Saving Ella (13 page)

“So, what does she look like?” He
started with the basics and for Charlie this was the most important part.

             
“She’s a woman, a beautiful, tiny, perfect woman, and she’s living at the shelter.” That shut him up. His playful and flippant remarks stopped and he looked at me with a troubled wrinkle in his brow.

             
“You’re hooking up with a homeless girl?” My angry eyes stopped him immediately.

             
“Fuck no, I’m not. I’m buying her fucking paper and pencils. She likes to sketch.”  I was way too defensive and not fooling anyone, especially Charlie. He nodded and shrugged.

             
“Okay, whatever. Perhaps it won’t bother you after-all to hear that I saw Selena out last night.” I shook my head. No it didn’t bother me at all. Other than the fact her name reminded me of too many wasted nights. “She was fussing all over Daniel White like he’s her new fucking Ken doll.”

             
“I feel sorry for Daniel, but they do make a perfect couple, I mean, he does look like Ken and all.” I mused and Charlie laughed.

             
“Yeah, he’s got that plastic hair thing going on. If I hadn’t heard first hand from you how much of a sex pot Selena was, I’d accuse him of having the whole asexual ken doll package going on.”

             
“Okay we are definitely not talking about Daniel’s junk.” I finally pulled my truck into the parking bay at Mercy’s.

             
“What we doing here?” Asked Charlie

             
“Dropping off the gift.” Charlie’s eyes lit up. “And you’re waiting here. The ladies don’t need another intimidating male walking around in there.” And Charlie was definitely intimidating. He wasn’t as tall as me, but at just over six foot he wasn’t small either and there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. He was all lean muscle with tattoos finish the bad-ass look. Charlie gave me a pretty impressive scowl as I left him sitting in my pickup.

             
I found Ella sitting quietly on the floor of the laundry, her head buried in a book.

             
“Hey,” I said as I entered, not wanting to catch her unawares.

             
“Hey.” She smiled. She looked so young and innocent in that moment, her smile genuine and at ease, she was happy to see me and that sure as hell made me happy.

             
“What you reading?” I tilted her book forward to catch the title. I knew it well, Great Expectations.

             
“I always thought Pip was a chump.” I sat down beside her and she cast me a nervous yet surprised smile. I shrugged. “It’s Mercy’s favorite book. Whenever I was deployed overseas I took a copy, it was kind of like I was taking a piece of her away with me. I read it a couple of times, but usually just stuffed it in the bottom of my pack and stared at it like some sort of crazy fool when I was homesick.” I held out the package I had bought for her.

             
She simply stared at it like it might bite her or something. “Don’t worry it’s nothing nasty, just a gift.” I explained.

             
“Why?” She blurted out.

             
“Just call me the giver who keeps on giving. I like to give presents, ask anyone. Hell, I bought Eli a noisy little truck yesterday and he didn’t get all stiff and suspicious when I gave it to him.” She hesitantly took the parcel.

             
“But I’m not a kid,” she whispered.

             
“No, you are definitely not.” It was pretty hard not to notice those enchanting eyes, perfect curves and lips that begged to be nibble on. She was most definitely a woman. She wiped her palms on her thighs like she was about to dismantle a bomb or something and carefully peered in side.

             
“Holy Shit,” she breathed as she tugged out the sketch book. I knew it was the good kind too, I had asked for the best. There was a box of pencils and a carton of charcoal.

             
“The guy at the store said if you sketch portraits one of these would most likely be your medium. I wasn’t sure which so I bought both.” Her fingers touched the packet of charcoal with reverence. “So charcoal it is,” I observed. She looked up at me anxiously and I could see the tears threatening to fall. I smiled and stood, allowing her the space I knew she would prefer. “So, draw me something tonight.” She nodded and let her hair fall forward, hiding her face, hiding the tears in her eyes that would no doubt escape as soon as I was gone. I turned to leave. “On the inside of the sketch book I wrote my phone number. If you need anything call me. Like anything, a ride, someone to talk to, anything, okay?” She nodded again woodenly, but clutched the charcoal to her like she was holding a baby. I left her sitting on the floor of the laundry, her eyes wide and full of unshed tears, with a gift she had looked at with such reverence it almost made me lose my shit.

             
It took me a long time to get off the laundry floor. I just sat there like a stunned fool, tears falling down my cheeks over a damn gift, but oh what a gift. Some girls might prefer jewelry, some clothes, but for me this was the top shelf stuff. Jax, a man who barely knew me, knew none of my secrets, none of my dirty awful past, he had bought me a gift that pierced right through all the bullshit and wrapped itself right around my heart. I wondered if he knew everything if he still would want to buy me gifts. If he knew about the alcohol, the drugs, how much of a whore I was. I doubt he would want to come anywhere near me. While my hand twitched with the anticipation of drawing again, a small part of me was reluctant. Indulging in my art meant indulging in my dreams and indulging in my dreams would only result in disappointment. My life had been filled with so much disappointment I didn’t know if I could take much more. Sketching had been the only constant in my life, the only thing that had always been there, before, during and after, regardless of how rarely I picked up the charcoal now, it was still there. By the time I dragged myself from the laundry floor I had missed dinner, but still managed to scrounge up some left overs before helping Mary clean the kitchen. Eventually I found myself in a big comfy rocker with the sketch book from Jax in my lap. After some time I sat with a single piece of charcoal, hovering nervously over the page and after even more time, I placed that single piece of charcoal to the page. My hand danced with familiarity across the sheet of paper leaving dark black lines plain and bold against the white backdrop, but with a simple brush of my finger, those blunt lines softened and grayed to create shadows. My portraits were black and white, but it’s the monochrome shades of gray in between that make them seem so alive. I drew a portrait of Mercy. She was beautiful to draw, her face classically beautiful with tired lines but eyes filled with steel and determination. Jax had asked me to draw for him then draw for him I would. This would be my gift to him in return for his kindness. A portrait would usually take me anywhere from twenty minutes to an hour, but I wanted this to be perfect and an hour and a half later my finger blended the last shadow across the elegant arch of Mercy’s neck.

Then without hesitating I carefully turned the page to find a fresh white sheet of paper
just begging to be brought to life.

             
“You are very talented,” said Mercy as she sat down on the couch before me, curling her feet under herself, her small hands wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee. She looked so childlike and innocent I found myself wanting to sketch her again just as she looked right now.

             
“Thank you.”

             
“How are you doing today Ella?” Her smile was warm, welcome. She was one of those women who just drew you in, her soul so bright that you couldn’t refuse but return her joy.

             
“I’m okay. I’ve got a job and soon I’ll have enough money for an apartment, I’m really pretty lucky. Many of the women here have no work and still carry bruises, they’re the ones that need your kindness.” My honesty seemed to surprise her.

             
“That’s very noble of you to put the problems of others before your own. Just because you can see one person’s pain doesn’t mean that it doesn’t exist on people who don’t show the physical abuse.”

             
“True, but really, I’m doing alright.” I was drawing a portrait of Jax and Mercy leaned forward to check it out.

             
“You seem to be comfortable with Jax, you’re not afraid of him.” It wasn’t a question.

             
“No, he doesn’t scare me. He may be the size of a giant which was very intimidating at first, but I knew he wouldn’t hurt me. I could see that in his eyes.”

             
“He is kind of tall,” Mercy laughed. “You can read people so easily, just by looking at their eyes?” I nodded.

             
“My dad always encouraged me to watch people closely, especially their eyes. People can’t easily hide the truth from their eyes. It was supposed to help me with my art, but I found myself learning to read people and their intentions. I knew the man who hurt me was going to hurt me from the moment I saw him. That was perhaps in some ways scarier than him actually hurting me. Just watching, waiting. His eyes were pure evil.” I shivered with the memory. Mercy sat and watched me thoughtfully.

             
“It has helped you to stay safe though, your ability to see people for who they really are.” I nodded.

             
“Mercy, can I ask you something about Jax?”              

             
“Of course, but I might not be able to answer. Sometimes our stories are our own to tell.” I took a deep breath and looked her in the eye.

             
“While Jax is busy trying to help everyone else, who’s going to help him?” I wondered out loud. Mercy’s smile faltered and she stared at me with some confusion. I held up my sketch.

             
“Don’t you see what’s in his eyes?” I asked her. My picture wasn’t finished, but I had captured his eyes perfectly. It was an image in my mind from when he had sat quietly in this very chair the prior night. He obviously thought I was asleep, but I was awake long enough to see his eyes slip into a familiar place. Pain, hatred, guilt. I had seen them all at one time or another in the eyes of one person or another. I had seen the look in my own eyes too many times to recount. Mercy’s smile was completely gone now as she reached out for my sketch.

             
“This is how you see Jax?” She asked surprised.

             
“Not all the time, but it’s there.” Jax was good at hiding his own hurt and suffering. “Like I said, I watch people closely and sometimes it means I catch a glimpse of something that nobody else sees. I don’t know Jax’s story, but he kind of looks like he needs saving too.” Mercy nodded thoughtfully, handing the sketch book back. I could tell my picture had upset her.

             
“Jax has demons, like all of us. He has talked to someone about them and is doing much better, perhaps not as well as I thought, but definitely better. Your very astute Ella, you have an extraordinary gift, and I don’t just mean the art. Perhaps it was something other than sheer luck that brought you to us the night of the storm.”             

             
“Like fate?” I wondered. Mercy smiled.

             
“Maybe… maybe you will be as good for him as he is for you,” she murmured leaving me alone in the big living area.

             
I had somehow managed to keep Ella from myself and my thoughts most of the day, keeping myself completely immersed in work, but now I was home, alone and quiet, she was all I could think about. Her grateful, shaken expression when she had seen the sketch book and charcoal I had bought for her the day before was playing back through my mind like an endless loop. I squeezed my eyes shut willing my mind to find darkness and yet she was all I saw. That fall of waist long hair as smooth as silk, those dark eyes so dark they were almost black, her full lips, soft milky skin. I groaned. I couldn’t stop thinking about her and the thoughts were making my jeans rather uncomfortable. A cold shower was what I needed, a cold shower and a lobotomy.

             
One cold shower and an inevitable jerk off later, I still felt like a wound up, irritable and very horny adolescent. Resorting to a glass of whiskey and some ACDC I lay back in the recliner and studiously took in my surroundings. I loved my house, built with my own two hands. It was a two bedroom loft style home, with a high roof, thick exposed beams and polished timber floor boards. An enormous shag pile rug that Mercy had convinced me I needed for winter sat in front of a large open fire place. My T.V sat virtually unused on the wall, my pride and joy, my stereo was housed in a large timber cabinet under it. My guitar lay on the couch like an abandoned old friend following a lonely jam session from a few nights ago and my bookshelf was now full of CD’s, the books I had donated to the shelter. The living area opened out into a combined dining room and kitchen, also in timber and a large study come guest room, a laundry and a bathroom occupied the other end of the house. The main bedroom occupied the upstairs loft, along with an impressive bathroom with a huge double shower stall big enough for me to spend hours of heated bliss under. My king sized bed sat against the wall with matching bedside tables and my walk in robe was full of jeans and t-shirts. One brand new Hugo Boss suit that I had spent far too much money on sat in a garment bag at the back of the robe, along with my military formal wear. I was lucky, I had a good life, considering the shit I had seen and done. I had all this, a nice home, a good job, family. Things could have gone differently for me if Mercy hadn’t of had the guts to leave my dad. If she had of stayed with the abusive alcoholic bastard, Ella’s life could have been mine. It never ceased to astound me the people who found themselves on the streets, homeless, abused. A fucked up life was not discriminatory. Young, old, rich, poor, plain or beautiful, bad shit could happen to anyone. I hated that my world was full of women who had been harmed by men. I knew it was a power thing, and that most of those men would never pick on someone equal. What I would give for time alone with the assholes who hit these women. Mercy told me to let go of that attitude. The women didn’t need a violent man to deal with their violent men. It took every ounce of self-control I possessed to keep my shit together sometimes, the urge to lash out at the fuckers who hurt these women was almost debilitating. But I couldn’t help them by scaring the shit out of them. Mercy was right. One act of violence does not fix another. Finally the whiskey began to work its way into my body and mind and I somehow stumbled my way to bed where I sank into blissful darkness.