by Joanna Wylde
Frowning, I dipped my brush in the red for the cheeks.
“Aren’t you on parole?” I asked. “Can’t you get in trouble for traveling around?”
He startled me, catching my chin and turning my face toward his.
“You know I’m not like those guys you meet down at school,” he said with quiet intensity. “My life isn’t like theirs. I don’t want you to worry about me, Mel, because I’m being careful—but I’m never going to follow the rules, either.”
I swallowed, mesmerized by his gaze.
“But you don’t want to go back, do you?”
“Of course I don’t,” he said. “But I’m not going to let fear get in the way of what I need to do, either. If it makes you feel better, I’m not doing anything particularly crazy and I’m not on my own. We just need eyes on a situation. If anything serious goes down, they’ll keep me out of it, because my brothers don’t want me going back, either. FYI—you’re getting paint everywhere.”
I pulled back, looking down to see that I’d let my brush slide off my hand and across the sheet of little animals I’d worked so hard to produce.
“This sucks,” I said, and I wasn’t talking about the painting . . .
“It is what it is,” he said, shrugging. “And I can’t share it with you. Say the word and I’ll walk out, leave you alone. I’m not trying to fuck with your head, Mel, but I can’t change who I am, either.”
I swallowed, deciding to ignore that particular reality for now.
“Can you show me how to make a flower?”
He nodded, pulling the brush out of my fingers slowly.
“First, you need to start with a clean surface,” he said, catching my chin again, turning my cheek toward him. He dipped the brush into the green, raising it to my face. The paint was cool where it touched my skin, but it still burned deep inside.
“Long, smooth strokes will keep the color even,” he continued, as the brush slid down my face, all the way down to my chin. I studied his expression, intent and purposeful as he started another line. His eyes were so blue, so clear and full of light. Intellectually, I knew he was one of the bad guys. I just couldn’t reconcile that with the man sitting here next to me.
“Will you help me tomorrow?” I asked. He cocked a brow. “With the face painting, I mean. Do you want to come to the carnival with me? You’re way better at this than I am.”
A strange look crossed his face.
“I’m a felon, Mel,” he said. “I don’t think they’d want me there.”
“A lot of people are felons,” I said earnestly. “Spending time in prison doesn’t mean you can’t do any volunteering for the rest of your life. Well, aside from sex offenders, I guess, but that’s not you. Why couldn’t you volunteer? Aren’t you friends with Bolt? It’s his old lady—Maggs—who runs the program. He’s helped out a bunch of times. The club even did a fundraiser for the program last year.”
A thoughtful look crossed Painter’s face.
“I met Bolt in prison, have I told you that?” he asked. I shook my head. “The first time I was inside. He helped me figure shit out, hooked me up with the club. Good brother.”
“Well, your good brother is going to be there tomorrow, so I guess if he’s okay, you’re probably okay, too. And I know they can use the help—I mean, if they’re desperate enough to have me painting, you know it has to be bad.”
He gave a low laugh.
“Point taken. You win. Happy now?”
Yes. Yes I was.
“Thanks,” I said, smiling widely. Then I lost the smile as he scowled at me.
“Don’t move your face—I’m working.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, trying to relax. I didn’t know what he was painting on me and I didn’t care. Every stroke was like a finger running over my skin, sending chills through me while sparking a slow-burning need deep inside. He leaned in closer, eyes searching across my features, then darting back down toward the colors, utterly absorbed in his work.
This seemed a little unfair, because ten minutes later he’d covered most of my face (which I didn’t have a problem with) and I’d seriously soaked my panties (big problem). So far as I could tell, Painter hadn’t even noticed that I wasn’t just another mural board.
“Lift your chin,” he said, his voice soft. I lifted, shivering as the cool brush stroked down the length of my neck.
“What are you doing?”
“Expanding the picture,” he said, sounding almost detached. “This is fun and I’m not ready to stop yet. In fact, why don’t you unbutton your shirt and take it off? Gives me more room to work.”
I pulled back, staring him down.
“That sounds like a pick-up line from a bad porno,” I said, torn between laughter and frustration, because deep down inside I wanted nothing more than to strip down in front of him.
Well, actually what I wanted was him stripped in front of me, but you know what I mean.
“You wanted me to show you how to paint,” he said, frowning. “I’m doing that. And you’ve got a bra on—trust me, I’d know if you didn’t—so it’s not like you’ll be naked. And you should stop watching bad porn. The good stuff is harder to find, but it’s worth it.”
I opened my mouth to reply, then snapped it shut because no way in hell did I want to discuss the varying quality of porn across the spectrum. But he made a good point about the bra . . . I had no issues with wearing a bikini top down at the beach during the summer.
(And yes, I knew I was rationalizing—I was in heat, not stupid.)
I started unbuttoning my shirt, pretending his eyes weren’t following my fingers like his life depended on it, because if I had to suffer, it seemed only fair that he should, too.
Painter’s breath caught when I pulled my shirt apart, then slowly pushed it back and off my shoulders. I had a decent body—I knew that. It wasn’t as great as Jessica’s, but when I made the effort I could definitely hold my own. Even so, I wasn’t used to the kind of appreciation I saw in his eyes.
The shirt dropped back down behind me, and I found myself sitting up straight. Thankfully, I’d put on a decent bra that morning. Black and lacy, dipping low between my breasts. It wasn’t a sexy push-up, but it wasn’t plain white cotton, either.
Painter reached out, running the brush down my neck and along my collarbone, sending shivers through me. When he did the other side, I felt the first goose bumps breaking out, all along my arms.
“Are you cold?” he asked, his voice a husky whisper.
“No.”
His eyes burned through me, and I thought I saw the same aching need in his that had to be in mine.
“Okay.”
Things sort of blurred together after that. He kept my head up, refusing to let me watch as he traced patterns across my chest and down along my stomach. Aside from the occasional finger on my chin, he never touched my skin once . . . Just that soft, cold brush passing across my flesh, over and over, deep and strong.
After what felt like hours, he had me turn away from him, straddling the chair so he could start on my back. By this point my entire body was humming with need, but also a strange sense of calm. Like we’d transitioned into some separate reality, where there was only me, him, and the cool slide of the paint against my skin.
He started down my shoulder blade, pausing to slide my bra strap to the side. I heard a sound of frustration, then he was dabbing at my skin with a damp paper towel.
“Do you want me to take it off?” I asked, the words hardly more than a whisper.
CHAPTER TEN
PAINTER
I stared at Mel’s back, wondering if I’d actually heard her right. Hell yeah, I wanted her to take it off.
For the painting, of course.
This was about art, not about being a perverted horndog who wanted to get laid. Not even a little bit.
“Yeah, that would be good,” I said casually, reaching out with my left hand to unhook it before she could change her mind. Shit. Should’ve set the brush
down and used two hands—no need to advertise how many times I’d done this. She didn’t say anything, just sitting there quietly while I lowered each of the straps, reaching up to catch the front against her chest.
Her back lay open in front of me, the perfect canvas. It was lightly muscled, tapering in at her waist before flaring out to her hips. She wore jean shorts that were stretched out and loose, gaping ever so slightly at the small of her back, giving me a glimpse of black satin below. God, I hoped they matched the bra she’d taken off. That thing was fucking perfect—sexy, but also sort of sweet and almost virginal compared to what most of the women I knew wore. Not that Mel was a virgin . . . I’d done enough checking up to know she had some experience.
Shouldn’t matter to me—I had zero intention of sleeping with her—but knowing she’d been with other guys was a relief, in a way. Less pressure not to fuck things up, which was a nonissue because we absolutely weren’t going to do a damned thing together.
Fucking hell, this friend-zone thing sucked. For the first time I admitted to myself that maybe it wasn’t going to work out.
Gee, what gave it away, asshole—the shirt coming off or you unhooking her bra?
I dipped the brush back in the paint, noting that I’d have to get up early and go buy more tomorrow morning. I’d run most of the way through the green and the red already, and had made good headway with the yellow and purple, too. I was painting flowers. Lots and lots of flowers, a tangled mass of them like something you’d see in the rainforest. Lush and sweet and ripe and deadly, just like Melanie. Vines to tie me up and hold me prisoner until I didn’t even care anymore . . .
She lifted an arm, pulling her hair out of the way as I started up the back of her neck.
“Do you have one of those little thingies?” I asked.
“Thingies?”
“Thingies for your hair. I can put it up for you.”
“Oh yeah. There should be one on the coffee table.”
“Be right back.”
I walked into the living room and found a purple elastic sitting right next to her phone, which had just lit up with a text.
I swear I didn’t read it on purpose.
JESS: I just heard painters back in town and that he went over to our place looking for you. Don’t let him in or I’ll kill you dead with my bare hands. Xx
Frowning, I turned the phone off, then tossed it onto the couch. It might’ve fallen behind the cushions—hard to tell.
Mel could read the message later.
Yeah.
No need to worry her about something that probably wouldn’t even be an issue.
MELANIE
This was stupid.
Really, really stupid.
I sat in the center of the dining room, dreading every stroke of the brush, because sooner or later I was going to snap and things wouldn’t end well . . . But it felt so good, and it wasn’t like we were doing anything bad. Just painting. And his work was truly beautiful—I’d snuck a peek while he was grabbing my hair elastic, stunned by the riotous explosion of vines and flowers he’d painted using my skin as a canvas.
It was amazing. Almost unreal. How something like this could be created by the same brushes responsible for the Ladybugs of Death and Dismemberment was almost impossible to comprehend. Raw talent, I guess.
That and technique.
I wondered if he had any idea how good he really was. Hell, whatever he was doing for the club, if he just sold those paintings of his to the right people he’d be able to make them more money that way. Except it probably wasn’t about money. What did they have him doing, and how likely was it that he’d get himself thrown back in prison?
“Let me get your hair,” he said, his soft voice sending shivers all through my body. I still held the cups of my bra against my chest, like somehow it held the power to protect me.
Assuming I wanted to be protected.
“Thanks,” I whispered as his fingers started combing through the tangled mass. It took longer than it should have. I’d like to think he was as mesmerized as I was, because for all his insistence that we could only be friends, even I was smart enough to know that guys don’t sit around on Friday nights painting flowers on their half-naked, platonic friends. His head lowered next to mine—was he smelling my hair?
“Almost finished,” he whispered, warm air touching my ear.
Then my hair was up in a messy ponytail-slash-bun thing and he was lifting the brush, ready to start torturing me again.
PAINTER
I finished way too fast.
The original colors had run out, forcing me to mix my own. I think that made it better—toward the end, the greens were darker, projecting something shadowy and almost angry.
Frustration.
Fair enough, because that was exactly how I was feeling. I’d spent more than two hours painting Melanie’s perfect body. Now my cock was like a fucking diamond, so hard it could cut glass. I want to push her down across the table and pound her until the paint smeared with our sweat . . .
Christ. My dick was going to explode.
“You can go look now,” I said, standing up. She rose from her chair awkwardly, still holding the black silk in front of her tits, which made no fucking sense.
“There’s a mirror up in Jessica’s room,” she said. She brushed past me, and I shuddered as her arm touched mine. I tended to get very focused while working, but just being near her was a class A mind fuck. She started up the stairs, then turned back to look at me, a puzzled frown on her face.
“Aren’t you coming?”
Coming? No, not yet. Not until you wrap those lips around me.
“Um, sure,” I managed to say. “Didn’t realize you wanted me.”
She stared at me, her expression so intense that I swear the air between us sizzled. Okay, it didn’t sizzle at all, because that’s fucking lame, but it did something. Felt like there was a tight string—no, a piano wire—stretching between us, quivering and pulsing with every beat of my heart.
Mel started up the stairs and I followed her, eyes glued to the gentle, feminine sway of her ass. Those legs weren’t half bad either, and seeing my work all over her body made me feel something strange . . . I had no idea how to describe it, but I liked it. I liked it a lot. Felt like I owned her. Now if I could just tattoo my marks all over her permanently.
No, probably not a good idea to cover her face, even I had to admit that. But the thought of my work across her back, so I could look down on it while I wrapped my hands around her waist and fucked her ass?
That’d do.
“Here’s the bathroom,” she said, pointing to a door at the top of the stairs. “And here is Jessica’s room. Mine’s at the far end of the hall, over the porch.”
I glanced down toward her door, the step up into her space. I wanted to see where she slept, but she pushed through to Jessica’s room instead. The place was all clothes thrown in piles across the shaggy green carpet and posters half falling off the walls. I had an ugly feeling the plaster was so weak it couldn’t hold them . . . The place felt about as solid as a wasp’s nest.
“The mirror’s on the back of the door,” Mel said, closing it behind us. She stood still, studying her image, and I came to stand behind her. The lines of green twisted across her body, spattered with flowers that bloomed and faded in a pattern I wished I could keep forever.
No, I wanted to keep her forever.
God, I deserved to be shot, because I wanted to defile her. Defile her and then lock her up so no other man could even see her, let alone touch her.
“It’s beautiful,” she said softly, touching her face. I reached up, setting a hand on her shoulder. She covered it with her own, winding our fingers together. Her eyes burned through mine in the mirror, and that’s when my world shifted.
I’d fallen in love with Melanie Tucker.
Not some little-boy, bullshit needy “love” like I’d felt for Emmy Hayes—this was nothing like that. This was deep, almost painful in its u
nholy intensity. It was like she’d sent tendrils burrowing deep inside, binding us together so tightly I’d die if I ever tried to pull them out.
I was truly, deeply, and utterly fucked, because I fucking loved this girl . . . and she wasn’t for me.
“Hey,” I whispered.
“Hey . . .” she whispered back.
“I think we should—”
Suddenly the door flew backward, knocking Mel right into me. My arms flew out to catch her as Taz lurched into the room, Jessica riding on his back.
He stilled, eyes crawling over Mel as I realized she’d lost the bra when she’d fallen.
“Nice artwork,” he said, grinning broadly. “But I think you missed a couple spots.”
I wrapped an arm across Mel’s chest, doing my best to cover her up. She gave a shriek. Then she was breaking free, running out the door to her bedroom as Jessica launched herself at me, smacking at my face while Taz laughed his ass off.
“You aren’t allowed to touch her,” Jess shrieked. I raised a hand to protect my eyes, wondering how the hell I’d ever considered this girl sexy enough for a drunken one-night stand. Could you even call it that? It’d been a partial, and a shitty partial at that.
“Get your woman off me,” I yelled at Taz, who laughed harder. Finally I managed to shake off the screaming banshee queen, shoving her toward Taz so I could go after Mel.
“I’ll kill you!” Jessica yelled behind me. Fucking witch. First Kit, now her. I was surrounded by devil women. Mel’s door was slammed shut, and I could hear her sobbing.
Fucking hell.
I’d broken her already, and I hadn’t even gotten laid first.
MELANIE
I lay back on my bed, laughing so hard it actually hurt. God, the look on Jessica’s face. The crazy hypocrisy and weirdness and the way I’d dropped my bra . . . it was all too much. And about time I freaked her out, too. She’d been freaking me out for years.
“Mel, are you okay?” Painter asked, knocking on my door. I gasped, trying to catch my breath to answer. It came out on a sob, and every time I tried to tell him I was fine, the words ate themselves and I would start laughing again.