The Lion and the Artist

by Veronica Sommers

  I can't breathe.

  How does he do this to me? With one hand on my wrist, a finger on my chest, and his sexy voice, he's turning me into warm, helpless goo. When I was with Jeremy, getting me in the mood took a lot more effort and an ample dose of rough foreplay. For a long time, I thought I might be asexual, simply because any lasting arousal was so difficult to achieve.

  With Oakland, it takes mere seconds, and barely a touch.

  Dimly I realize that he's frozen, too. He seems to be fighting himself, struggling against an impulse. He draws back, removing his hand from me and replacing the smile with his usual mask of disdainful indifference.

  "See you at the party," he says, slipping into the bathroom behind me and closing the door in my face.

  I turn, my cheeks hot, and there's Laura, her head cocked, watching me with an oddly displeased expression. She's dressed as a sexy Cinderella in a mini-skirt ball gown; and with her big blue eyes, the look really works.

  "What was that?" she says, and I set a finger to my lips. She lowers her voice. "He touched you, and you let him. I thought you didn't like him. I thought you and Jer were getting along again. I thought—" She bites her lip, and suddenly I realize what's wrong. She's jealous.

  "Oh my gosh, Laura, do you like him?" I whisper, touching her arm.

  She flushes, pulling away. "Maybe. Whatever. It's not like I wanna marry the guy, but it's been a while since I got any action, and I thought maybe—you know, since he likes to sleep around—maybe I had a shot. But I should have known it would be you." Her eyes glitter with unshed tears, but when she laughs, there are razor blades in the sound. "Forget it. I'm sure there will be lots of cute, horny guys at this party. I'll hook up with one of them. Now hurry up—Carynne wants to leave."

  Ten minutes later we're in Laura's car. I'm in the back seat, Laura is driving, and Carynne is in the front passenger seat. She's dressed as Storm from X-Men, and she rocks the outfit. She's even got white contacts for an unearthly "mutant power" effect.

  "The boys still aren't ready, of course," she says. "Screw them. We can have fun without them."

  Laura exchanges glances with me in the mirror, and I smile. Carynne is all about plans, and schedules, and getting to places on time or early so that maximum enjoyment can be had. Cliff—not so much. They must have argued about it.

  "So they're coming later?" I ask.

  "Yeah, in Cliff's car." Carynne examines her nails. "Dang, I chipped one already."

  I feel oddly disappointed that Oakland won't be there right away, but I shove away the feeling, because it's ridiculous. I'm not here to moon over him. I'm here to relax, to let go, to live life to the fullest. And this costume party is the perfect place to do it.

  The gigantic villa where the party is being held makes Carynne's family beach house look like a third-world shack. There's a sweeping driveway, a massive courtyard, and probably a few dozen rooms, at least. It's Spanish-style, creamy and beautiful, with a red-tiled roof and a series of archways leading to back gardens and a sprawling pool area. We wander through the courtyard into the house, where costumed guests are already surging, a chattering tide of glittering masks, spandex, face paint, and cheap fluttering capes.

  As we worm our way through the crowd, someone shoves a brimming cup into my hands and I set it down immediately on a side table. I never drink anything that I don't pour myself. It's a rule that has served me well through high school and college.

  There's music thumping through the halls of the house, and more echoing from the pool area. The sunset casts violet-gray shadows over the concrete and the white lounge chairs—but lamps are already coming on around the outdoor space, pouring gold light over the sapphire pool, shining on bare arms and laughing faces in every shade of pearl, bronze, and ebony.

  Across the pool, at the opposite end of a broad patio area, the DJ is set up under a pergola. She's bouncing to the beat, her hands flicking out now and then to push a switch or spin a dial, adding dimension to the music. Squealing with delight, Carynne embraces two girls and sashays off to dance with them and several others who have clustered around the DJ's platform.

  Laura lingers near me, her eyes raking the crowd until she latches onto a knot of nerdy-looking boys in a corner. "What do you think?" she asks me, nodding toward them.

  I analyze the boys quickly. There's a gangly, scruffy one who looks pretty cute, and a hefty one with a big laugh and eyes that sparkle so blue I can tell their color from here. Another one is tall and serious, with thick glasses and huge hands. "Could be decent material there," I say. "Of course, the second you walk over to them, they're all going to fall at your feet."

  She smiles, and I'm relieved. Apparently I've been forgiven for capturing Oakland's interest. "Hold my beer. I'm going in."

  I pretend to take a bottle from her. "Go get 'em, girl."

  She saunters off, hips swaying. I'm slightly disappointed that she didn't ask me to join her; but I'm guessing after the Oakland incident, she doesn't want to risk my stealing her spotlight. Not that I would—at least, not on purpose.

  "Hey sweetheart." It's a grinning, heavily padded Batman. "What's your name?"

  "Marilyn."

  He laughs. "Yeah, yeah. Your real name, babe."

  I smile, vicious. "It's Marilyn. And I'm not your babe. Move on, 'kay?"

  "Turning down the Dark Knight!" He claps a palm over his chest. "I'm wounded." But he moves on, toward a knot of giggling girls.

  A group of guys shove past me, whooping, stripping their costumes off as they go and flinging themselves into the pool. I duck away from the splashing, annoyed. At least they kept their underwear on. The poolside crowd is getting too crazy for me, so I back away, skirting the edge of the courtyard, where the shadows thicken. There are already a few couples tucked into nooks—a pair of boys kissing by a palm tree, a threesome petting each other on a bench.

  I like parties—the college kind where I know more than a few people, or the intimate kind where a dozen or so of us would gather at someone's apartment. This party is too huge, too full of strangers, and more people keep pouring through the arches into the backyard space, some in costumes, some in beachwear, some in tattoos and leather pants and nothing else.

  One of the tattooed biker types spots me and saunters over. "Well, what have we got here?" He runs his finger under my chin and I smack his hand away. "Hey, you wanna you and me find a nice dark corner and—" he smacks a hand over his crotch and rolls his hips.

  Why did I agree to this costume? Why am I here?

  "Mm, sorry," I tell him. "You're not wearing a costume."

  "Oh yeah? That's what turns you on, huh?" He snatches a cowboy hat off a guy's head and plops it onto his own. "There we go. Costume."

  I laugh, edging away toward the dance area where I can see Carynne writhing and shimmying with—Cliff? Yeah, it's Cliff, dressed as Black Panther. The boys are here, which means Oakland is here, somewhere. Even Jeremy would be a relief at this point.

  "I'm gonna go see my friend now," I say. "But I'm sure you'll find somebody who's willing to take a risk on whatever's in your pants."

  I dodge his outstretched hand and work my way into the thick of the dancers, my heart pounding. Guys like that give their gender a bad name.

  Carynne flutters her fingers at me briefly, but she's completely focused on Cliff. His hands grasp her waist, and his face brushes her hair. There's something intensely, painfully sweet about his expression—not just desire, but a kind of deep longing. He loves her, and it shows in the way he handles her curves and presses a kiss to her temple.

  I envy the two of them, tucked in their pocket of love here, in the middle of everything.

  I close my eyes, shutting out the sight, and I dance. I'm not the world's best dancer—mostly I jive, do a little hip action, raise my hands over my head. But there's safety in the music, release in letting myself flow with it. Relief in not caring who's watching me, or what they think.

  When I bump into someone, my eyes pop o
pen again. It was a pair of girls I don't know. My apology is muffled by the music, but they accept it with a nod. I move a little further away, to the edge of the crowd. The guys who accosted me are at the opposite side of the patio, and the crotch-grabbing dude locks eyes with me and grins.

  Damn.

  It's not that I think he'd actually hurt me, and he's attractive enough, in a bad-boy way. But it's clear he's got one thing on his mind, and I'm not interested in fending off his clumsy advances all night.

  So I make a beeline for the nearest door and duck through it. There's a barrel of ice and beer just inside, and I snatch two cans as I run past.

  The hallway is empty of guests for the moment. I hurry along it, taking the first turn I come to, and then another, and then mounting a flight of steps. For a second I think I hear an echo of following footsteps, but when I look back, there's no one.

  I'm in a very private, very quiet part of the house now—a hallway lined with doors, with a padded bench at the end. Too bad there's a gasping, grunting couple already ensconced on it. Rolling my eyes, I return to the stairs and sit on a step halfway down.

  What am I doing? I should be eating, drinking, dancing some more, blowing off steam. What if I did go back to Tattoo Guy? He could be fun—dangerous, exciting. But he doesn't have eyes like green fire and a voice that slithers into my heart like a charmed serpent.

  I open the beer and drink. And drink. I don't have a high tolerance for alcohol—it tends to make me warm and fuzzy and wobbly almost immediately. So by the time the second can is empty, I'm feeling delightfully foggy and cozy. I lean my head against the wall, my eyes closing.

  A throat clears, and I look up. A masked figure with a cape and a rapier. Zorro.

  It's got to be Oakland, and my heart does a double-flip.

  "Hey." The word comes out breathy and weak, so I try again. "What's up?" Oh gosh. What a dumb thing to say.

  He walks toward me, his eyes in deep shadow under the brim of his hat, and mounts a few steps, until he's level with me. He leans forward, bracing his hands against the step behind me. I tilt my face up and meet his lips.

  -5-

  So What?

  It's wrong. The scent, the mouth—it's all wrong, unexpected, and unpleasantly familiar. Shock twists my lungs and I recoil. "Jeremy?"

  "Yeah." He smiles. "You like the costume? Oakland was gonna wear it, but he lost a bet to me, so I scored it. Looks better on me anyway."

  Now that he's close, I notice the curls of red hair around the edge of the bandana—the fake dark scruff that he smeared along his chin. The freckles on his neck, just above the high collar of the cape.

  I'm an idiot. A drunk idiot.

  "Yeah, you look great," I mumble.

  He sits beside me. "So, we gonna do this?"

  "Do what?" I say stupidly.

  "Give this another shot. Us. You and me."

  "Oh, I don't know. You—you really hurt me, Jer."

  "I know, I know." He catches my hand, rubbing it between his warm palms. "But I'm better now. I'm not drinking anymore. See? We're at a party, and I'm perfectly sober."

  He does seem to be sober. "Good for you." I'm not sure what else he expects me to say.

  "So—you wanna give me another chance, Wildcat?"

  The pet name makes me flinch. He used to call me that in bed, because of my craving for wild, rough play before the act. Now it makes me cringe, as I remember everything we did—how raw and exposed I've been with him.

  "Jeremy, I'm so glad you're getting things under control, being careful," I say. "What you and I had was—intense. And I don't regret it—I don't. But we've both changed, as people. Things are different between us, and I don't think I can go back to how it was. I don't think I can be with you, like that."

  His mouth tightens.

  "But we can be friends. Good friends," I say hastily. "I still care about you as a friend." Why can't I stop saying 'friend'? I pinch my lips together to cut off the flow of meaningless words.

  "Is there someone else?" he asks brusquely.

  I'm not ready for that question, and my beer-addled brain rejects it. "Um, what?"

  "Is. There. Someone. Else."

  "No, no. No one. Well—"

  He takes my chin and forces me to look at him. "Who is it?"

  "Nobody. Nothing, I swear."

  "You swear?" His eyes glint from the shadows of his hat.

  "Yes," I whisper. "There's no one else."

  His fingers tighten painfully for a second before he releases me. "Good. Because I don't think I could handle it, Mari. Seeing you with someone else—no. No, I can't do that. I'm going to win you back." His grin flashes, sudden and fierce. "Come on. Let's get something to eat. We can talk."

  He grips my hand, pulling me down the stairs and through hallways until I nearly bump into a folding table burdened with platters of appetizers and bags of chips. I'm suddenly starving, and I giggle uncontrollably as we load up plates. I stumble against Jeremy, sending a cascade of chips from my plate to his. We both erupt into laughter, and he steadies me with a hand at my elbow, steering me toward a seating area, past a tall figure in a pirate costume. Something about the pirate catches my eye, and I turn, admiring the glossy black boots, the black and red striped pants, the black shirt half open over a sculpted chest, the plumed hat—and the face, with a patch hiding one of two brilliant green eyes.

  Shock bursts in my chest. It's Oakland, standing with his arms crossed over his chest and his jaw set.

  "Hey Oak," Jeremy says, touching two fingers to the brim of the Zorro hat. "Having fun?"

  "So much fun," Oakland replies dryly. "Are you?" He seems to be replying to Jeremy, but his green eye flicks to mine.

  "Sure," I say, holding up my plate. "There's food."

  "Come on." Jeremy tugs me along, but I'm conscious of Oakland following—as if he has a tangible aura, a presence that I can discern with more than my eyes. When Jeremy settles us onto a couch with our plates, Oakland drapes himself across the arm and back of a nearby overstuffed chair. There's a girl in the chair—a pretty blond with a round, shiny pink mouth like bubble-gum and angled dark eyes. Oakland grins at her and leans down to murmur something against her hair—and instead of snapping at him to back off, she giggles. I stuff a chip into my mouth and crunch down hard, not caring that Marilyn Monroe would never have gorged on Doritos or licked her finger clean of nacho cheese powder. Jeremy eyes me while I'm doing the finger-licking. I know that look. He's horny as hell.

  He ducks his head toward me, speaking against my ear. "You want to find a quiet room in this place?"

  Sex with my ex in a stranger's house? No, thank you.

  But as I'm about to answer, Oakland whispers something to the bubble-gum girl and she rises, allowing him to settle into the chair before seating herself on his lap. She wriggles a bit, on purpose of course, and he tilts back his head with a sigh and a low chuckle. He doesn't kiss her, but his fingers trail along her arm from elbow to shoulder and back again, up and down, while his other hand rests on her thigh.

  Nausea churns in my stomach. I launch myself off the couch, out of Jeremy's arms, and I run. The first bathroom I come to is occupied by a girl perched on the counter, the V of her legs filled by a male back and a pair of thrusting buttocks. I slam the door and run to the next bathroom, crashing to my knees and flipping up the toilet lid just in time.

  It's disgusting. I wipe my mouth and flush, but I don't know if I'm done yet, so I kick the open bathroom door to close it. The edge of the door collides with something solid.

  "Ow!" The something—or someone—swears. "Damn, Marilyn!"

  It's Oakland. Oh, hell.

  I close my eyes, thankful that he missed the wonderful sight of my stomach's contents swimming in the toilet bowl. At least, I think he missed it. How long has he been standing there?

  My wig caught a bit of the vomit, so I toss it in the trash can and unpin my own hair. My auburn waves ripple over my shoulders, but I collect them and twist the
m together in one hand, just in case my stomach isn't done heaving.

  "Here." Oakland's warm hands pass over my head, gathering stray tendrils, gently trying to take over the task of holding my hair.

  "No." I shake him off. "You're not doing that for me."

  "Why not?"

  "Shouldn't you be going? You don't want to disappoint your little girlfriend. After all, she's known you for what, five minutes? If you leave her alone she may transfer her affections to someone else."

  "She's not important," he says, still crouching beside me.

  The roar of a crowd, shot through with shrieks, comes from somewhere far away—whether from indoors or outside, I can't tell. The party's really getting wild now.

  "Close the door on your way out, please," I tell Oakland. "I don't want anyone coming in here right now."

  He rises, closes the door, and locks it.

  "I said, 'On your way out,' " I repeat, annoyed at him for ignoring me and at myself for the series of delicious thrills running through my abdomen.

  He leans against the wall, arms folded, his large frame taking up most of the space in the tiny room. "I'm going to wait until you're okay."

  "I'm okay."

  A series of sharp raps on the door startles me, and Oakland's head whips toward the sound. Neither of us speak. Whoever it is raps again, and then leaves. More people are yelling, a cacophony of sound surging through the hallway outside. Oakland and I are cocooned in this protected space, where no one can get to us, and I'm happier right now than I was on the couch beside Jeremy.

  "He wants you," Oakland says suddenly. He doesn't look at me, or specify a name. We both know who he's talking about.

  "I know. I told him we could be friends."

  Oakland snorts.

  "What?" I rise and step to the sink, rinsing my mouth and spitting twice. "I still care about him, even though I don't want to date him. We can be friends."

  "You can try."

  I turn, my butt against the counter's edge, and suddenly I realize how small this bathroom is, and how very little space there is between my body and Oakland's broad chest. The open triangle of his black shirt shows a swath of skin browned not from sun, but from whatever races are blended into his blood. There's a light scattering of black hair across his chest. The crisp folds of the shirt flex with his rapid breathing.