There’s no way I can resist her any longer. I hook my arm around her and pull her tight against me. With my other hand, I smooth back her long hair from her face. She’s shivering.
“Are you cold?” I ask.
Her eyes wide, she sucks her lips between her teeth and shakes her head.
“You’re shaking,” I say. I rub my free hand up and down her back, trying to warm her. Or relax her.
Skye leans her weight into me and rests her cheek on my chest. I tilt my head down, nuzzling into her hair.
It doesn’t matter that we’re standing at the side of the road. I kiss her hair and then trail kisses over her head. With my free hand, I mesh my fingers through her hair and tip her face up to me.
Her lips are slightly parted, which is all the encouragement I need. I lean and crush my mouth against hers. Our tongues explore each other’s mouths the way her fingers had examined my arms: gently, slowly and thoroughly.
I could stay here all night, at the side of the road with Skye in my arms.
A car honks its horn as it passes us.
She pushes back from me at the noise. Skye glances at her watch and says, “I have to get going.”
“What’s the rush?”
“I have to get in a few hours of painting tonight.”
“Do it tomorrow.”
“I can’t. I have to work at Kelso’s all day.”
“You’re still going back there? You need to quit that job.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“I thought I told you about him. Trust me, he’s bad news, just wait and you’ll see, but it’ll be too late for you.”
She shifts her weight and says, “I know Kelso’s a creep, but it’s fine. Besides, he’s going to be in Florida tomorrow anyway.”
“As long as you’re sure. I can hire you an assistant so you’re never alone with him.”
“Now you’re just overreacting.”
“Trust me, I’m not.”
“Did you just put your suit back on?”
“Are you calling me a prick again?” I can’t help but laugh.
“Yes, but I’ll still let you take me out tomorrow night.”
“I’m paying now, am I?”
“Unless you want to eat frozen pizzas at home.”
“And here I thought you weren’t interested in my money.” I have to admit I like the idea of eating at home, since it would just be the two of us, with clothing optional.
“See you tomorrow,” she says, getting in her car.
I close her door and say, “Tomorrow.”
Skye starts her car and pulls out into the road.
Date With the Prick
(Skye)
In the morning, I beeline for Kelso’s creepy bedroom and continue on with his spread eagle. I’m concentrating on getting the subtle tones of her inner folds right when my phone chimes. It’s a text from Lawson.
I’ll pick you up at seven.
My eyes shift between the phone in my hand and the painting on my canvas. Seven can’t come fast enough.
Awesome!
The second I hit send, I worry my response sounds too childish. Is it obvious I’m not an experienced dater? Can Lawson tell? He might think I’m pathetic. Especially since he’s mister billionaire — he’s probably got tons of experience.
I keep the phone in my hand, waiting for a response from him, but none comes. Sighing, I toss the phone onto the bed and pick up my brush.
Why does he have this effect on me? Is this what I’ve been missing all these years? Maybe it was a mistake to concentrate on my art at the expense of all else. It’s not like it’s got me anywhere. Anywhere other than painting a pussy in some slimy rich guy’s creepy bedroom, anyway.
Ava and I still haven’t had any discussion about Lawson. She hasn’t brought him up, and neither have I. I guess I’m too afraid she’ll tell me what I don’t want to hear.
What will happen during the date? I went out on a couple of dates in college with other guys in my art program. But they were both artsy people with a similar world view to mine.
Not freaking billionaires. My favorite college professor, Dr Lakeland, would not approve of this one little bit.
Stop it. Dr Lakeland is my past — I have to consider my present. And right now, my body is sending a very strong message.
It might be shameful, but I’ve got to admit, spending all day thinking about Lawson has definitely had a positive effect on my painting. Yesterday it seemed kind of flat. Now it’s glistening so much, it’s even turning me on.
***
At home, showered and hair done, I stand in front of my closet, wondering what, if anything, I have to wear.
My clothes mostly consist of comfortable things to paint in. Tops that allow me to move my arms freely and bottoms that don’t annoy me. The one thing they all have in common is that they were all bought at Wal-Mart, and all before I moved to California.