Faeling

At three twenty the next day, Merritt was pulling up in front of Oz’s home again. He dismissed any anxiety as simple indigestion. He was not nervous about seeing Oz. It didn’t matter—she didn’t matter—he just wanted to sleep with her as soon as possible and get it over with. That’s all it was—not anxiety, just anticipation.

He stepped out of his sleek black BMW and waltzed up to the door. One hand in pocket, he rapped smartly with the knocker three times. He carefully preened himself, checking that his hair was perfectly in place. He stood there for about half a minute and heard no sound of movement from inside. He didn’t know much about Oz Dannel, but he knew she wasn’t graceful or quiet.

Shit, he thought as he ran his fingers through his hair, now turning it to a disheveled light brown heap instead of improving his usually precise look. She’s late again? If it was anyone else—anyone less important to achieving his goals—he would have left immediately. In the current situation, however, that simply wasn’t possible. Merritt needed to spend as much time as possible with the absolutely infuriating girl. He had started to walk back to his car to wait when he heard Oz’s voice from around the corner two houses down. Merritt plastered a smug, self-satisfied smile on his face, waiting for the sorry, sorry, sorrys. He propped himself against the car, naturally posing, before he realized that she was not shouting apologies for him. She was talking to someone else entirely.

“I told you, go home! I haven’t wanted to see you before and I don’t want to see you now,” she hissed as she rounded the corner, her back to Merritt.

“Come on, Oz,” the man following her cajoled, reaching out to grab her arm. “It’s been so long. I know you’re still carrying a torch for me—it’ll be fun!”

“No, now get away from me, Eli!” Oz turned around and nearly ran into Merritt, who just barely kept his composure. He recognized the man following Oz from the painting in her kitchen, his brown eyes were the same—the eyes of the only portrait she didn’t want to talk about. “I’m sorry, I know I’m late,” Oz sputtered, shaking off the man’s hand, cheeks flaming in anger or embarrassment. Merritt gave her a quick nod and stepped forward, offering a hand to the man in front of him.

“Hello, I’m Merritt Peters, a business partner of Miss Dannel’s. I hope you don’t mind, but we do have a meeting.”

Eli laughed at the proffered hand in an almost oafish way and turned to Oz with a suggestive grin. “What, is this your new boyfriend? Lord knows you never turned me down before.”

“Well, she is now,” Merritt cut in easily, his clipped voice making Eli’s slight southern drawl sound like mud. “Now, if you’ll excuse us.” He grabbed Oz’s hand and brushed past Eli. She jammed her key into the lock and in an instant they were inside.

Oz twisted the deadbolt into place just as they heard a flat palm slam angrily against the wood of the door, a sound that made Oz flinch. Merritt watched her silently, searching her face as Eli’s deep voice yelled a laughing, “Fuck you, bitch!” from outside like it was a joke. Oz finally looked up at the solemn, observant Merritt and offered him a wan smile.

“Sorry about that,” she forced out in a falsely bright tone and began to walk towards the kitchen. “Can I get you anything?” Her voice broke awkwardly over the words. Merritt didn’t call attention to it. In fact, he wasn’t sure what to say. A possessive piece of him wanted desperately to demand she tell him exactly what the hell that was, but a much larger part of him knew that those answers probably wouldn’t satisfy him. She wasn’t crying, but she was clearly upset and Merritt didn’t react terribly well to situations where there wasn’t a polite protocol. Merritt was brilliant at everything but emotion.

He sat down at Oz’s small kitchen table and let her hurry around, making coffee and getting him a slice of pie. He gave her a smile as she set it down before him, her expression still flustered. He rather liked the idea that she probably always had pie in her fridge. He’d never known a woman who wasn’t constantly on a diet. Finally, Oz sat down, bringing two cups of coffee, milk and sugar with her.

“Sorry, I don’t have cream. I never use it. And the coffee’s hazelnut, in case you’re curious,” she said in a weary, distracted voice. She absentmindedly rubbed her forearm where Eli had seized her. After a moment she looked down with surprise and pulled down the sleeves of her zip-up sweatshirt despite the day’s warm weather.

“It’s no trouble,” Merritt said quietly, feeling uncertain. The two of them sat there quietly for a moment, sipping their coffee despite it being too hot. Eventually Merritt screwed up the courage to ask, “Were there any other works you thought you might want to show?”

Oz gave him a wide, grateful smile, though her hazel eyes still looked tired. “I looked through some of my older work and found a few that might work nicely. I also managed to eliminate a few paintings I showed you yesterday. Of course, I’d like your opinion on it.”

A few stands were still set up in the small kitchen, all of which were quickly filled as Oz rushed around her small apartment, replacing some of the paintings Merritt and Janna had been shown yesterday. A few were missing, but Merritt was surprised to see Oz carefully set down the painting of Eli.

“These are the ones you want in the gallery?” Merritt asked evenly, trying to keep any judgment from his voice, though seeing the portrait made his blood boil. It was a wonderful piece of art, as were all of Oz’s works, but just seeing that face infuriated him—all he could imagine was Eli grabbing Oz’s arm, laughing, calling her a bitch.

Oz took a step back and surveyed her choices. “Yes, I think these pieces show off my style best. They’re not all my favorites, but what I like doesn’t matter.” She looked at Merritt pointedly. “Right? It matters what will sell and move my career forward.” There was a brick wall behind those hazel eyes when they met Merritt’s gaze. Oz had a strength in her that Merritt couldn’t comprehend.

“You’re right,” he said with a confidence he didn’t feel. “These definitely show off what you can do. Were there others you thought might be suitable, Oz?”

She grinned at him this time, clearly excited to talk about more of her art. Merritt watched her thoughtfully as she scampered away. He would have frowned if frowning was something he did, but he could afford neither the wrinkles nor the poor impressions. What Merritt did do was take a few bites of the peach pie and heave a sigh, which rarely happened. In the past weeks it seemed more common than it ever had been before, but when he thought about it, he accepted that he was under a bit of stress trying to win over a girl who seemed utterly opposed to the idea. Sighs were acceptable, so long as no one heard them.

After a few brief moments, Oz came back to the kitchen, a few paintings slung in her arms. She set them on the small kitchen table and displayed them for Merritt’s consideration one by one. He took in every aspect, every color and self-assuredly made pronouncements on which should be included in the exhibition at Daedalus. Altogether, they ended up with about twenty pieces.
Merritt was about to move the conversation towards Degas or Klimt when Oz blurted, “I have a few more I could show you, if you have time.” She reddened, sounding surprisingly shy.

“Of course, Oz.” He waited for her to scuttle off to retrieve them, but instead she took a few steps back and crooked one graceful finger at him. Trying to keep the confusion from his face, Merritt followed her up the stairs to what he assumed was her bedroom. Something about standing there with her made Merritt uneasy to his very core.

“They aren’t quite finished yet,” Oz half-whispered, as if she was afraid of waking the paintings from their uncompleted slumber. The first painting Merritt recognized as the two dogs Oz had walked the very first time they met—Max and Emma. He was almost surprised with himself for remembering their names, but part of being a brilliant businessman was the ability to recall any name at the drop of a hat. He just had a wonderful memory, it wasn’t anything to do with the fact that he’d been with Oz. The second painting was an all-but-finished portrait of Janna, who in it looked furious. Merritt, despite himself, couldn’t hold in a small laugh.

Oz looked at him, brow furrowed in confusion. Following his line of sight she giggled.

“Janna doesn’t much like pictures, but she’s so gorgeous in them,” she said with a wide smile. “She looks so fierce, doesn’t she? It’s always exciting to paint people whose faces you know well—you find all these little nuances you never saw there.”
Merritt allowed himself another laugh and showed Oz his most alluring grin. He barely fought off another sigh when she only looked back at the painting.

What I wouldn’t do to make her blush with one of my smiles... The thought came unbidden and he pushed it into a corner, where he wouldn’t have to see it.

“Now, what’s this one?” Merritt asked, gesturing to the painting she stood in front of, blocking his view. Suddenly, the blush he’d wished he could trigger was evident. Oz stepped to the side.
It was another painting of Merritt. Again, it was a magical expression he’d never seen on his own face. In the portrait, he looked both surprised and utterly enamored. He stared at his own face, formed in oil paints.

Oz cut into his thoughts—or lack thereof—with her quiet words. “I won’t put it in the gallery, don’t worry.” He realized he didn’t know how many long moments he’d been gaping at the portrait. Merritt looked at Oz, and saw that she was more flushed than ever. She was inspecting her shoes thoroughly as she spoke, clearly discomfited. “I just... I like to paint you, I suppose, and-“

He cut her off, pressing his lips roughly against hers. Again, he had no idea how it had happened—when he had taken the steps to meet her or tangled one hand in her hair, but he didn’t care at all. He couldn’t care, because this time she kissed him back.