2 ◇ Secrets

◇ KEL ◇

"Maxim, sei a lavoro?"

"No, Pappa. Vado a casa."

Kel grabbed her satchel and pretended not to listen in before unbuckling her seat belt. She ignored Miles and his furtive glances.

He reclined in the driver seat, frowning while an unexpected phone call from Mr. Falco held his attention. His phone wasn't on loudspeaker, but she could hear enough.

His dad just had this deep and clear-cut, usually authoritative voice. "Visiteremo Brescia visto che è il tuo compleanno," Mr. Falco said over the phone as Miles parked in front of the house. 

"Erm..." Miles pulled the car keys out of the ignition as she stepped out of the passenger seat. "Okay, Pappa." Miles sounded reticent now, his voice muted. He muttered more Italian responses as he stepped out of his car, hurriedly and with a familiar expression he put on every time he talked to his parents on the phone.

To give him some privacy, Kel proceeded to the front lawn of their quiet abode.

Well, she barely had the right to imply partial ownership of the high-priced house and lot, but, for months now, the simple but elegant two-storey house had been her home away from home, her secure and private residence away from the busy city, with Miles as her freehanded roommate, of course.

He caught up to her sooner than she could unlock the huge front door. The drive from the show venue lasted two hours or so, her aching back and legs telltale signs of her overworked state. She sighed.

Fashion Week always did her in. Grueling. Time-consuming.  The only thing she appreciated right now was the fact that her head didn't feel like it was being jackhammered from inside her skull, and the possibility of a bigger paycheck this week.

"Rest up." Miles watched her fumble with the keys and held her purse for her.

"Want something to eat?" Kel unlocked the knobs. The heavy, solid hardwood door made her wince. Her limbs ached whenever she would make sudden movements. A good night's sleep to recuperate from her runway stints would definitely help.

"I'm good. I'll make something if you're hungry." Miles lingered in the doorway, his car keys jangling in his hand as she walked towards the spacious kitchen.

She just about dragged her feet until she reached the dining room. 

"Was waiting for you to call." He took raw meat and vegetables out of the fridge. "No more shows tomorrow?" He switched the stove on and kept his back to her, his hands quick with the ingredients.

"Yeah. So tired," Kel muttered. She stretched her achy back and sat in one of the empty eight chairs. The wide table served little to no purpose. The only time the dining set wasn't totally empty was when Miles let the security staff enjoy a warm home-cooked meal with them—a rarity. Miles loved his privacy.

When this afternoon's events popped back into her mind, she rushed to the hallway to grab her satchel.  She checked her phone for any new calls or texts from an unregistered number.

None.  Thank God.

Kel stood in the dim hallway, just staring at the messages from a certain someone she didn't think would spoil her otherwise productive afternoon.

"It's me. Pick up."
"Still in Milan?
Almost there.  --D"

Her heart leapt again. The texts just forced her to read them over and over.

Was he actually here in Italy?  The guy was too busy working on a new movie, as far as she recalled. Not that she was keeping tabs.

"Rare or medium rare?" Miles then hollered out from the kitchen. The aromatic smell of meat cooking distracted her right away. "Kel? Hey. Mykaela?"

"Yeah." She swore inwardly and slid her phone into her pocket.

"Still finishing a painting. Can't drive you around if you'd like to go somewhere later."

"Goin' out's the last thing on my mind right now." She massaged her temples and walked back into the dining room. Strange how her headache just vanished after a two-hour drive with Miles behind the wheel. She didn't even nap. "My headache's gone." She sat back down on the chair nearest to the stove. She loved watching him cook.  

Miles Falco...slaving away in his own kitchen to fix her a meal. Such a rare sight. Almost funny, actually.  

"What's your secret? You're always better than painkillers."

"You just like me that much." Miles smirked when he caught her staring from afar. He flipped the pinkish pieces of meat and let them crackle on the pan.

Everything just smelled divine. Her stomach wanted to jump for joy. No runway shows until next week. Now she could eat whatever  she wanted.  Her stomach grumbled while her nose enjoyed the scent of garlic and meat cooking.

"Eat everything on your plate. I'm not stepping out of the basement after this."

"Sudden bout of inspiration?" She smiled and waited for him to spare her a small grin. They hadn't had a proper conversation since he sped out of the show venue's parking lot. "You done with the biggest?" she asked with more enthusiasm, imagining his latest paintings. "Can I take a look?"

"Definitely not." Miles kept his gaze on the stove. "I'm not even done shading the first one yet."

"How's your mom and dad?" she asked out of mere curiosity. He rarely visited or called his parents.  Why didn't Miles talk to his family more often?  The phone call from his father didn't even take two minutes.    

"Fine."

Counting out the scraping and crackling noises on the stove, the kitchen and dining room fell silent when Miles didn't further the conversation.

Something bothered him. She could sense it. Kel frowned. 

He was never this reserved, except when he got busy behind a canvas or something disturbed his peace of mind. Miles hadn't looked her in the eye since that kiss outside the show venue.

It wasn't really a kiss, though. More like, an awkward lips-on-lips contact. Between friends. Plain old friends. Never been the "with benefits" kind. Not in the romantic sense, at least.

It wouldn't be an issue had the circumstances been different. If it was him who gave her a kiss, she wouldn't put any meaning behind it. At times, he was just that affectionate towards his close friends, especially after a couple drinks.  Not that he had a lot of girl friends.

But perhaps he figured she kissed him because of something else entirely. And now he seemed uptight that she hadn't come clean about it, or her panic-stricken behavior earlier.

If he was just waiting for her to start the discussion, then fine. She'd let the cat out of the bag. She sighed and walked towards the stove to hug him from behind. "Thanks."

"For what?" Miles stilled and stopped angrily scratching the frying pan with the spatula like he'd rather do construction work than kitchen duties.

"For being the chef today and for picking me up early."

"Not gonna happen again, so don't get used to it."

"Hey. I'm tryin' to be nice here." She stopped hugging him to pinch his earlobe.

"Fine.  Just, get off me." Miles chuckled while his free hand tried to push her away. "You'll get oil burns."

"Fine. Be mean." Kel backed away from him and kept her hands to herself. Why was he dodging the conversation?  But at least they were back to being friendly.

"Get the cayenne." Miles regarded the brownish pork chops making noises on the hot pan. "And parsley."

"Got it, chef." She was just about to tend to his request when something in her pocket trilled.  She froze and gripped her phone. Could it be Drew?

The surprise didn't escalate into panic when she read her sister's name on the screen. For a moment, she just stared at Jill's photo.  Jill's big smile and light brown curls promptly reminded her of their mother.

Jill took after their mom, whereas Kel inherited her stick-straight hair and strong features from their dad. She and Jill hadn't been in constant communication all year long since their last serious conversation on the phone, which resulted in an argument about her leaving America on a whim.

Kel took the call and distractedly stepped away from Miles. "Hey. Baby's asleep?

"Yeah. Hey." Jill's hoarse voice greeted her on the other end, her tone urgent. "Drew called."

"Dessert? Bought pudding and chocolate cake."

"Thanks. Maybe later." Kel sat still and held onto her phone, secretly waiting for another phone call or text from an unregistered number she had already memorized. Her sister's phone call had been a surprising one as much as it was informative. They kept their chat short, though.

Part of her just didn't want Miles to notice anything unusual. Kel glanced around the spacious basement. Paint-smeared cans, scrapped lifesize canvasses, and soiled, overused rags littered the floor of the studio. Just days-old trash waiting to get stuffed into garbage bags.

It was the only room in the house where her artistic friend didn't observe cleanliness and order to an impressive degree. It was also the only room where she was least welcomed in.  Miles loved working on his art in total solitude, quiet and undisturbed. He stood in the middle of the room now, wearing pants that looked overused with patches of different paint colors.

White lights lit the basement, but not too brightly. He probably liked the fairly mysterious lighting. Maybe it helped him get in the mood to paint. "You're the only girl I know who doesn't like chocolates."

"I'm just really full," she replied. Her stomach just protested at the thought of artificial flavorings and processed sugars. The juicy, meaty steak he cooked for her was enough to satiate her appetite.  "Want a slice?"

"No."

Oh. Why was she in here again? Kel pulled a face.  He kind of insisted that she come down here with him after she cleaned up the dishes. Did he want to talk to her about something? "Need help with something?"

"No."

His immediate response made her sit still.  She stared at his broad back while he continued to paint. "So you...need to talk?"  Was he going to bring up the kiss now? Right now?

"I think," Miles mumbled while his impressively precise hand painted dark strands on the canvas. "You should ask yourself that."

"Um...okay?" Kel scrunched her brows at his vague reply.  

Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead every time he'd turn away from the canvas to grab something from his paint stash.  "So?" Miles stayed focused on the painting. It featured a woman with long hair as dark as a raven, her slender body lying on something white and slanted. "What happened back at the show?"

"Nothing." She bit on her lip. Her voice almost wavered. Ugh.  She was such a terrible liar. "Just the usual."

"Did anyone unwelcome approach you?" Miles turned to glance at her, his grin mild and quite forced. 

Her peculiar behavior after the fashion show obviously piqued his curiosity.  "I thought, I heard someone." Kel paused to chastise herself in her head. She should just put her phone away. 

For months now, she actually thought she'd already tricked herself into thinking she had finally moved on.  Why was she expecting the guy to call again? 

"And?"

"I think, Drew got my new number."

His long and careful hairlike strokes halted at her reply. Miles cleared his throat, seeming surprised by the news.

"I'm not sure it's him, but..."

"Tried to call him back?"

"No."

"But you texted him?"

"No." Kel watched him resume painting on the canvas, his strokes now less precise but focused on the woman's dark hair.  "I...I couldn't send a reply."

"Why? What'd he say?"

"That he's...in Milan."

At her hesitant tone, Miles paused and studied the colorful painting before him. Seconds of awkward silence filled the room.

It made her uneasy. She could tell he felt the same. 

Miles only kept eye contact to a minimum whenever he was anxious or bothered by something. "You sure?" He picked up another paintbrush. His back slouched and remained facing her while his paint-smeared fist clenched beside his hip.

"Not really.

"You're gonna see him?"

"No," she answered. "Jill called. Told me he's been looking for me." She absently rubbed her palm against her forehead, unsure of what else to say.

"Yeah; I figured." Miles didn't press on, but his tone denoted a fair amount of curiosity and doubt.

"Can we talk about something else?" She covered her face with her hands to muffle a timid sigh.

"Okay. Sorry." Miles wiped his overworked fingers with an old rag. The look on his face appeared blank instead of sympathetic. He stepped closer to her, looking like he was waiting for her to start another conversation—maybe one that didn't involve impulsive exes and surprising phone calls.

"How's your folks?" she asked while trying to maintain eye contact with him. A part of her hoped he was in the mood to talk about his family.
She'd known him for years now (although they were merely acquaintances then), but his being tightlipped about his own family remained a mystery she had yet to unravel.

"What about 'em?" Miles looked away and grabbed something on the paint-stained table. He bunched up his dark hair with an elastic band.

"Just...you were talking to your dad and," she muttered, "I wasn't listening in, but..."

"He said they're comin' over."

"Really? For your birthday?" She smiled when he only nodded. "How's your Pappa?"

"Fine," Miles mumbled. "Busy. As always." He turned to the canvas again and ripped open a sachet of something he used for mixing colors.

A moment of silence prolonged. "You don't visit or call them up," she remarked. She was just curious about his parents.

From what he'd shared about his wealthy family, she knew his parents barely had time for him.  They were always tied up with the family business. Miles had also told her once or twice that his family, more often than not, could get a little controlling and domineering.

But to what extent—she had yet to discover for herself. "Why? I mean, I just noticed you don't talk to them often."

"Says the girl who never calls home and ran away twice now." Miles smirked, then turned his attention back to his painting. 

"Okay—  That's an exaggeration." She chuckled, shook her head, and stood up from the chair to get closer to him. The canvas he worked on stood far from her, but the strong smell of fresh paint and thinner assaulted her nose.  She smothered half of her face.

"Go rest up," Miles advised when he saw her covering her nose.

"What d'you want for your birthday?"

Instead of answering her question,  he ignored her and continued shading the outline of the faceless woman on the painting.

"I need to get you something. Help me out."

"Anything's fine."

"What about a new book?"  She put on another smile. "No? What about cake? Party stuff?" she suggested when he didn't respond. "New boyfriend?"

"Right." Miles scoffed. "'Cause that's just what I need right now," he murmured.

His evasive reply got her quiet. Maybe he was already seeing someone new? But that was another story for another time. Clearly he wasn't in a chatty mood, and he needed a couple more hours to complete the other paintings.

"Are those finished?" she asked of the paintings in the corner. She sat on the edge of the table with the disorderly collection of painting materials. Several knives sat on the desk, alongside other sharp tools whose purposes she didn't even want to know.

"Barely," Miles sighed. "The new deadlines are fuckin' exhausting."

"Okay. I'm out." She stretched her aching back while sitting on the edge of the table, then fumbled for her phone. "Ow!" She flinched when something sharp pricked her hand. "What the he—" She lifted her hand.


On the side of her palm, a thin wound was taking form.

For a few seconds, she just stared at the crooked line of bright red blood staining her pale skin. The warm liquid oozed and lined on the side of her palm while the stinging intensified.

How did she cut herself?  Her voice must've been loud enough. Miles stopped whatever he was doing and rushed to her in a blink. "What?"

"I cut myself."

"With what?" Miles looked around. He sighed when he saw the knife behind her. He held her wrist gently to inspect the wound. "Let's clean this up."

"No; it's fine." Kel pulled away to stop him from staring at her bloody hand. She dismissed his fussing and eyed the stairs, the only way out of his studio and this cold basement.

"Lemme see. It might get infect—"

"It's fine. I'll get the first aid kit upstairs."

"No. Let me—" Miles grabbed her forearm rather forcefully as their small tug-of-war lasted a few more seconds.

"It's nothing," she mumbled. The pain under her skin intensified, but she ignored it. The second she realized he was intent on taking care of it, she stopped resisting.

The side of her injured palm hit his face, and before they could both react, a bright red smear of her blood had already stained his lips.

Oh crap.  Now her mouth and throat felt like they closed up.

Standing still before her, cheeks turning pale and looking shocked himself, Miles let go of her and lifted his paint-smudged fingers to his lips. His brows furrowed at the splotch of her blood on his skin. He backed off before either of them could speak again, then just rushed to the stairs.

It baffled her while she sat on the messy table. "Hey," she called out before his tall figure disappeared from her view.

What was that about?

"Sorry." She climbed up the dimly lit stairs, her common sense dazed with confusion. "You okay?" She was barely out of the basement yet, but she could already hear a faucet running.

Now he was spitting and making retching noises by the kitchen sink.

Huh.  New fun fact:  Miles Falco was terrified by the sight of blood.

"I'll clean that up," he mumbled after turning off the faucet.  "And you gotta stop giving your parents more reasons to hate me."


◆ MILES ◆

He was exaggerating.  Her parents didn't hate him—they were devout Catholics.  Like his mom's family.  The Nielsens were the regular churchgoer type.

Same with their daughter, he couldn't imagine her parents hating someone.  But he knew they didn't approve of his living situation with Mykaela here in Italy.  His parents didn't encourage it, either.

Still, he didn't really give a shit.  He liked having Kel around.  She kept him grounded and levelheaded.  The past year, she'd been a lot of help.  She took care of household chores, she fed him good food, she curbed his propensity for alcohol and drug abuse, and she was his unpaid personal nurse that time he was going through withdrawal. 

Thanks to her, he quit drugs without going back to rehab.  He was no longer contemplating reverting to his self-destructive ways as often as before.  She kept him alive and well, basically.

"How's your hand?" Miles polished the finishing touches on the life-size painting he'd been working on for months now.  Like the last time he tried painting a big one featuring a female subject, he asked Mykaela to be his muse, but only after he patched up her injury.

"Fine." She glanced up to smile at him.  Her short dark hair and thick lashes emphasized the paleness of her complexion as she lay still on the couch, right in the middle of his studio.  Her slim arm hid half of her naked chest, while a long lacy dress covered her skin-tone underwear and beautiful legs.  "Almost done?"

"99 percent," he replied, giving the painting one last color check.  The shading looked decent, the gradients quite realistic.  To him at least.  A gratifying sense of accomplishment took over his thoughts as he stared at the artwork.

One more thing to sell and impress his small client base with soon.  Considering he didn't always finish something he started, he felt pretty good about himself right now.

"Can I see?" Kel grinned wider.

"Yeah. Your job tonight's done," he muttered with a smirk.

"Cool beans..." She gasped upon seeing the finished product, with her arm wrapped around his back as they stood in front of the life-size artwork.  "So beautiful."

"Is it?" He watched her smile narrow her pale green eyes and felt even better about his latest work.  Maybe he should ask her out to dinner this weekend to thank her for helping him out again.  Once her busy "full-time model" schedule calmed down.

"Yeah. Very."  With a giggle, Kel walked away to get dressed behind the canvas.  "She looks like me, too. Oh! I bought you new brushes by the way."

"Why?" Did he mention that he needed new paintbrushes?  When?

"Nothing. I just thought of you."  She beamed at him before giving him a hug from behind.  "I saw a new arts and crafts store before the shoot."

"Thanks," he murmured, waiting for her to say she missed him after he'd been hiding here in the basement for three days straight.  Deadlines and all.  "How much did it cost?"

"Shh! I'm busy."  As she kept staring at the woman on the painting, her pale arms tightened around his waist.

He wasn't a hugger, and emotional intimacy made him cringe more often than not.  But with her, it felt kind of natural and effortless.  Whenever she hugged him, it gave him a different kind of comfort he wasn't quite used to.

"You feel so warm, and nice," she murmured while her soft palms pressed onto his fly, instantly reminding him that he wasn't wearing anything underneath his pants.  

He knew she didn't mean to, but she didn't stop embracing him as they stood in front of the canvas, just enjoying the silence and privacy.  "You smell nice," he commented after a quiet few seconds.  Her jasmine-smelling shampoo and roses-inspired fragrance pleased his nose and distracted him from focusing on the painting.

Shit.  He hadn't rubbed one out in weeks. His junk actually hurt now.  But he'd rather not say her hug was already giving him a boner.  He wasn't on antidepressants anymore—ergo, it's just his libido acting up again.

He wouldn't deny that he'd been crushing on her, though.  Just because she was such a good influence.  

Her being around almost always helped him deal with his issues.  She helped him work on his self-image and mental health.  She improved his outlook on life in general.  

Sometimes he thought of her as his tamer, more intelligent, more levelheaded alter ego.  They just had a lot in common despite growing up with different backgrounds.  His Italian parents had money, while her humble working-class family were mostly immigrants who sought their version of "the American dream".  

She grew up with an older sister in a happy household with a normal childhood, while his was the opposite.  Only child. Often sad. Lonely. Living with psychologically scarring memories that haunted him to this day.

A few times, he imagined her in bed with him so he could show her how much he enjoyed her company.  Sometimes he would lust over her.  Sometimes he imagined kissing her and having her in his bed whenever he watched some smut.  But he never acted on it.  

It would only ruin their friendship—their comfortable bond and ideal living situation, most especially.  So he held back.  Just common sense, really.

Sometimes he would daydream and ponder asking her to try a serious relationship with him.  But then he'd sober up and realize how fucked up his family was, and he'd instantly dismiss the thought of having any future with her.  Once the booze wore off, it slapped him with the harsh reality that he was far from the ideal guy she wanted or needed in her life.

So for now, he would keep his dick in his pants and carry on with his routine.  He'd rather be alone and stay her friend than risk losing her just because of these asinine biological urges.  

Besides, she wasn't the kind of girl who would be up for a friends-with-benefits type of thing.  Far from it.

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