“Why are you in an art class?” I ask. “You’re smart. A sport god, apparently. And—”
“And those things don’t correlate with art?” He smirks. “It’s a hobby. Just like lacrosse.”
I suppose he already knows where his future lies: with his father’s company. Even though they apparently sold it, he still has an inheritance. A role he could grow into. It’s okay for him to have hobbies.
“I can’t do this. I can’t paint you.”
“Could you paint yourself?” he asks.
I think about that. Would I be able to show everything that I am? Good and bad?
My silence answers for me, and he frowns. “Why not?”
“You want to know why I wouldn’t be able to paint myself? I wouldn’t do it with any amount of accuracy.”
He shrugs. “I could. I’m going to paint you and show every inch of you.”
His gaze slides up and down my body, and fuck me, I get wet. One orgasm, and he owns my body.
“The good, the bad, and the ugly.”
I shake my head, trying not to make it obvious that I’m pressing my thighs together.
“But you have to go first.”
I twitch. “So I have to show you how I see you before…”
He grins. “I’m not in the mood to paint today.”
My sigh comes out slowly. “What are you in the mood for?”
“Guess you’ll find out once you’ve drawn me.”
I turn back to the canvas, switching my gaze between him and the expanse of white. I just need to make a mark, and then the rest will come easier. That’s what Robert says in class: the first stroke is the worst.
He’s burning me up. Every time I look at him, something in my chest gives out. I stare at his face. The strong brow, his dark hair that flips up on top and is short on the sides. His cool-blue eyes. Full lips—well, I know all about those lips— “You’re staring,” he murmurs.
I shake myself. “You’re psyching me out.”
“What am I supposed to do, close my eyes?”
I brighten. “Yes. That’d make things easier.”
He stands and moves his stool closer, so his knees brush against my thigh. “What would you give me for it?”
How should I know what to give when I don’t know what he wants?
More mind games.
I lift one shoulder, biting my lip. I won’t ask him what he wants—I have a feeling his answer would be worse than anything I could come up with.
“You left your window open,” he says suddenly. “Why?”
Now there’s something I would never admit: that I still hang my hope on him.
“Tell me why, and I’ll shut my eyes,” he says. “I’ll keep them closed and not ask to see your painting.”
“Ever?”
“Ever,” he says. “Three…”
I tilt my head.
“Two…”
Ah, a countdown. I scowl at him.
“O—”
“I wanted you to come in,” I blurt out. “I thought if I left the window open…”
“Why?” Not angry. Not annoyed. Maybe a bit irritated at my clammed-up words, but he’s more curious than anything.
“Because—” A lump forms in my throat.
He edges closer, and I hate that I want him to comfort me. Hell, the fact that I need comforting at all has me on edge. He’s wicked and he’s nice. I can handle one or the other. I seem to crave one over the other.
Dark over light. Bad over good. God, I’m fucked up.
He runs a finger down my cheek, over my jaw, and down the side of my neck. He pulls the scarf away from my throat, eyes going to the dark bruises peppering my skin. They trail from my neck down my shoulder. There are more marks on my breast that I’ve been ignoring.
He presses his thumb into one of them, watching for my face to change. I keep my poker face until he pushes a little too hard, and I wince from the pain.
“You like these.”
It isn’t a question.
Add that to the list of infuriating things about Caleb Asher. Sometimes I think he sees more of me than I do.
His thumb traces small, soothing circles on my neck. My face heats up because at any moment, Robert could come back into the kitchen. Lenora could get home from her errands and catch… this.
He’s literally only touching me with a finger. It’s enough and not enough at the same time. I lean into him when he stops me, his palm flat on my collarbone.
“Draw,” he orders, sitting up straight.
And, damn it, his eyes close.
I wouldn’t have guessed that I’d get him to do it. That telling him the truth would unlock a favor. A big one.
I take a deep breath and start. It’s sloppy and not what I mean to draw, but that’s the beauty of charcoal: it smudges off, and it’ll all be covered by paint eventually. A thought occurs to me as I sketch the outline of his eyes from memory.
“Why wouldn’t you want to see what I paint?” I clear my throat. “Aren’t you curious?”
“Of course I’m curious,” he replies. “But I agreed not to ask.”
I hum. “Okay.”
I get as far as I can—as far as I want to—and tell Caleb that I’m done for the day. I managed to put a background on the canvas, smoky grays and blacks, but the space where his face and upper torso will go is only faintly outlined in charcoal.
He opens his eyes.
“Great. Cover that up and let’s go.”
“Go? But…”
He snorts. “You think I need to look at you to paint you, love? You’ve been ingrained on my brain since the beginning.”
I follow him through the house, to a door I have yet to see open. He knocks on it, tossing me a quick wink, before Robert calls for him to enter.
I walk in behind Caleb, surprised at the space. Sure, the house is big, but I didn’t really consider what lay directly below my bedroom. One wall is all books with fancy spines. The type of shit I read wouldn’t be found here, that’s for sure.
“Hey, Mr. Jenkins,” Caleb greets him.
“You can call me Robert when we’re not in school,” Robert scolds. He’s already mentioned that a time or two.
“Yes, sir.”
He’s behind a giant desk. Like, I could lie down on it and throw my arms and legs wide, and there’d still be space for two more people.
I wander closer to the books, reading the titles.
Philosophy of Law, Volume III. The Laws of Human Nature. To Kill A Mockingbird.
The last is a surprise, but it looks old and valuable.
“Ready?” Caleb asks, touching my shoulder.
I jump. “Huh?”
“Did you space out?” Robert asks. “Caleb just asked if he could take you to a late lunch and movie.”
I nod. “Ah, sorry. Did you say yes?”
My stomach twists. Caleb’s managed to finagle his way into my life in more ways than one: he’s in my space in school, he’s in my head out of it, he’s in my dreams. Not that I’d ever admit it.
And now he’s taking my time, too. Time that I would’ve laid on my bed and stared at the ceiling, fantasizing about him. The real thing is better.
Yeah, okay.
The real thing hurts more.