Fitzy gives a lopsided grin. “A girl who doesn’t love Dean? I didn’t know they existed.”
“He got an A because he was sleeping with the TA!” I grouse.
Carin places her hand over my mouth. “I warned you. Come on, Fitzy.” She drops her hand and crooks her finger toward the big hockey player. “Let’s find a place to sit. I’ve heard this story before and it’s not a good one.” She hums a few bars from Frozen as she leads him away.
I make a frustrated sound in the back of my throat, but since half my audience is gone, I turn to the only person who’s left. “Are you going to tell me to let it go too?”
“Naah, you hold on to that as long as you want. It’s not my place to dictate what you get mad about.” He cups the back of my neck with one large palm and leans down to whisper in my ear. “But I’ll be happy to tell you what to do later on tonight.”
My body tightens immediately. Sex with Tucker is about the least stressful, most enjoyable thing in my life, and as I lean into his solid grip, I realize I’m no longer interested in fighting the attraction between us. My friends are right—I do need this. Not only the sex, but the company. Hanging out with a smart, cute guy who wants nothing more than to be with me, any way he can.
I think I’m just going to roll with this and see what happens.
“It’s a deal.”
He winks. “I’ve got ideas now.”
“As if you didn’t have them before,” I scoff.
“I’ve got more ideas. You’re very inspirational.”
His hot gaze has me stepping forward and lifting my hand to his chest—his very ripped, very lickable, very gorgeous chest. Under my palm, his muscles flex and his heart beats quickly. I rise up on my tiptoes to—
A loud cough behind us has me dropping down.
“Yeah?” Tucker says to Fitzy without taking his eyes off mine.
“You might want to grab a seat. Everyone’s waiting on you.”
I shift around to see that most of the room is turned in their chairs, either waiting for us to sit down or hoping we start mauling each other in front of them. The long tables are set up in a C-shape, and there’s a small riser in the center where I assume the model will stand. We each get our own easel, canvas, and an array of brushes and acrylic paints. It’s pretty cool.
“Unless you’re stripping and going to serve as our models, come and sit,” Carin orders.
Tucker’s hand drifts downward, managing to raise a thousand goose bumps on the way to my hand. I clasp it and lead him to the chairs next to Carin.
“You’re supposed to wait until after the date to jump his bones,” she whispers as I sit down.
I set the wine glass aside and pick up a paintbrush. “Rules are for suckers and boring people, Careful.”
She runs a brush over my nose in mock disgust, but then the instructor starts speaking and we shut up out of habit.
“Hey everyone! I’m Aria and I’ll be your instructor for the night! I’m so pumped by the turn-out!”
Oh boy. Our teacher is one big ball of energy, bouncing on her feet as she addresses the room. On her head is a crazy swirl of Medusa-like dreadlocks that swing around like snakes as she bounce-talks.
“First thing I’m going to do is introduce our model! This is Spector—”
Spector?
Tucker sways in his chair, and I turn to find him fighting waves of laughter. I plant a hand on his knee to still him.
“Be nice,” I hiss.
“Trying to.” He chuckles while muttering “Spector” to himself.
A tall guy in a white bathrobe steps forward and waves at the group. His black hair is longer than mine, and he has those squinty James Franco eyes that make him look perpetually stoned.
“Hi,” is all he says.
Then he takes off the robe.
I choke on a gasp, because oh my God, his penis is right there. And it’s impressive.
Beside me, Carin is also quick to examine the goods. “Now that’s what I’m talking about! Well, hello there, Manaconda!” she calls to the model before sweeping her gaze over the other females in attendance. “Ladies, I think Spector deserves a slow clap right now, no?”
Now I’m the one fighting laughter, because damned if the ladies don’t all break out in a slow, slow clap that leads to a burst of applause followed by whistles and catcalls. The shade of poor Spector’s face is so red it belongs on the palette in front of me.
Tucker snorts loudly in the chair next to mine, while Fitzy leans around Carin’s and asks me, “Is she always like this?”
“Usually she’s worse,” I say cheerfully.
He doesn’t seem put off by that. Our instructor, meanwhile, is starting to get annoyed.
“Guys!” She claps her hands together. “Focus! There’s beautiful art to be made!” Her stern expression cracks, replaced with a grin. “Which, of course, will absolutely include Spector’s equipment.”
This is the weirdest fucking date I’ve ever been on.
Aria gives us a rundown of how it all works. It’s not very complicated. We drink wine and paint Spector’s penis. Surprisingly, Tuck, Fitz and the other men in the room are instantly on board. Paint tubes are opened, brushes are raised, and then we’re making beautiful art.
Sort of.
I awkwardly drag my brush over the canvas. I tried to mix yellow, white and brown to create a peachy skin tone for my canvas Spector, but it looks like he has an awful spray tan.
Tucker runs one of his dry brushes across a knuckle that’s sporting a bruise. “I can think of a dozen good uses for one of these. Might take it home.”
I roll my eyes. “Paintbrushes aren’t sex toys.”
“Says who?”
We work steadily for the next hour. Carin is awesome at this. So is Fitzy, who, according to Tuck, designs his own video games. Tucker is surprisingly decent, though he seems to be avoiding the dick region on his canvas.
“You’re gonna have to paint his junk eventually,” I taunt.
He winks. “I’m saving the best for last.”
From the other section of the tables, a guy with floppy blond hair and a Red Sox T-shirt raises his hand. “Teach, I can’t do the pubes! They look like little ants!”
A burst of laughter roars through the room. I think Red Sox is on a double date too, because he and his date are sitting next to another couple, who are in hysterics.
“Seriously, Spec,” Red Sox’s friend calls out. “You couldn’t have done a little manscaping before you came here tonight?”
“Can’t,” Spector replies from his perch, sounding bored. “My contract doesn’t allow it.”
He has a contract? To pose naked at a college bar paint night?
“The pubic hair adds texture to the painting,” Aria explains to the group. “But art is about interpretation, remember? Paint what you see in here—” She taps a hand over her heart, “not what you see here—” She points to her eyes.
“What the hell does that even mean?” I whisper to Tucker, whose entire face is flushed from laughing so hard.
“Like this!” Aria declares suddenly. “This is interpretation!”
I glance over to find her swiping Fitzy’s canvas off his easel. The big guy rumbles in protest, but she ignores him and holds up the painting with a grand flourish.
My jaw drops when I see what Tucker’s friend has painted. It’s Spector, but a badass version of him in a helmet and wielding a shield. Instead of the much talked about penis, Fitzy painted an elaborate-looking sword jutting from the guy’s crotch. Like, a sword worthy of Game of Thrones.
“Dude,” Tucker exclaims, suitably impressed.
“That’s amazing!” a wide-eyed Carin gushes to her date.
He shrugs. “It’s all right.”
His modesty makes me smile. I only grin harder when Aria gives him back the canvas and then begs him to leave it with her instead of taking it home with him.
We resume our painting, cracking jokes and sipping our wine. Every so often, Tucker leans toward the elderly gentleman beside him and helps the poor guy out.
“Naw, man, you want to shade under here,” he advises. “Imagine that the light is hitting his arm from up there. So the shadow would be down here.”
The old man harrumphs loudly. “This whole thing is a waste of time.”
“Hiram!” his wife scolds.
“What? It’s true,” he says in a crabby voice, then gives Tucker and me a surly look. “This was her idea.”
“Because I thought you would enjoy it,” the gray-haired woman protests. “You’ve always told me how much you envy my artistic skills.”
The couple appears to be in their late sixties. Or hell, maybe their late seventies. I’ve never been a good judge of age. Besides, seniors look so young these days. Nana could pass for my older sister.
“Gee, I’m sorry, Doris, but I never learned how to draw naked folks when I was getting shot at in ’Nam!”
Doris slams her brush on the table. “We talked about this! Dr. Phillips said you weren’t allowed to discuss Vietnam anymore. It’s destructive to our relationship.”
“It was the most taxing time of my life,” he says stubbornly.
“And you think it was easy for me?” she challenges. “Being at home and raising two children in diapers while you were off hunting Charlie?”