Beneath The Skin(41)

“I’m afraid,” she answers dryly with a coy smirk, and I can’t tell if she’s mocking what I said earlier or if she means it. “Remember? I’m like, all afraid of you or … whatever.” She stumbles slightly on her way to the pedestal we shared a few moments ago, then retrieves my phone and returns it to me with an awkward, reluctant look. “I’m really sorry tonight didn’t turn out the way you wanted.”

“You were fine. I … wasn’t expecting anything. I just—”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers again, then turns her back to me, placing herself in front of a painting on an easel.

After giving her a moment, I slowly approach, gently place my chin on her shoulder, and let my lips graze her neck, which might or might not have been a mistake, considering how much stiffer my cock just got. But the longer I stand here behind her, the more I realize that … it isn’t happening.

If only my cock could get the memo.

I let myself see the painting we’re standing in front of. It’s a sweet little girl in watercolor—I think—and she’s cheerfully embracing this enormous dog at her side, except the dog’s head is missing. Or maybe she hasn’t painted it yet.

Or maybe I’m starting to notice a theme in her work.

“It’s beautiful,” I murmur in her ear. She doesn’t respond. “I’ll go,” I assure her, in case she still thinks I’m trying to weasel back into her tight, sexy pants. I might be, if I’m totally honest. “But let me see you again, at least. Please. Maybe … let me have your number, or like …”

I can feel her tenseness, even just through my chin on her shoulder.

I guess I can take a hint. When I sigh, my breath causes her hair to stir. “Alright,” I mutter, then slip away from her.

She says nothing and makes no movement as I cross her loft and let myself out through the sliding door. I take my time, just in case she changes her mind and calls out for me.

She doesn’t.

I hear the thumping of live rock music through the walls as I descend the stairs—a band rehearsing. I’m not sure if it’s my mood or what, but their music annoys the shit out of me and the lead singer can’t sing. Or maybe I’m pissed about my cock, which I have to keep adjusting in my pants as it slowly goes to sleep. Yeah, there’s a wet spot there. And yeah, I’m gonna have blue balls for hours tonight, I can tell.

By the time I get outside, I’m just plain angry.

Why do I feel like I’ve done something wrong? I treated Nell like a damn princess. Kinda. Did I push things too fast? Should I not have let my horniness control me, sending me down a path that led right between her sweet, womanly legs? I mean, I don’t have anything to feel sorry for, do I? Hell, I’m the one who made sure she got hers.

When I reach the car, I make an unfortunate discovery. I stare at the jagged hole in the passenger side window, my mouth frozen half-open as I literally can’t even process what I’m seeing.

I step closer, peering into the broken window at the seat where I had left my so-called flashy device.

“Motherfucker,” I hiss through gritted teeth.





BRANT



“What do you mean it’s lost??”

I fall into the couch, annoyed, and wrap myself in my blue-and-orange afghan. It smells funny. Eric and one of his boys-of-the-week probably cuddled up in it. I wrinkle my face, annoyed by that, too.

“Oh, Brant. Oh, Brant, Brant, Brant …”

I sigh into the phone against my ear. “It’s lost,” I repeat tiredly. “I already told you, Mom.”

“You lost an eight-hundred dollar camera??”

“Mom.” I don’t want to say the whole truth, but considering where this conversation will likely lead if I don’t, I choose the lesser of two evils. “It … was stolen.”

“Stolen, sweetheart? Oh, no! Were you robbed?”

“Someone broke into my roommate’s car and stole it.”

“Oh! What was it doing in your roommate’s car?”

“I was … running an errand,” I answer with a huff. “Well, sorta. I left it in the car.”

“Brant,” she reprimands. “Oh, dear. I told you to keep it with you at all times, sweetheart.”

“Don’t we have some kind of insurance?”

“Insurance??” my mother exclaims, sighing exasperatedly. “Yes, Phil. The camera. The camera. Honey, do you know what your son did?”

Now, she’s talking to Dad. Whenever she’s pissed at me, she says “your son”, as if with one word she can pretend she wasn’t the one who gave birth to all ten-and-a-half pounds of me.