Read Online Shelter Me: A Shelter Novel by Stephanie Tyler - Free Book Online
Authors: Stephanie Tyler
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started having nightly after I'd woken up in the hospital post-memory loss. It was rare for me to have it these days, probably because the contents of it were never far from my waking thoughts.
I stand on the beach in the dark. My toes curl in the cold sand. The scent of salty high tide is still on my skin to compete with the dank smell of ocean that wafts over me. The roar of the waves seems loud enough to drown out all other sounds. Except it doesn't.
Voices.
Shadowed figures.
Gunshots.
I scream, loud enough to be heard over the crashing water.
I scream in real life too, loud enough to no doubt wake the neighbors, so I force myself to stop, swallow the yells as I blink myself fully awake. I'm bathed in sweat and breathing hard. I stumble to the bathroom and splash water on my face. I catch sight of myself in the mirror. I look wild-eyed.
It took me the better part of an hour, and a few shots of whiskey, to calm myself down sufficiently enough. I wrapped myself in a blanket on the couch, thankful that I didn't find any errant flowers lying around. That was a bright spot.
Even so, I had to force myself not to call Lucas. No more of that , I told myself firmly. I could get through this all by myself.
Finally, I felt better. I'd stopped shaking. So I went into my studio to study the night's work, to see if anything there might've triggered my dream.
Before I'd slept, I'd finished the first try at the painting I'd been commissioned to draw. The house in the photo was plain. Nondescript. And I'd been fine sketching it out. Perhaps my first drawing was a little uninspired, but I was sure that didn't show. And I'd managed to do a little more than a straightforward rendering. I'd blended and shaded. Made it look more art than photo.
And if the man who'd commissioned it didn't want it, so be it, I'd told myself. And then I'd gotten down to the actual painting of the house, ignoring my own inner critic, and anything else that threatened to get in my way.I forced all of it out of my mind ruthlessly, like I did with anything that could fuck with my art.
Under the harsh morning light, I studied yesterday's pieces and wondered if maybe the dream was all about the risk of trying something new. Dr. B had warned me that change—even and especially good change—was high on the list of stresses.
This picture seemed to underscore that. The dark slashes of color undercut what would've been a conventionally pleasing picture. A beach, a wash of water foaming the shore…the skyline of a storm rolling in, but a sinister one. I even shivered when I looked at it, as though the icy rain was cutting my skin.
Disturbingly beautiful. I could hear the critics now. But there was more to it. All of my paintings separately meant nothing. Put together, there was a pattern that I had yet to discern.
I had the book, my portfolio, kept painstakingly by Brayden. Pictures of each and every piece I'd sold. I flipped through them with a growing sense of dread.
What the hell happened to me?
I'd been on my own with an ID from the time I was seventeen, and I'd walked into that café with my new social security number and it hadn't triggered any manhunts or arrest records.
I was running. I knew that. From who, I couldn't remember.
Chapter Six
I didn't hear from Lucas for three days, but I didn't notice, because I'd been locked inside my own world, painting my ass off , as Brayden put it. I'd put aside the commissioned work, wary of having that dream again, but mainly it was because I'd been inspired by other things.
Like Lucas. More than I'd like to admit.
But then three days turned into a week that turned into two weeks and that lack of contact, I most definitely noticed. At first I was fine, and then I was upset, and then I was angry at myself for being upset. And then I was just angry. I'd gone a long time without letting a guy do this to me. I'd promised myself I'd be the one who walked away without a look back, and I had been…until the run,
I stand on the beach in the dark. My toes curl in the cold sand. The scent of salty high tide is still on my skin to compete with the dank smell of ocean that wafts over me. The roar of the waves seems loud enough to drown out all other sounds. Except it doesn't.
Voices.
Shadowed figures.
Gunshots.
I scream, loud enough to be heard over the crashing water.
I scream in real life too, loud enough to no doubt wake the neighbors, so I force myself to stop, swallow the yells as I blink myself fully awake. I'm bathed in sweat and breathing hard. I stumble to the bathroom and splash water on my face. I catch sight of myself in the mirror. I look wild-eyed.
It took me the better part of an hour, and a few shots of whiskey, to calm myself down sufficiently enough. I wrapped myself in a blanket on the couch, thankful that I didn't find any errant flowers lying around. That was a bright spot.
Even so, I had to force myself not to call Lucas. No more of that , I told myself firmly. I could get through this all by myself.
Finally, I felt better. I'd stopped shaking. So I went into my studio to study the night's work, to see if anything there might've triggered my dream.
Before I'd slept, I'd finished the first try at the painting I'd been commissioned to draw. The house in the photo was plain. Nondescript. And I'd been fine sketching it out. Perhaps my first drawing was a little uninspired, but I was sure that didn't show. And I'd managed to do a little more than a straightforward rendering. I'd blended and shaded. Made it look more art than photo.
And if the man who'd commissioned it didn't want it, so be it, I'd told myself. And then I'd gotten down to the actual painting of the house, ignoring my own inner critic, and anything else that threatened to get in my way.I forced all of it out of my mind ruthlessly, like I did with anything that could fuck with my art.
Under the harsh morning light, I studied yesterday's pieces and wondered if maybe the dream was all about the risk of trying something new. Dr. B had warned me that change—even and especially good change—was high on the list of stresses.
This picture seemed to underscore that. The dark slashes of color undercut what would've been a conventionally pleasing picture. A beach, a wash of water foaming the shore…the skyline of a storm rolling in, but a sinister one. I even shivered when I looked at it, as though the icy rain was cutting my skin.
Disturbingly beautiful. I could hear the critics now. But there was more to it. All of my paintings separately meant nothing. Put together, there was a pattern that I had yet to discern.
I had the book, my portfolio, kept painstakingly by Brayden. Pictures of each and every piece I'd sold. I flipped through them with a growing sense of dread.
What the hell happened to me?
I'd been on my own with an ID from the time I was seventeen, and I'd walked into that café with my new social security number and it hadn't triggered any manhunts or arrest records.
I was running. I knew that. From who, I couldn't remember.
Chapter Six
I didn't hear from Lucas for three days, but I didn't notice, because I'd been locked inside my own world, painting my ass off , as Brayden put it. I'd put aside the commissioned work, wary of having that dream again, but mainly it was because I'd been inspired by other things.
Like Lucas. More than I'd like to admit.
But then three days turned into a week that turned into two weeks and that lack of contact, I most definitely noticed. At first I was fine, and then I was upset, and then I was angry at myself for being upset. And then I was just angry. I'd gone a long time without letting a guy do this to me. I'd promised myself I'd be the one who walked away without a look back, and I had been…until the run,
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