Read Online Painting With Fire by K. B. Jensen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: K. B. Jensen
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you ever tell me about it? What the hell?”
“It doesn’t matter, Claude. I’m a reformed man.”
She snickered. “Is there such a thing?”
“I knew you wouldn’t understand,” he said. “Why do you have to be such a bitch about it?”
“Fuck you, Tom,” she said. “I have a right to know these things.”
“L ook, I’m sorry.” His voice was suddenly soft as satin and silk. “You want me to move out, I’ll move out. But I’m done talking about this. You have to believe me, it was stupid, juvenile shit.” He got up, walked into his room and closed the door.
“Is the truth really so terrible?” she called after him. “Fucking A. Coward. Just tell me what’s going on.” But the door stayed closed.
What if Tom actually had something to do with the murder? She wondered, grinding her teeth. What if the killer lived in her apartment and not outside of it? It was a sad, paranoid thought. She tried to dismiss it, but it was there in the back of her head as loud as the lie he had spoken.
Chapter 10: Juvenile Trouble
Claudia was still sitting at home the next day. Although she had sent out a couple of resumes and had a couple of interviews, the only thing she had to show for it was a recently dry-cleaned shirt and a freshly polished pair of shoes waiting in the closet. She searched the job sites for hours, trying not to think about Tom’s past or the murder. If she had a job, it would be easier to walk away, if she had to. Did she even want to?
She stared at a freshly painted piece of Tom’s artwork, standing on the easel. She loved the smell of paint.
He had the talent but not the ego to make a career out of it. He was never much for selling his work, just happy to churn out painting after painting and stack them in odd places around the apartment, behind the couch, leaned up against the entertainment center, gathering dust in the closet. More than a dozen hung on bathroom walls alone. With the lack of wall space, they were beyond caring about the moisture anymore. Tom liked to say that soap scum and fogged frames were part of his artistic statement.
Even though it was getting crowded, the pictures seemed like old friends. Claudia loved to walk around and visit with them throughout the apartment.
Tom fiddled with his keys at the back porch door and caught her staring at the latest addition through the glass. It brought a smile to his face.
Once, she asked Tom if he ever thought of giving it up and he said he couldn’t. “A painter is someone who paints,” he said, “And if they don’t paint, the paint just starts to ooze out of their pores.”
It almost seemed like that’s what happened with his latest painting. Red paint had oozed all over the canvas in violent bloody streaks. Tom had painted a picture of pain. Claudia felt a twinge of guilt when she looked at it, like it was her fault he felt that way. He could only paint what he felt, he had once told her.
“It’s too bad I didn’t get stabbed,” Tom said, with a sarcastic smile while he was taking off his muddy shoes. “Then maybe you’d be able to sell some of my work.”
“I could use the money,” she laughed.
They were both pretending like nothing had happened and it seemed to be working for now. It was an uneasy truce.
Claudia sighed, thinking of her job search. After sitting at home all day, the words were bottled up inside her just waiting to spill out in a long-winded, breathless tirade. He was still her friend, after all.
“Sometimes, I just wish I’d get a goddamn e-mail telling me the position has already been filled but thanks for your interest,” she ranted nervously. “Basic courtesy. You shoot off your resume into the online abyss and hope they acknowledge you’re a human being, but everything is automated now and that’s not how things work anymore. Silence. An e-mail inbox you compulsively check 34 times a day, filled with hundreds of messages from stupid websites that force you to sign up and
“It doesn’t matter, Claude. I’m a reformed man.”
She snickered. “Is there such a thing?”
“I knew you wouldn’t understand,” he said. “Why do you have to be such a bitch about it?”
“Fuck you, Tom,” she said. “I have a right to know these things.”
“L ook, I’m sorry.” His voice was suddenly soft as satin and silk. “You want me to move out, I’ll move out. But I’m done talking about this. You have to believe me, it was stupid, juvenile shit.” He got up, walked into his room and closed the door.
“Is the truth really so terrible?” she called after him. “Fucking A. Coward. Just tell me what’s going on.” But the door stayed closed.
What if Tom actually had something to do with the murder? She wondered, grinding her teeth. What if the killer lived in her apartment and not outside of it? It was a sad, paranoid thought. She tried to dismiss it, but it was there in the back of her head as loud as the lie he had spoken.
Chapter 10: Juvenile Trouble
Claudia was still sitting at home the next day. Although she had sent out a couple of resumes and had a couple of interviews, the only thing she had to show for it was a recently dry-cleaned shirt and a freshly polished pair of shoes waiting in the closet. She searched the job sites for hours, trying not to think about Tom’s past or the murder. If she had a job, it would be easier to walk away, if she had to. Did she even want to?
She stared at a freshly painted piece of Tom’s artwork, standing on the easel. She loved the smell of paint.
He had the talent but not the ego to make a career out of it. He was never much for selling his work, just happy to churn out painting after painting and stack them in odd places around the apartment, behind the couch, leaned up against the entertainment center, gathering dust in the closet. More than a dozen hung on bathroom walls alone. With the lack of wall space, they were beyond caring about the moisture anymore. Tom liked to say that soap scum and fogged frames were part of his artistic statement.
Even though it was getting crowded, the pictures seemed like old friends. Claudia loved to walk around and visit with them throughout the apartment.
Tom fiddled with his keys at the back porch door and caught her staring at the latest addition through the glass. It brought a smile to his face.
Once, she asked Tom if he ever thought of giving it up and he said he couldn’t. “A painter is someone who paints,” he said, “And if they don’t paint, the paint just starts to ooze out of their pores.”
It almost seemed like that’s what happened with his latest painting. Red paint had oozed all over the canvas in violent bloody streaks. Tom had painted a picture of pain. Claudia felt a twinge of guilt when she looked at it, like it was her fault he felt that way. He could only paint what he felt, he had once told her.
“It’s too bad I didn’t get stabbed,” Tom said, with a sarcastic smile while he was taking off his muddy shoes. “Then maybe you’d be able to sell some of my work.”
“I could use the money,” she laughed.
They were both pretending like nothing had happened and it seemed to be working for now. It was an uneasy truce.
Claudia sighed, thinking of her job search. After sitting at home all day, the words were bottled up inside her just waiting to spill out in a long-winded, breathless tirade. He was still her friend, after all.
“Sometimes, I just wish I’d get a goddamn e-mail telling me the position has already been filled but thanks for your interest,” she ranted nervously. “Basic courtesy. You shoot off your resume into the online abyss and hope they acknowledge you’re a human being, but everything is automated now and that’s not how things work anymore. Silence. An e-mail inbox you compulsively check 34 times a day, filled with hundreds of messages from stupid websites that force you to sign up and
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