"In that case, I'm pissed I have to leave."
"Sure I can't interest you in dessert?"
"You can interest me in all sorts of things, but right now I have to go." I say, raking my eyes down and back up her perfect body. When I reach her eyes again, I capture her gaze.
"You'll have to come back next week," she says, chewing her bottom lip.
"Next time I'll definitely stay for dessert."
"We have several on the menu, you could stay long enough to sample them all."
"The dessert I want isn't on the menu."
Skye's eyes flare, and she turns away from me.
"Here you go." She prints off our bill and hands it to me.
"How's the picture coming?" I pull out several rolled-up bills and hand them to her.
"Well, I didn't get much sense of who your date is, so I drew you instead."
"Let me see." I snatch her pad, intrigued by how she perceives me.
"It's not finished yet," she says, grabbing for the pad.
I hold it out of her reach and take a look. I'm so ripped in her picture that I look like a superhero. There are no horns on my head, and no fire coming from my mouth. Instead I'm standing with my arms crossed, my arms covered in ink and a hamburger in a thought bubble over my head.
"That's definitely not what I'm thinking about," I say.
"Then what are you thinking about?" She asks, her eyes pleading. I reach out and stroke the backs of my fingers down her cheek. Skye maintains my gaze, her breathing quick.
"It's hard to put into words," I say. Skye swallows.
"Then show me," she says, her voice barely audible.
I reach out, cup the back of her head and press my mouth against hers. My cock stiffens at the softness of her lips. I pull away, leaving my hand cupping her head and holding her eyes with mine.
As soon as her mouth is free of me, she says, "Your date is right over there."
"She's not my date, she's my sister."
"I'm at work, I'll get in … " I silence her by planting my mouth back on hers. She moans and parts her lips, allowing my tongue to dart into her.
I brush my hand down the length of her tight T-shirt. When I get to the fine ass I've been watching all night, I rub my hand over it. My cock aches for more.
"Skye! In the staff room. You! Stop harassing my employees or I'll call the cops," a man barks.
She pushes away and I release my hold on her. "Sorry, Kevin," she says.
The man, I assume he's her boss, stays where he is, glaring at us. I tighten my hold on her, ready to go back in for more, but she places her hands on my chest and it stops me.
"I have to go, I need this job."
"Sure." I can't resist myself, I give her one more quick kiss on her lips then release her.
Gasping, she says, "Is that my tip?"
I laugh and say, "No, this is your tip: Stop waiting tables and become an artist."
Before she can respond, Julie appears and glares at me.
"Later," I say, and we leave the restaurant.
The Offer
(Skye)
I can barely concentrate on driving. My mind keeps flipping between that guy kissing me, and Kevin sending me home straight after. My first real kiss, and holy cow was it amazing. But it's cost me big money in tips since the restaurant was so busy.
Kevin said that was my last chance. I can't afford to be out on my ass. But if that man comes in again and tries to kiss me, there's no way I'll stop him. No matter how much I need the money from the restaurant. His kiss just felt too damn good.
When I'm getting ready for bed, I realize the money the hot guy gave me to cover his check is still in my pocket. I pull the money out to put with my apron, which I'll bring in with me on Thursday.
I unfold the bills. Three hundreds. The bills lay across my hand and I stare at them. Did he mean to give me three twenties? I don't think so. He doesn't strike me as the sort of man who ever makes mistakes.
Is this supposed to be some sort of ploy to get my attention? Can he even afford to do something like this? I stand, debating what to do. There's one person who really deserves this money.
Instead of putting the money with my apron to take into work, I open my top drawer and place it in my stash of emergency money. Money that, until tonight, consisted of thirty bucks.
When I see the guy again, I'll try to give him the money back. If he refuses, I'll think up a reason to convince Ava to accept the money from me.
In bed, I can't help myself. I slide my hand between my legs, remembering the minutiae of the kiss. His smell, his taste, the strength of his arms. And, of course, I can't ignore what was digging into my hip - what an incredible feeling.
Why didn't I write my phone number on my drawing? How stupid am I? All I did was sign it with my standard art signature: Skye. No last name; nothing. I wonder if he'll come in again after the way Kevin acted.
Almost instantly, an orgasm washes over me. The memory of the kiss is so fresh, I can't bring myself to take my hand away. I fall asleep with it between my legs.
At some point in the middle of the night, I half wake up, realize I've been dreaming about that kiss, and the man doing the kissing, and that my hand has been moving as if possessed. Dripping wet and excited all over by the dream, I crash into another huge orgasm.
Please let him come back next Saturday.
In the morning, I hide from Ava in my studio. I have too many thoughts to sort out. After being sent home and given a final warning, Kevin's not going to give me any extra shifts; there's no point in asking. Ava needs to remortgage her house, and my freeloading is the reason. I need to think up a reason for her to take that money, but I haven't come up with anything yet. And then there are all those possible commissions from the artist website.
I sit on the floor beside my laptop and call up the website. My eyes widen when a message icon appears in the corner. Someone probably wants me to paint their dog, but my heart leaps in excitement anyway.
My eyes pop when I see it's not from any of the jobs I replied to. It's a new user who only joined last week. I try to calm myself as I read the message.
I am looking for someone to commission for several works to be hung in the new house I'm building. Am impressed by your work. Reply for more details. Kelso Wilson.
Holy shit. This might be my solution. I type a reply as fast as my fingers will move and include my phone number. Deep inside, I fantasize that Kelso Wilson is the man from the restaurant. I know it's silly and immature, but maybe he's hunted me down somehow.
Though there's no way he could find me on this website, artists are told not to publicize their names so people can't contact the artists without using the website and paying its fee. I was too scared of being banned so left off mine, like most other artists on the site.
I try to put the message out of my mind while I get back to work on the project of items of wealth out of place in the world. But the whole time my mind is whirring with possibilities. This job could solve all my money worries. If it turns out to be the man from Johnny's then all my dreams have come true.
There's no message back before bedtime. I'm disappointed, but I take comfort in the fact that it's Sunday.
It's after lunch on Monday, and I'm busy working on the sand in the beach scene. I've tried to make the evening dress as unnatural a color as possible, and am now working on making the sand as natural as possible.
The cell phone balanced on the easel rings. I'm so excited about the commission that I drop the paintbrush on the floor, getting brown paint everywhere.
"Hello?"
"Skye? It's Kevin." A huge pit opens in my stomach. He never calls.
"Hi, is everything okay?"
"It's really hard for me to do this, but we don't need you to come in this week."
"What about next week?"
"We'll see how we manage without you. But that little stunt on Saturday was a serious misconduct."
"I'm sorry, he kissed me."
"It looked pretty mutual from where I was standing."
Fuck. Depressed, the only thing I can do once we hang up is check my messages on the art website. Nothing. I grab a rag and scrub the floor, and continue long after all trace of the spilled brown paint is gone.
Still on my hands and knees, my phone rings again. What bad news is it this time?
"Hello," I say, my voice flat.
"This is Kelso Wilson. You replied to my message about the commissioned pieces."
"Yes, hi, thanks for calling," I say, suddenly much more cheery.
"I'm building a fifteen-thousand-square-foot home and want original artwork for it. Right now I anticipate ten paintings, though it might change depending on the size you feel the space needs. The pay would be five grand a painting." His voice is stern, and more like a command than a request.
"That sounds like something I would be interested in, yes. Who covers the cost of the supplies?" My heart is pounding. Fifty grand? Holy shit. I'm saved!
"I'd cover all costs. But I'd need you to paint on-site. I want each work created in the room it's going to hang in."
"As long as you're local."
"And one more thing - I'd need you to start right away. The last person I had bailed on me, and now the work is behind."
"I could start tomorrow, if you want."
We exchange details and I hang up. My hand trembles as I put the phone back on the easel tray. Fuck you Kevin. I won't tell him that yet, though, just in case this falls through.
Now, how pissed is Ava going to be when I tell her about the commission? I walk through the house looking for her, and find her sitting on the couch in the living room, busy with her needlework. It's a huge image of a local tent city and is a project she's been working on for eight years now. She expects it to take at least that many more to finish.