All I See Is You

20. Hell On The Heart

Chapter twenty

Hell On The Heart

Hux

W ell, one thing was for sure… I was fucked.

For the past two days, every thought—whether asleep or waking—was of Quinn. No matter what I did, no matter how hard I worked to drown her out with music or work, all I could think of was her.

You’re the one who called it off, remember?

I still couldn’t believe I’d done that. The action was so unlike me. So against my nature. Even before I’d gone blind, I’d lived life one step, one minute, one day at a time. Nothing mattered unless it was in the here and now. After losing my vision, that mentality only intensified.

No use worrying about the future. You had to live in the present— one step, one minute, one day at a time . Anything else wasn’t worth worrying about.

I realized now, I’d just never had something I would regret losing.

Quinn—she was the kind of girl you thought of the future for. A woman who had the power to tame a man’s wild heart. Bring him to his knees. Breathe life back into him. And I knew if I kept seeing her, I’d fall for her completely—if I hadn’t already. And let’s face it, first off, she deserved someone better than me. And second, I had no intentions of being the thing that kept her from reaching her dreams in California. She was so close. I wouldn’t have her give it up for a broken, washed up cowboy.

Better to sever the cord before I caught any more feelings—it was already hell on my heart.

Good thing I was a resilient sonova bitch with a mean stubborn streak. I’d get over Quinn. It might take a minute, but I would… Once I forgot the feel of her soft skin, the sound of her warm, light laughter, and her intoxicating scent.

Fuck me.

Rusty and I walked into the bunkhouse, cool air replacing the blazing heat from outside, the sound of the guys’ chatter filling the main room. I followed the voices, brushing my hand over the back of the leather couch to my right as I moved straight ahead. Ten more steps past that and to the left was a hallway that led to my room. I kept going straight, though, the rest of the twenty steps toward the kitchen, where the voices were loudest. Travis’ being the loudest of all—as usual.

“Old man Hux!” Dylan shouted. He was the youngest and newest hire of the group—barely even nineteen, I guess.

Most of them left me alone. Not that I blamed them. I wasn’t here to make friends. I was here because I didn’t want to go home. Didn’t want to face my dad’s pity and my mama’s fussing. I wanted to feel normal—as normal as I could now.

Wyatt's nasally twang and Brook's deep drawl greeted me as they let out a string of hellos.

“Hi," I grumbled back.

“You comin’ out with us to Julio’s?” Travis asked, a second before something smacked into my shoulder.

I shouldn’t be surprised at this point. He did it so often it should be expected, but it still startled me.

The thought of not having to make myself something for dinner was enticing, but I had little to no desire to leave the ranch. I’d peopled enough the past couple days. Besides, I wanted to paint. Correction—I needed to. My fingers all but itched for the scratchy surface of the canvas and the cool, sticky feel of paint.

I wouldn’t consider myself an artist—I mean, my mama would, but that’s just the way with mamas, right? But I’d always found myself drawing or sketching when I was younger. Of all the heaps of therapies I’d been thrust into since my accident, finger painting had been the most calming for my soul. I didn’t know if I was good at it or not, but I didn’t do it for that. I did it for…well, I did it for the same reason I rode—it was a part of me.

“Nah, I’m gonna stay here.”

I skirted my way around the kitchen island and felt my way over to the refrigerator, pulling out a tupperware of leftovers from the top shelf to take with me. Travis always made sure to put some up there for me so it was easy to find. I wasn’t hungry at the moment, but this way I could take it to the guest house and use the microwave there to warm it up when I was ready.

After getting the things I needed, Rusty and I began the trek to the western guest house. I could have just as easily chosen the one closer, but that would have meant more potential foot traffic, more opportunities for people to see my work, which was a terrifying notion, and, I don’t know, I just liked this place better. I don’t know what it was. There wasn’t anything really special about this one, it was a twin to the other, I guess, but the fact it was so secluded, and just the general feel of it called to me.

The picture in my mind of it was prettier too. I envisioned a little white wooden-sided house with river rock accents and blue or green shuttered windows and trim.Not that it was probably accurate at all.

The third step squeaked as usual as I mounted the stairs and walked the four and a half paces across the porch. I reached for the key beneath the mat and unlocked the door before getting to work.

I don’t know how much time passed since I started painting. I think I’d worked on three different canvases tonight, getting lost in the music playing from my phone and the calm that crept through me with each brush of my paint-covered fingers. Rusty had left my side a while ago, traipsing off toward the bedroom to probably curl up on the bed. He seemed to like it back there.

Painting had a similar effect on my soul that riding did. Sometimes I needed one or the other, or both. With what a train wreck the last couple days since Sunday had been, I needed both.

I was so lost in my work that I almost didn’t hear the jiggle of the lock. Almost.

Every muscle in my body froze, and even though it didn’t make a difference, I aimed my gaze toward the front door. Who the hell was here? Maybe Mr. Decker to check on the place? But he never came here. It’s why I’d picked this place to keep my things after they’d moved in.

Muffled curses and general struggling sounded on the other side of the door for another moment and then it swung open hard enough to slam against the opposing wall, shaking the windows and making a loud bang, followed by a familiar, feminine voice. “Stupid suitcase.What’s the—” A grunt as something scraped across the floor “—point of having wheels… ” A heavy exhale “...if you. Don’t. Fucking. Work?”

My heart skipped a beat. “Quinn?”

Chaos ensued then. She shrieked, and more curses flew, as well as a loud crash as something smacked against the floor. Rusty barked from the back room.

“Holy fucking God! Oh…” The way she dragged out the last word made it sound like she was blowing out a long breath. “Oh my God, you scared me.” Another breath. “Hux, what are you doing here?”

I felt Rusty’s presence settle at my side.

“Hi, Rusty,” Quinn said softly, and his tail smacked against the floor happily in response.

I opened my mouth to respond to her question, wondering the very same thing about her, but her breathy, light voice filled the room. “Are—are you painting?”

The door shut, much quieter than a moment ago, and then her soft footsteps echoed against the hardwood. Her lemongrass and vanilla scent filled my nose, and every nerve ending in my body zinged to life. My fingers twitched at my sides as I fought the urge to draw her into my arms.

I shrugged. “That’s debatable. A toddler could probably do better.”

The air shifted as she moved, my senses going haywire at her closeness. Which fucking sucked. I didn’t want to be around her —I mean, I did. Which was the entire damn problem. I’d never been great at self control. If I didn’t stop this, sooner or later we’d end up with our clothes off, or with one of us leaving upset.

None of which helped this situation. But I couldn’t find the willpower within me to move. It’s like my feet had been covered in cement and I was stuck where I stood.

Quinn’s huff of laughter was full of disbelief. “I highly doubt that. Let me see. What am I looking at?”

I quirked a brow, her question only reaffirming my thoughts. “Told ya. It’s shit.”

She let out an indignant hmph. “Oh, stop. Just give me a second.” Her light touch on my shoulder should have startled me, but I don’t know if it was just a coincidence or simply the calming magic of Quinn, but I didn’t react quite the same as when Travis smacked me on the shoulder. Probably had something to do with how soft and tentative she was.

My mind and my senses were still reeling from her touch and the closeness of her so that I almost missed what she said next. “Wait…I see it now, I think. It’s—it’s a landscape. The greens and yellows and golds in the foreground are grass and hills, maybe? And I think the dark green and black smudges are supposed to be shrubs or possibly trees?” A slight pause and then, “But the background is definitely a sunrise or sunset. Though, from how soft the colors are, I’m guessing sunrise?” The last word rose up an octave, like she wasn’t quite sure.

I huffed. I could see the image in my mind clear as day, so when I painted, that’s what my fingers tried to capture. But no one had seen my paintings, let alone reaffirmed for me if what I painted actually was anything other than smudges.

But the cynical, sarcastic side of me couldn’t let an opportunity go unmissed. “It’s, uh, supposed to be a horse.”

“Oh,” she said, her voice falling in disappointment.

Shit. I guess maybe I was a bit too sarcastic. “I’m kidding, Quinn. You nailed it right on the head,” I replied quickly.

“Really?” she murmured, that sense of wonder returning to her voice.

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“Are the random patches of blue in the green parts—”

“Blue bonnets,” I finished for her. “They grow wild in the pastures back home.”

“This is your home?” Her tone was warm and held a hint of surprise. Almost like she hadn’t expected for me to drop that little revelation.

I nodded, a wistful longing filling my chest. God, when’s the last time I’d gone home? I think Christmas. Or was it Thanksgiving? Either way, a long, fucking time.

Quinn’s scent was intoxicating with how close she was, her voice a siren song I was unable to ignore as she said, “This is amazing, Hux. How did you…?” Her words trailed off, whether it was because she didn’t know how to finish her sentence or was still trying to figure out what to say, I didn’t know, so I saved her the trouble.

“I drew a bit growing up. I mean, I don’t think I was the next Picasso or whatever, really, but I was okay. One of the therapies they put me in was art therapy when I was at the rehabilitation center…to help with regaining dexterity and fine motor skills, or something like that.” I could have stopped there, I should have stopped there, but I found myself wanting to tell her the whole reason. Which was dumb, but it’s like my heart and my brain just stopped speaking the same language. “But—well, also for my anger and depression.”

“Hux—” her voice was timid and edged with a bit of sadness, but I didn’t get the feeling she was sorry for me, but rather the situation. And then I felt her hand hesitantly rest against my chest, right over my heart. My breath hitched in my throat and I’d be surprised if she didn’t feel my heart skip a beat. I expected her to bring up the anger, but one thing I was learning with her, is she didn’t press me with questions. It’s like she knew which ones I wouldn’t want to talk about. “You’re so talented,” she said in a hushed whisper, “is there anything you can’t do?”

A soft chuckle escaped me. “Well, I mean, see.” I couldn’t help it. The words fell so easily from my lips, I wasn’t about to miss an opportunity like that.

Laughter bubbled out of her, the sound like a goddamn melody. Why did everything about her call to me? It made it impossible to think, to focus, to breathe, even.

“Oh my God,” she said, the last word muffled, like she’d cupped a hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry, it’s not funny. I shouldn’t have laughed.”

I couldn’t fight the words as they clawed up my throat. “No, please laugh. I love the sound of it.” I raised a nervous hand and pushed my hair back off my face.

A quiet, light giggle escaped her. “You just got paint all in your hair.”

I shrugged. “Ah, shit. Did I get it anywhere else?”

The heat of her consumed me as she moved closer—not even an inch or a breath apart it seemed—and when she pressed a finger to wipe at my brow I didn’t even flinch—much.

“Here,” she said quietly, her words taking on a husky edge.

And damn me, but I couldn’t help myself from wrapping an arm around her and hauling her fully against me. A gasp escaped her, followed by the most feminine little sigh I’d ever heard. It sparked desire in my veins.

Trailing the backs of my knuckles up and down her spine, I asked, “Where else?”

Her fingers drifted down in a measured path from my eyebrow to my chin. “Here,” she murmured, her touch disappearing a moment later only to be replaced with the softest whisper of a kiss.

A groan rumbled through my chest, and I brought my free hand up to cup the side of her neck. I trailed my thumb along the curve of her jaw. “Where else, Quinn?”

Her breath fanned against my cheeks, the heat of her mouth so close all I needed was to tilt my head down to kiss her. But I wouldn’t. No, this had to be on her.

Her hands slipped up around my neck, knotting in my hair as she tossed my ballcap aside, and then her mouth was on mine, brutal and unrelenting and filled with so much passion and need that I knew I was completely and totally ruined, but didn’t care one bit.

It was my damn undoing.