Adriana traced the scar that ran from the back of Michael’s fingers up to his elbow. “How did you get this?”
He tensed. Sooner or later, they always asked.
He sat up, no longer able to enjoy the after-glow of their lovemaking. Scar or art—it never mattered which topic piqued someone’s interest, their curiosity always led to the same place.
Usually, he deflected his secrets with a curt “childhood accident,” or a skillful redirection of the conversation. When that didn’t work, he sicced Jackson White on them. If that failed, he ran. Only once in his career had he completely lost his cool, and even then, Jackson had managed to convince the L.A. Times reviewer that “none of your goddamn business” made Michael Cross “California’s most intriguing new talent in modern art.”
None of these tactics would work with Adriana. She meant too much to him not to share the truth. The only question was: How much of it should he share?
With Jackson, he had gotten away with the bare minimum, “I was sketching too close to a fireplace and caught my arm in the fire.” Not the whole truth by any means, but not exactly a lie. He had required deeper disclosure with the psychic potter who shared his loft back in Venice Beach.
He and Panchali had bonded the instant she had crossed the track of his rolling metal gate and stepped foot inside his two-story atrium carport. Something about her bright smile, flaming red hair, and the turquoise turban she had wound around it had instantly attracted him to her; not in a sexual way but in a way that was familiar and comforting. After using his trust fund money to convert the old Venice Beach textile factory into what Jackson liked to call his “impenetrable fortress,” Michael offered Panchali an affordable lease. It turned out to be a perfect living situation until he made the mistake of telling her about the voices in the banyan tree. After that, the rest of his secrets bubbled out of his mouth: the malevolent presence at the lake, sticking his arm in the fire when he was seven, and how fascinated he had been by the firebirds pecking at his sleeve.
“Michael? Did you hear what I said?”
He shook away the image of those hungry little birds to find Adriana watching him with concern.
“I burned myself as a child.”
“How awful.” She reached for his shoulder, but stopped when he flinched. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
He shook his head. “I want to tell you. It’s just that this isn’t something I usually talk about. Ever.” He laughed. “What am I worried about? You live in a place where people leave sidewalk dinners for spirits. You shouldn’t have any trouble with the ones that have plagued me.”
Adriana blinked in surprise. “You believe in spirits? But I thought—”
“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry I made fun of you. Defense mechanism.”
He waved a hand to dispel the bad energy and caught sight of the scar. It had faded over the decades, but the memories of what had caused it remained.