The first painting Lex came to was of three sisters, based on the placard, in white dresses who sat on a sofa. One sister sat with an opulent wrap of tulle around her shoulders and pearls around her neck, her posture perfect as she perched on the back of the couch, looking toward an unseen window. Another sister sat to the left on the sofa, leaning forward, not looking at the artist either, with her palm gently open in her lap, the satin of her dress shining. But the sister that caught Lex’s eye was the one in between, the only of the three who looked at the artist. Her slender figure rested back, curved into the sofa with her arms open, hanging on the back in seductive invitation, pushing the boundaries of propriety in comparison to the poise of her sisters. The use of light against all the white fabrics in so many varying textures illuminated the painting in a way that was so real it was almost impossible.
She smiled as she came to another painting, one of a woman in an impeccably detailed black dress, one hand on hip, rose in the other. Her face, set in an expression of pure boredom, was juxtaposed to the poise of her elegant hand holding the flower. It looked as if the woman thought the artist was only painting her hand and the rose, but instead he painted all of her, maybe just to spite her.
And then Lex came to one that she couldn’t move herself away from — a woman with dark hair and soft, sad eyes. One hand rested on the hip of her black dress, the other on a table with a peach rose lying a few inches away from her poised fingers. Lex leaned forward, seeing every stroke, every layer that made up the whole. Her fingers itched to run across the woman’s face, to feel the marks of the brush that told the story of her sadness.
After a while, she turned and took a seat next to Dean on the bench. She took a heavy breath. “I can see how this place would be an escape for you.”
Dean nodded. “You stopped in front of my favorite painting.” His hands were clasped, hanging between his thighs. “As a kid, I was pretty much on my own. That painting … there’s something about it that always called me here.”
On his own? She thought carefully about whether or not she should ask, not wanting to push him to tell her anything he wasn’t ready to. But she sensed he wanted to. So she asked.
“Why were you on your own?”
His eyes were unfocused as he looked toward the painting. “As long as I can remember, there were men around. Sometimes my mom would leave me for days with nothing but a stack of peanut butter sandwiches in the fridge and the TV to keep me company. And then when she wasn’t with them, she was at work. We weren’t very close.”
Lex’s heart was a rock in her chest. “You were just a boy.”
Dean nodded. “I took care of myself, and she took care of herself. She died when I was sixteen.”
His life made hers look charmed. “Dean, I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry.”
Dean shrugged, but the weight on his shoulders remained — she could see it in every curve and bend. “Things got better after that. I moved in with Roe. He and I … well, we’ve been friends for a very long time.”
“I can’t even imagine what you’ve been through,” she said, her own admission on her lips. “I’ve always been close with my mother, but my dad left when I was a kid. My mom, she’s a little crazy.” Lex chuckled, the sound wrong in her ears in such a somber place, in such a somber conversation. “When he walked away, the life went out of her. It was like all of the color disappeared from her world and she was left with only shades of gray. She can’t move on, like she’s been waiting all this time for him to come home. I don’t ever want to hurt like that.”
His sad green eyes looked down at her, and he slipped his arm around her waist, the only answer she needed. Because neither of them wanted to say more. It was understood. So she laid her head on his chest, and he pressed his cheek into her hair as their eyes fell on the woman in black.
They spent hours wandering around the Met, and though Lex had been to the museum plenty of times, she’d never seen it like she did through his eyes. He knew about the artists and told her stories behind so much of the work there, but the real pleasure was in seeing the joy on his face, the light in his eyes when he talked about each piece. She was impressed by how much he knew, feeling like she was getting a private tour as they walked through the expansive museum.
It was after dusk by the time they descended the steps and made their way to a restaurant a few blocks away. Every time they touched, like when he laid his hand on her back to guide her into the restaurant, she was aware of every nerve affected.
There would be no escaping the date without a kiss.
The day had been a solidification of all she knew she would feel. The only thing left to do was to find out if he felt the same way.
As she sat across from him in the small crowded restaurant, Lex knew she wanted to be with him. She wanted to trust him, believing after the hours they’d spent together that he wouldn’t hurt her. Logic and reason didn’t apply. Because her heart had already opened up, even if just a crack, and he’d found a way in.
Dean watched her as she talked, her cheeks pink from the warmth of the restaurant and the wine in her glass. He felt a smile on his lips, the same smile that he had been wearing since he met her at the coffee shop.
It was a smile only for her.
He’d told her more, felt more, wanted more intensely in the few hours they spent together than he ever had in his life. And it wasn’t physical — it was so much more.
He wanted her to know him, wanted to know her. He wanted to give her everything, to protect her, and though he had always doubted that he’d ever be able to be faithful — as if infidelity was a disease he’d been cursed with — he’d found someone he wanted to cherish, worship.
When she ordered a rack of ribs for dinner with a grin, he smiled and ordered the same, and the two of them laughed as they ate, gnawing on their dinner like animals, their faces and fingers covered in barbecue sauce. The waiter brought them hot towels and swept away the piles of bones they’d cleaned.
Lex sat back in her seat and set her towel on the small plate. “Whew. Man, I am so full.” She laid her hands on her belly.
“Then my work here is done,” Dean said with a smile that slipped as the moment, the day, drew to a close. And so he took a drink, to fortify himself, ready to tell her, ready to admit it aloud. It didn’t matter that he was afraid.
He needed her, and he needed her to know.
“Lex …”
She straightened up and angled toward him, her eyes full of hope, which made him feel better and scared him all at once. He lowered his eyes to her hands resting on the table, reaching for one to slip his fingers over hers, his thumb grazing her knuckles.
“I know I asked you for one day. But I knew when I asked you that it wouldn’t be enough, and I was right. I don’t know where you’ve been hiding all my life. But now you’re here, and I don’t think I can walk away.”
“I don’t want you to walk away, Dean. Not unless you take me with you.”
Elation rushed through him. Relief and hope and elation and fear.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he warned, searching her eyes. “I just know I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to break you.”
She nodded. “Then we’ll just have to trust each other.”
Trust. A word so rare to him that he barely knew what it meant. But he’d do everything to prove that he was worthy.
All he wanted to do was to hold her, to kiss her, to give her everything, including his heart that pounded like a kick-drum in his chest.
They both felt it, leaning toward each other, but the table between them held them apart.
“You’re too far away from me right now, Lex.”
She laughed, the sound tight with emotion. “Then maybe we should get out of here.”
Dean tossed cash on top of the check, and as they left, he pulled Lex into his side, pressing a kiss into her hair, hurrying to the subway and toward his apartment where they could finally be alone.
Lex w
aited as Dean unlocked his door, anxious about what she’d find inside. Would he be clean or a slob? Would they kiss? Would they do … more? She swallowed hard, not wanting to think about it.
Guilt crept in on her, but in her mind, she and Travis were over. It was only a matter of speaking the words. She just wasn’t ready to leave Dean. Not yet.
When they stepped inside, her eyes went wide as she took it all in.
Dean’s apartment was clean and tidy, sparsely decorated, though his furniture all had a midcentury flair, and a few posters hung in frames on the walls. But what drew all of her attention were the wall-to-wall bookshelves that spanned the length of his living room, packed with records.
She blinked, lips parted in wonder and eyes glued to the records as she absently shrugged off her jacket, tossing it on the back of an armchair before dropping down to sit on the hardwood floor in front of the shelves.
As she flipped through the albums, she found some of her favorites — The Smashing Pumpkins’s Siamese Dream, Led Zeppelin’s Houses of the Holy, and Revolver by the Beatles. She came across George’s forty-fives in the singles and pulled one out, trailing her fingers across the words on the old label before sliding it back where it belonged. The next treasure she found was The Smiths’s single “How Soon Is Now?” and she dropped the vinyl into her lap.
Her eyes ran across the hundreds of records on his shelves in awe, the magnitude of Dean’s collection hitting her hard as she turned to him.
Dean leaned back on the couch in the dim room, shrouded in shadows with his legs parted, hands in his lap, watching her. That thatch of black hair begged her to run her hands through it, and her fingers tingled when she wondered if the black stubble on his jaw was soft or scratchy, wondered what it would feel like against her neck.
And then she decided to find out.
Her heart beat hard and fast as she stood and set the record on the deck and turned it on, dropping the needle to the edge with a pop. The sliding guitar riff of the opening rolled from the speakers, and she turned to Dean, meeting his eyes.
Nothing existed, except his eyes.
Her shallow breath marked every step as she walked to the couch and slid her knee outside his thigh, reaching for the back of the couch, bringing her nose almost to his as she slid the other in to straddle him, dropping softly on his lap.
Dean lifted his chin, his lips waiting, his hands on her thighs, his eyes on hers, and when she cupped his jaw in her hands, she sighed. The contact sent her pulse ticking faster, her lips on a track for his, but slow, too slow for him — his hands slid up to her hips and pulled, his mouth hot and sweet and determined.
His lips — those lips, lips she’d dream about — closed over hers, opening again to steal her breath, and she leaned into him, her fingers slipping into his hair.
She’d been wrong. It was softer, silkier, thicker than she’d imagined, and she hummed against his mouth.
His arms wound around her back, pulling her closer until her back was arched, her hips against his. And one hand held her pressed against him while the other brushed her cheek, slipped into her hair.
That glorious mouth of his broke away to make its way down her neck, and she cradled his head in her arms, resting her cheek against his inky black hair as his hands roamed, sending a shock down her body when his fingertips touched her skin.
His lips were on hers again, urgent and hard, his hands warm against her skin as her own ran down his chest, to the hem of his shirt. Because all she could think, all she wanted was his skin against hers.
She broke away when he reached back for a handful of his shirt, and she reached across her body to pull off her sweater — when she could see him again, he was shirtless and reaching for her.
Dean buried his face between her breasts, his hand cupping her breast, thumbing her peaked nipple through the thin lace of her bra.
She twisted her fingers in his hair again, holding him against her with her eyes closed, her heart pounding under the place his lips touched.
His name was a whisper, slipping past her lips unbidden, and when he looked up at her, when their lips pressed together, she found that she was lost to herself, lost in him.
With a twist of his waist, he flipped her onto the couch, climbing on top of her, pressing her into the couch with his hips — hips that rolled gently against hers.
Her hands found their way between their bodies, fumbling for his belt, their lips never parting as she loosened it, popped his button, and slipped her hands down — across the soft skin low on his stomach, around his hard length.
It was urgent, her need for him, the aching low in her body humming his name as he pumped his hips slowly, in and out of her hands, until he’d had enough, until he wanted more, shifting the control with his hand on her face, cupping her chin, squeezing her cheeks as he turned her head, angling it to make room as he kissed her like she was the only woman to ever exist.
She let him go, wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling him close — closer, never close enough. And when he released his hold on her face, when he trailed his long fingers between her breasts, down the skin of her stomach, she gasped against his lips, just a soft pull of air, just the anticipation manifesting in a jerk of her lungs that she couldn’t control.
But when he unzipped her pants and slipped his hand inside, when he slipped his finger into the heat of her body, she breathed a sigh, a sound of relief and pleasure and desire for a man, this man, the one who she’d fallen into without intention. The one who she wasn’t supposed to want.
And at that thought, a name flashed in her mind.
Travis.
Her heart skipped as she lifted her head and her lids popped open. “Wait,” she breathed.
He slowed his hand, the slow tease of his palm against the aching center of her sending her hips rocking. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his lips against her breast, his eyes on her, hot and deep and green.
When she met them, it was too much to resist — her body betrayed her, shifting against his hand. She pulled his face to hers and kissed him long as she lost herself again.
“Wait!” She pulled away with a pop of their lips, hating herself and the situation and how badly she didn’t want to stop, didn’t want to speak. “I’m sorry,” she panted.
She scooted back, and he shifted to sit as she did the same, laying her hands on his chest. “We can’t do this … not yet, not until I’ve told Travis. I swore I wouldn’t do this — it’s not fair to him.” She looked up at him, wishing everything were behind her instead of in front of her. “Give me tomorrow to end things, and tomorrow night, I’m yours.”
Dean ran a hand through his hair, exasperated, and looked back at Lex. Her eyes were heavy-lidded and smoldering, her lips red and swollen, her fingers like fire on his skin. It wasn’t any easier for her than for him, he realized, so he pulled her against his chest and kissed her hair.
“Promise?”
She kissed his chest and promised.
The theater room broke into chatter, and Dita accepted a few congratulations from some of the gods.
Eros leaned over the back of his seat in front of her, his eyes wide. “Did the alarm go off? Did you just win?”
“No,” she answered, speaking loudly enough that everyone could hear, including Apollo. “They can’t really be together until Travis is entirely out of their way, so it looks like it’s down to a matter of hours before it’s over.”
Everyone’s eyes darted between the two of them, but Apollo was unfazed — he just sat calmly in his seat with a small smile on his lips.
“It’s not over until the fat lady sings, and Hera’s been mostly silent, so it seems I still have time.”
Everyone laughed except Hera, who exploded the room with her eyes.
“Well, Apollo,” Dita said, her words smacking of condescension. “I hope you’ve got a good play to make because this game is mine.”
“You’re always so sure of yourself, even when you’re wrong.” Apollo looked
almost cheery as he stood, winking at her before he left the room.
Dita’s eyes narrowed as she watched him leave, her mood instantly sour. “He’s bluffing.”
Perry eyed her. “Maybe.”
“Whose side are you on?”
“Yours, dummy,” Perry said with a roll of her eyes. “But it would be stupid to count him out.”
Dita looked back at the screen. “I just have to hold them together for a few more hours. What could he possibly do between now and then?” She shook her head, convinced. “No, he’s definitely bluffing.”
“Okay, denial,” Perry muttered.
“Look,” Dita huffed, “there’s an infinitesimal possibility that he could stop what I’ve set in motion, but the force at which they’re moving is so great, I can’t imagine what he could do to our things around. I just don’t know if he’s got it in him.”
But with all her pomp, Dita was still unsure, nibbling on her lip at the thought, knowing that she’d need to be on her game until it was over.
Apollo’s face fell the second the elevator doors closed. He wiped his sweaty palms on his pants and rubbed his brow, taking a deep breath to try to slow his heart. Watching Lex and Dean on their date was torture. His chest had been in a vise from the stress of it all, the prophecy in the back of his mind, as he worried over whether or not he’d made the right choice. But there was no going back, and he prayed to the stars that his plan would work.
It had to work.
Day Thirteen
Lex’s alarm blared at her from the coffee table in her living room that morning, and she almost fell off the couch from the surprise, fumbling for the device to shut it up. Her heart beat fast from the shock, and she looked around, confused as to why she had been sleeping on the couch.
The day before came back to her in a rush.
She’d floated home the night before, though her mood sobered on the way as she steeled herself to talk to Travis, hoping he’d still be awake.