by Meghan Quinn
How the hell am I supposed to say no to that? When she looks at me like this—impatient desire to see something of mine—I’ll pretty much do anything for her. She’s guileless, and having such sincere yearning in me, in what I do, does so much for my long-lost heart. It will be her lethal weapon when it comes to me.
“Shit, when you ask like that . . .”
I get up as she cheers and claps, excited she’s getting her way.
Since I only have a one-bedroom apartment, I paint in the living room, so I take her to my easel and turn the phone around, showing her a half-finished picture of an aging and balding man. I use oils with unconventional coloring. For this skin tones, I chose to paint with purples and greens, combining the colors to show the depth in his skin.
“Oh my God, Beck. That is amazingly beautiful.”
“Thanks,” I answer softly, feeling slightly self-conscious.
“Do you know that man?”
I nod, but I don’t want to get into how. Yet. “Because my work requires me to paint landscapes, when it’s just for me, I focus on portraits. It’s a good balance, I never get sick of it, of painting that is.”
“Makes sense.” She shakes her head in disbelief. “It’s beautiful. You are so talented.”
“Thank you.” I scrub the back of my neck. “Want to see another?”
“Yes, please.” She’s excited, which excites me. Picking up one of the canvases leaning against my couch, I prop it up against the living-room window. It’s a painting of a woman with bright red lipstick, high cheekbones, and distraught eyes. Her purple hair swirls all over the canvas. It’s one of my favorite pieces. “Oh wow. Look at her hair and the streaks of orange you have in it. It gives it so much dimension.”
Encouragement of my art, hearing Rylee describe the details of my painting, seeing what I see when I’m painting, it means a lot to me.
“And the green in her eyes. It’s as if it’s muddied. Did you do that on purpose?”
“I did.”
Sophia. She’s a survivor, a strong woman with a muddied outlook on the world who is fighting every day to live a normal life, to forget her attacker, and set herself free from the demons clouding her mind.
“She’s beautiful.” Rylee pauses. “I’m starting to think maybe you know this woman too.”
I nod. “I know of her story. I know everyone’s story who I paint.”
Rylee twists her lips to the side. “Are these stories of pain?”
I nod, tingles of anxiety rise through me. I don’t want to dive too deep into this story, in how I know these people. I’m not ready for Rylee to know that side of me.
Because I’d be damned if after I tell her my story, she becomes one of the tortured souls I paint next.
No, I’m not ready for that. Not sure I’ll ever be.
Beck: Are you ready?
Rylee: Give me five minutes. I need to get this guy off and then I’ll be ready.
Beck: Please tell me you’re referring to a character and not . . . Griffin.
Rylee: LOL. My character! I have to get my character off and then I’ll be ready for FaceTime.
Beck: Good, I like it when you’re specific about who you’re getting off.
Rylee: I can understand that. Give me five.
Walking around my bedroom, I put away my laundry, hang a few shirts, and dust the top of my dresser with the shirt I’m wearing. When I notice how much dust is on my shirt, I chuckle and take it off. I should try dusting more often. Possibly with a duster rather than a shirt.
It’s been over a month since I’ve seen Rylee in the flesh, over a month since I’ve touched her, and fuck if I haven’t felt this goddamn horny before.
We talk almost every night whether it’s text or FaceTime, and we keep it to simple things like our likes and dislikes, or ribbing each other. We never delve into our pasts, and when one of us is uncomfortable, we shut down and end the conversation. Sooo, super healthy.
I don’t really know what one would call what we’re doing, but all I know is that if I go a day without talking to her, I feel empty inside, like I missed out on something great for that day. I never want to miss out on something great, especially where she’s involved.
My phone rings and I rush over to answer it. When she pops onto the screen, she greets me with a giant smile. Her hair is piled on top of her head in a bun, loose strands delicately framing her face, and she’s still wearing her thick-rimmed black glasses. But what I’m really interested in is the tank top she’s wearing without a bra. The tank top is so damn tight I can see the outline of her areolas. I’m hard, just like that.
“Hey you,” she says into the phone, her smile capturing me.
“Hey, Saucy.” I lick my lips. “You look so damn good with those glasses on.”
She tips them up and down. “You like these? I wear them when I’ve been staring at my computer for far too long. They help my eyes relax. It was a long day editing but I’m almost done, which is amazing.”
“Congrats, that’s awesome. I can’t imagine what it’s like to write an entire novel and then send it off, edited and ready for publishing.”
“The feeling of accomplishment never gets old.”
“I bet.” Taking a peek at her cleavage, I say, “Nice shirt choice. You’re giving me a goddamn erection with how tight it is.”
“Well, I thought it was only fair since you show up on these calls shirtless eighty percent of the time. You know it’s not easy over here for me either.”
I chuckle, loving how honest she is. “Is that right?”
“Yeah.”
Settling on my bed, I ask her, “Tell me this, have you masturbated while thinking about me yet? And don’t fucking lie to me.”
Pinches her mouth to the side, looking away, almost as if she’s ashamed. “I might have.”
I groan. “Are you serious?” She thinks of me when she masturbates. Fucking hell.
She nods. “I did last night.”
“How hard did you come?”
Her cheeks splash with red. “Not as hard as I would have liked to, not as hard as I would have if you were actually here.”
Pained, I close my eyes willing my body to calm down, to not get too damn excited.
“Do you ever think about me when you touch yourself?” She looks shy as she asks me.
Is that a joke?
“You’re kidding, right? Rylee, do you realize how quickly and easily I get hard when I think about you? You’re on constant replay in my head, and the minute I touch myself, it’s embarrassing with how fast I come.”
A wicked smile crosses over her face. “Yeah? Are you hard right now?”
“Hard as fuck, especially since I can see how puckered your nipples are, how almost see-through that tank top is. Yeah, I’m fucking hard.”
She lets a few seconds pass before she says, “Let me see.”
I raise my eyebrows. “You want to see how hard I am?”
She nods. “Yes, show me.”
Are we doing this? Are we about to have FaceTime sex? “Please show me.” She’s begging to see my cock. What fool would say no to that?
“Rylee, if I whip my dick out right now, you’re going to wind up with two options: you’re either going to have to hang up the phone, or watch me stroke myself to climax. I’m not fucking kidding. You make me so goddamn hard it’s almost impossible to ignore how painfully bad I need release.”
She sighs and lies back on her bed as well, holding the phone up above her. “Beck, I’m going to be honest. I’m so horny right now and maybe a little drunk.” She holds up her fingers. “Well, not drunk, tipsy and throwing caution to the wind.” She pulls on her tank top, the collar of her shirt dropping dangerously low on her breasts. She wiggles along her sheets. “God, what I wouldn’t give for your hands right now, for your mouth, for your cock.”
Confused, since our conversations have been pretty vanilla leading up to this point besides some innocent flirting, I ask, “Where’s this coming from, Rylee?
”
She grunts and moves her hand around her breasts and pulls on her puckered nipple. She bites her bottom lip and says, “I might have been watching some porn while texting you.”
“Porn?” I chuckle. She nods. “So when you were saying you had to get your character off, you were lying?”
“No.” She laughs and shakes her head. “When I’m not in my inspiration chair—”
“Sex chair.”
She rolls her eyes. “When I’m not in my sex chair and I need to make sure the sex scene is hot enough, I’ll watch some porn while I’m writing. It’s the perfect way to get me in the mood, but God, it makes me incredibly aroused. Like you with no shirt on, it’s making me want to stick my hand down my shorts and find some release.”
Fucking hell.
“Saucy.”
“Yeah?” Her eyelashes flutter up and she makes eye contact with me.
“Take your shirt off. Now.”
Her face softens and a seductive smile takes over her gorgeous mouth. Shifting on her bed, she sets the phone against what I assume is a lamp or clock on her nightstand and reaches for the hemline of her tank. In one fluid movement, she lifts it up and over her head, revealing her magnificent breasts and hard nipples.
I grip my chin, rubbing my fingers across my stubble as I take her in. “Beautiful, Rylee.”
She doesn’t say anything. Instead, she closes her eyes, presses her head back, and brings her hands to her breasts where she plucks at her nipples. Her mouth parts open as a light, subtle moan escapes her lips. That’s all it takes. I reach for my pants just as a frantic and incredibly loud knock sounds at my door, followed by Chris telling me to open up.
“Fuck,” I mutter, wondering if I can ignore him.
“What’s that?” Rylee asks, lifting her head to meet mine and covering her breasts, breaking away from our moment.
“Beck, I know you’re in there. I can see your bike. Dude, I need your help, please open up.”
“Shit.” I rub my hair. “It’s Chris; sounds like he needs my help.”
“Oh, yeah, go answer him. Uh, this was stupid anyway.”
“Like hell it was.” I stand from my bed when Chris’s pounding becomes incessant. Rylee quickly puts her shirt back on. “Rylee.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. I’m embarrassed.”
“Beck, open up, man.”
For fuck’s sake.
“Don’t be embarrassed, Rylee.” I make my way toward the front door. “Give me a second, I’ll call you right back.”
“Yeah, okay.”
Feeling like a giant dick, I hang up and fling my front door open. “Dude, what the hell?”
Chris passes by me, looking crazed. “Thank God you’re here.”
I shut the door and adjust my jeans before turning around. “What’s going on? Is everything okay? Justine, the kids, are they good?”
“What?” Chris shakes his head. “Yeah, they’re fine.” Reaching into his back pocket, he shows me two white tickets. “Dude, I got tickets to Bon Jovi’s concert this weekend. I won them on a radio station contest. Can you believe it?”
Blinking my eyes rapidly, I ask, “Are you fucking serious? That’s what you came here to tell me? That’s what you practically beat my door down over? Bon Jovi tickets?”
“Yeah, why aren’t you excited for me? Living on a prayer, man. This concert is going to be sick. I’m taking Justine; think you can watch the kids for us?” He plasters a huge smile across his face.
“Fuck you.” I grab his arm and start to pull him toward my door, his feet dragging against my wood floors.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Chris, I thought something was wrong with you guys. I was on the phone with Rylee. Damn it.” I rake my hand through my hair, the tension obvious in my stiff shoulders.
“With Rylee—” Understanding washes over him. “Oh shit, were you having phone sex?”
“Who fucking knows what we were doing?” Her goddamn top was off, and she was pinching her nipples for me. I was about to watch her get herself off. “You can go to fucking hell living on your damn prayer.” I open the door and shove him out into the hall.
Before I shut the door on him, he holds up his finger and says, “So is that a serious no to watching the kids for us?”
“That’s a fuck no.” I slam the door on his face and reach for my phone where I see a text message from Rylee.
Rylee: Taking a shower and heading to bed. I’ll talk to you later. Have a good night.
Sighing, my chin drops to my chest, I squeeze my eyes shut, and walk to my shower. I wanted to see her. I wanted to watch her enjoy her body, touch the places I can’t touch. I wanted to hear her moan as she got closer to release. What I don’t want is to know she’s having a shower, probably getting what she needs without me there, and once again, shying away from us. Fuck.
Chapter Nineteen
RYLEE
Son of a mother effing bitch,” I shout as smoke billows from my oven, clogging my kitchen in a grey haze.
The smoke alarm sets off immediately. No surprise there. It’s as if the fog chokes everything in the room. In an attempt to clear out the smoke, I open the windows around the first floor of my house and use a baking pan as a fan, waving it around like a maniac.
I cough a few times, wondering what the chicken I was trying to bake looks like at this point. Probably charred to its very core. No salmonella here. At least I have that going for me.
Broken teeth, now that’s a different story.
Smoke alarm still blaring, echoing around my neighborhood, I bring a chair below the alarm, stand on it, and wave my baking sheet frantically, my ear drums ready to rupture any second.
“I get it, you think the house is burning down,” I shout. “I can assure you, it’s not. So shut the ever loving hell up!”
Beep. Beep. Beep.
“You demon machine!”
Dogs rally with the smoke detector, barking out their displeasure, a car alarm is set off, and the noise echoes horrendously in my head, like a pounding ice pick to the brain.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
“You’re a loud mother fucker, aren’t you?” I grunt, my arms getting tired and just when I think I’m about to pass out from smoke inhalation and brain damage from the beeping, the sound stops, startling me and sending me careening to the ground.
I land flat on my ass with a plop.
Dressed in a cute flower apron that I thought might give me some super-human cooking powers, hair a sweaty hot mess and plastered to my face, and my baking sheet next to me, looking warped, I sit there, staring at the floor.
“Well,” I let out a sigh. “Rachel Ray is a freaking liar. Easy thirty-minute meals, my ass.”
From the counter, my phone rings, pulling my attention away from my pathetic attempt at cooking another meal. I don’t have to look at the caller ID to know who it is. He calls the same time almost every night.
Not standing from my seat on the floor, I fling my arm to the top of my counter, wiggle my fingers around until I find my phone, and accept the FaceTime call. Always FaceTime, never a straight-up phone call anymore. I think it’s cute . . . usually. Right now, not so much.
“Hey,” I sigh when his face comes on screen.
Sitting in his living room, he’s got a shirt on this go around, a button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the top few buttons undone. It reminds me of the outfit he wore to the wedding. Over the past several weeks, I’ve noticed he’s let his hair grow out on top, leaving the sides shaved. I like the new look, and I’d like it even more if I was able to run my fingers through it.
“Hey, Saucy.” His face crinkles together when he gets a good look at me. “What’s wrong?”
Always perceptive.
“Burnt another dinner.” This isn’t the first time he’s found me in this situation. We tried once making a meal together on FaceTime, guiding me step by step, and in the end, I still
charred the hell out of my meal. I blame my oven. It’s a temperamental ass.
“Damn, really? What was it this time?”
“Some chicken bake Rachel Ray believes everyone can make. Well guess what, I’ll be writing that lady a letter and shipping her my chicken meal just to prove her wrong. That’ll teach her.”
“Sure will.” He laughs. “Sorry about your meal. Are you going for pizza or lobster bisque tonight?” See, this really isn’t the first time he’s caught me on a bad cooking night.
“Crackers and cheese. I’m too lazy to go grab something.” I stand from my floor and prop the phone against the fruit bowl on my counter so I can start cleaning my kitchen while talking.
“When you say crackers and cheese do you mean—?”
“Goldfish and Cheez Whiz.” I nod. “Yup, unfortunately it’s a staple in my house.”
Shaking his head, laughter in his features, he says, “I should have guessed. At least I’ve seen you eat this delicacy before and know you have the decency to squirt the cheese on the Goldfish.”
“I’m not a monster.” I chuckle. Then gasp as someone walks through my sliding glass door, scaring the crap out of me. “Oh Christ, you scared me.”
“What?” Beck asks, seeming confused.
Before I can answer him, Griffin says, “Sorry about that, Rylee.”
I cringe. There is no doubt in my mind Beck can hear that Griffin is here.
“Are you okay?” Griffin waves his hand in the air. “It’s really smoky in here.”
“Rylee?” Beck asks, sending a wave of nerves up my spine.
“Uh, yeah, just a cooking mishap.” I turn to Beck and give him a quick smile. “Everything is good though.”
Being the good guy he is, Griffin comes over to the kitchen and gives me a once-over before opening up my oven, sending another wave of smoke into the air. Oh for the love of God, please don’t set off the alarm again.
Pulling out the chicken with an oven mitt, he takes in the charred chicken and says, “Damn, Rylee. What were you trying to do? Turn it into dust?”
Griffin is in clear view now to the phone, giving Beck quite the show as he moves around my kitchen, pouring some water on the chicken, and then taking it outside. “Let me handle this for you.”