silently, but it felt like that was the truest thing I could ever say.
And I loved it.
I loved that he had hope to share with me.
But that hope faded away, a vacuum pulling it to the exit, usually bolted shut but open for a second.
A blade slid toward us, even sharper than the last to be in this room.
The room rattled; the heavy metal door slamming shut.
“Good evening, Feebee and Mercer. I’m glad you are so comfortable together, seeing as I haven’t grown bored of you yet.” The robotic voice caused a ringing in my ears that an abusive finger tried to get rid of.
Shivers ran down my body, fear coating me in sweat...Mercer, too. He stared up at the red light as I did, our bodies inching closer until they bumped. He wrapped an arm around me, trying to comfort me...but my heart still raced, my mouth grew dry, and my anxiety hit the roof, knowing what was coming.
My fingers reached for my hair, twirling strands and pulling them out, something I had started doing when I woke up in the hospital without a mother. And when I tried and failed to manage the stress that came with being a transplant recipient. The fear of my body rejecting the heart the way this creep rejected me having it, made my first few months with it torture.
Mercer pushed my hand from my hair, pulling it into his fist and holding it. Another wave of appreciation washed over me, and I rode it, letting it take me closer to him as I nuzzled into his tattooed chest.
“Mercer, it’s your turn for a solo challenge.”
My fingers dug into his straining chest.
