She’ll threaten my life one minute, and suck my dick in the next, assuring me I’d die a happy man if she killed me directly after.
You know those little Sour Patch Kids that slap you and hug you in the next breath? That’s Kylie.
And it’s one of the many reasons for my increasing addiction.
“Outsiders don’t get to know about Tomahawk. Not the fun stuff. It’s for residents only. So until you become a full time local, then no; I can’t tell you anything,” she explains.
She smirks at me and resumes painting the canvas. It looks like a grunge take on the city’s skyline. Not my favorite work of hers, but still intriguing.
She just paints for fun usually. She only puts a lot of thought into her sculptures for the galleries, and those are unique, incredible and completely captivating.
“What about your family?”
She shrugs, still painting. We’ve mostly talked about me, and my family—that is going to be royally pissed when I cut them off. And my shitty friends, who haven’t bothered to call or make good on the ‘if you need something, just let us know,’ promises. And my obsession with buying art, even though I have zero artistic talents.
I like wood work, and I do some work in my shop, but it’s limited to functional pieces. Nothing creative.
Getting Kylie to talk about anything is like pulling teeth from a piranha.
“My mom took off when I was five,” she says, shocking me. I’ve asked about her family daily, and it’s the first time she’s answered.
“Why?” is the stupid fucking question I ask, as though there could be a good reason for abandoning your child.
She snorts. “We were too much for her to deal with. My dad got saddled with my cousins most of the time, because my aunt and uncle split time between Tomahawk and Florida, where he had another set of children with his ex. Complicated family, they have. My mom finally left, and my dad raised me, while also dealing with my heathen cousins a good chunk of the time.”
I try to sit up so I can see her better. Her expression is one of focus, because she’s talking absently while channeling all her energy into her painting.
“Your cousins still live there?”
A huge smile breaks across her face. “Yeah. They have their own places on our side of the lake, but our family sees each other almost daily—when I’m not doing a rare trip like this. My aunt and uncle moved to Florida permanently after the last one turned eighteen two years ago. I have a place in town I stay at when I get tired of them messing up my concentration. It’s a small, cramped apartment, but I can breathe easier there. I still go back and stay with Dad though, because he’d kill me if I didn’t.”
Smiling to myself and wondering what she’d be like in her own element, I try to picture her home. A ranch keeps popping into my mind, even though she swears there’s no ranch.
“Any friends?”
“Several. Sometimes we have to sneak around to see each other though. If we’re seeing more than one family at a time, that is.”
“What?” I ask, confused.
She blinks like she realizes she said something she shouldn’t have, then a daring little grin curves her lips. “Local knowledge only. Sorry, Anatomically Correct Ken.” She turns and blows me a kiss before returning to her work.
That’s my least favorite thing she calls me.
“What got you into painting?” I ask her.
She laughs, moving on to a new canvas as she sets that one aside to dry.
“I need stimulation of some sort all the time. Sometimes multiple sources. I’m not an easy person to be around, in case you haven’t noticed. Hence the reason I’m single. If I don’t have a constant outlet, then something terrible happens.”
I love it when she says that.
“What happens?” I ask, taking the bait, as always.
She turns and gives me a serious look, which is debunked, due to the red paint on the tip of her nose that gives her a clownish vibe.
“I get bored.”
My smile only grows. “It’s a terrible thing for you to get bored?” I ask, smiling bigger.
She nods slowly. “You have no idea. It’s a terrible thing for any Malone to get bored.”
“Why is that?” I ask as she wipes the red paint off her nose.
She holds up her hand.
“Let me guess; I’d only be privy to that information if I was a Tomahawk local,” I say, grinning over at her.
She winks at me and taps her nose, letting me know I’ve guessed it on-the-nose.
“So when my leg heals up, are you going to let me take you out to dinner?”
“To tell me thank you?” she asks, apparently oblivious.
“Well, yeah. And to let me in your pants. Like with my dick instead of my tongue or fingers for a change.” It’s supposed to sound crudely charming, but instead it sounds totally…lewd, crass, and shitty.