Painted Passion

by Latisha Brandon

  “No,” she said.

  So they walked, stealing quick glances at each other as their progress slowed, because they wanted to draw out their time together. He placed the palm of his hand against the small of her back, guiding her across the street, steering her through Center City. Did he feel her perspiration? She believed he did, because his hand lingered. She felt a sexual energy between them.

  When she spoke Ashlyn picked a topic she knew would break the spell. “How old are you?”

  “Does it truly matter?” Kevin countered, answering a question with a question.

  “In my world it does. I don’t want to look like a fool.”

  “I’m older than you think.” Kevin walked to the storefront of a local retailer.

  “If that’s truly the case, tell me your age.” She spoke from close behind him.

  “How old are you?”

  “Thirty-three,” she said, never hesitating. Ashlyn never wanted to lie about her age, because she counted every year a blessing. She knew of women who were delusional enough to believe life stopped after thirty.

  “I would rather give an answer after an opportunity to get to know you. Any time before, you would walk away.”

  “You’re that young,” she sputtered, getting agitated. “Listen, obviously I find you very attractive, but I’ve never been one to stomach causal flings.”

  “How do you know I’m interested in a fling?” Kevin asked, stupefying her.

  “At such a young age, what more could you possibly desire?”

  “I want to walk you back to your hotel and kiss your cherry lips goodbye, invite you to return and attend an art show with me next month, discuss classical versus contemporary art. I want to find out first hand where your tattoo ends…and show you mine. I want to meet you at the airport on your return and show you Philly…the way only a Philly boy can. Go for a bike ride to the Atlantic Ocean and make love to you on the sand. That’s what I want. So no, age doesn’t matter…at least not in my world.” With each word he spoke the distance between them became less.

  She jokingly asked, “Is there any possibility I could go to jail for any of those things?”

  Kevin shared a grin with Ashlyn. “Seven years have passed since any possibility of that.”

  “You’re twenty-five?”

  “Yes, I’m twenty-five. Does the eight-year difference bother you?”

  “I’m honestly not quite sure.” Her leaf-green eyes perused him; twenty-five had never looked so good. “Have you dated older women before?”

  “Usually no more than ten years. What about yourself, younger or older?”

  Ashlyn began to stroll again, considering his confession of dating women up to ten years older. “No more than two or three years older, never younger.” She waited, gauging his reaction.

  “Would you be willing to try?” Kevin slowed his steps beside her.

  “I can offer you friendship.” She spoke honestly, unsure if she could accept the age difference. At twenty-five Ashlyn knew she could not have handled what she desired at thirty-three.

  “Great things bloom from friendship.”

  They stepped into the courtyard of the hotel and he slowly backed her into the brick wall. Flowered ivy covered the partition, their scent heavy in the air. Intimate shadows were created by the overhang, and Kevin whispered in Ashlyn’s ear, “I believe you are mistaken…taking me for a mere boy. Would a boy know what your dilated pupils mean or your raspy breath?”

  They were a well-matched pair. Kevin wasn’t the average twenty-five-year-old, he had seen and experienced the harshest realities of life. His artist’s hands cradled her neck, the bottom of her jaw, and her chin. Kevin gave her time, letting her know his intentions, but she didn’t pull away. Their lips fused, and the initial contact was heady and heated. How could a kiss contain fragments of home? Centered, balanced, a foundation, a beginning, a birth, but also topsy-turvy and off-kilter—all were suggested in Kevin’s kiss. She liked it, oh how she liked it. She wanted more, seconds, thirds, fourths, and fifths.

  He held her face motionless, sampling her, drawing from her, but also replenishing her. It took all of her willpower to pull away, her face resting against his shoulder. “We have to stop, I’m not sure right now why, but we must stop. I’m leaving in the morning, returning home to Atlanta. I have no plans to return to Philadelphia in the near future. This entire episode is pointless.”

  “I’m the reason you should return to Philly.” He made the stunning statement, his egotism staggering. “From the instant I saw you, I knew the connection would supersede any from before.”

  “Your arrogance astounds me,” she sputtered.

  “This isn’t about arrogance. I’m just confident about being worthy of a return trip. So much so, I can guarantee you’ll issue your own invitation.” He caressed her lips again, nipping the end of her tongue.

  Ashlyn turned her head, seeking clarity. She watched as he opened his bag, handing her a heavy and obviously expensive piece of paper.

  “In a month there’s an art showing at a gallery called ArtJaz, in the historic district of Old City. The artist paints under the name Zahir. Come back for the show, come back to see a friend.” Kevin began writing down additional information on the back of the paper. “This is my number. Give me a call to let me know what you decide.

  “Don’t let the difference in our age deter you. It’s only eight years.” Kevin kissed her forehead, noting every nuance of her body. “I can tell you’re looking for an excuse to deny the possibility, but let those excuses fall aside.”

  “I can’t promise you anything, but I do recognize the name of the artist. Do you know him? I read an article about him in Zing Magazine.”

  “I know him very well,” Kevin said slyly; he wasn’t ready to tell her he was Zahir.

  “Zahir has found success relatively early, with many comparing him to Charles H. Alston, but I think he should be given time…no need to anoint him to soon. Critics are too quick to label young artists as geniuses.”

  Kevin admired Charles H. Alston very much, but he also realized how ridiculous it was to compare him to a master.

  “He feels the same way.” Kevin changed the subject, “Kiss me goodbye.”

  Ashlyn hurriedly pecked his cheek. Then he had the last word. “I’ll see you in a month,” Kevin said, determined to have his way.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ashlyn took a generous sip of her tea. The invitation Kevin had given her was burning a hole in her back pocket. Why didn’t she throw it in the trash and forget his invitation? She didn’t have to make explanations to Kevin for not returning.

  Ashlyn lived the quintessential American dream. She was by every measure successful in her chosen field of photojournalism. She was well paid for doing a job she loved, and regularly traveled to exotic locales. She photographed and participated in vibrant celebrations, but also saw firsthand the ravages caused by tornados, famine, disease, and war.

  From a very early age, Ashlyn had known her life would be different. Neither she nor her parents would have it any other way. She loved her life just the way it was. Kevin’s demand for her time represented a change in her life, one which she wasn’t prepared to make.

  But if that were truly the case why was she mentally clearing her schedule, making room for a return trip to Philly? Kevin touched something in her that hadn’t been touched in a long time.

  Though she was tired, sleep evaded her. Needing only four hours of sleep, she often wandered the streets at ungodly hours. Her constant companion, her baby, was a seventy-pound golden Labrador named Fancy. Very rarely did she travel without her. This trip was a test of doggy daycare.

  When she dropped Fancy off, the dog cried the entire time. Checking the twenty-four-hour doggy webcam later, she noticed the crying was no more. Fancy sniffed and humped everything in sight, male and female alike. Ashlyn knew when she picked Fancy up, she would refuse to eat for a few days, as a way to punish Ashlyn.

  “We are now
thirty minutes outside of Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport, the seatbelt signs are now turned on. Thank you for flying with us.”

  Ashlyn nudged Bernie, knowing it would take a good twenty minutes for him to return to reality because he slept as if in a coma, occasionally producing oinking snores. “Bernie, wake up. Rolling your eyes into the back of your head is getting really old. Please don’t make me throw cold water on you.”

  “If a drop of water lands on me, darling, there’ll be hell to pay. Don’t take your frustrations out on me just because I get some on a regular basis. You passed up the perfect opportunity to get laid…and by an Adonis, no less. Shame on you, to let all of that go to waste.” Bernie pulled out his compact, finger combing his severely flat-ironed hair and powdering his already pale cheeks. He was as pale as the fabulous Dita Von Teese, but Ashlyn would never tell him that because he would swoon with joy. He lived and breathed Dita Von Teese.

  “I’m starting to think you’re right. Why else would I keep his number?”

  “You kept his number? So, have you decided to return to the city of brotherly love?” Bernie’s eyes grew to the size of silver dollars.

  “Maybe, but first I need to run a background check.” Ashlyn prized her sleuthing skills, and if there was information to found online about Kevin Dunmore, Ashlyn was sure to find. Call her paranoid, but she would allow no one to enter and wreak havoc on her life.

  Ashlyn turned to Bernie. “Who’s picking you up at the airport?” The two traveled often because Bernie, who was like a baby brother, had been Ashlyn’s assistant for five years. Both refused to pay outrageous parking fees.

  “He’s a new jockey on my family’s farm.” Bernie settled back in his seat and crossed his model-thin legs. “He used to work on a farm in Kentucky, but Daddy lured him away with the promise of more money and more input into training the horses. His name is Augustine Baptist and he’s Creole. I think he may be the one, even though half the time I have no idea what he’s saying. His speech sounds a lot like Haitian Creole, which is based on French, and what language is more romantic than French?” It was just like Bernie not to wait for her to answer. “Too top it all off, he’s gorgeous. Wait until you meet him.”

  “Is he meeting you at baggage claim?”

  “Yes. How are you getting home?” Before she could answer he asked, “When will you give up traveling on the MARTA?”

  “When you stop interrupting me…and it’s called being environmentally friendly. I feel guilty enough about riding in first class. I parked my car close to Peachtree Center, because I love the vibe late at night.” The only reason she purchased first class tickets was because Bernie refused to travel in economy and they needed to sit together in order to discuss business.

  Shaking his head and sucking his teeth, Bernie answered, “Only a liberal would feel guilty about being able to afford first class.”

  As usual, she ignored him. Instead she thought about riding one of the four escalators in Peachtree station while snapping shots. Great photos came from contrasting the streaming lights of the trains with the solidity of the stone. At times she saw what others didn’t.

  Ashlyn was a solitary soul, forever searching for something she had yet to figure out. Though her mind eased when she thought of her encounter with Kevin, she resented his invasion of her solitude. She pegged him for the demanding sort, on the verge of conceited, but she also imagined the reward if he could back up his swagger. He had Ashlyn squirming.

  “Ashlyn,” Bernie screeched, “sit still, because I plan to drink every drop of this white grape tea that they’re charging you fifteen dollars for before this wench hovering at my shoulder snatches it out of my hand.” Bernie proceeded to give the flight attendant the evil eye, but she wasn’t going anywhere until she retrieved his glass.

  “Bernie, please give her the glass.” Ashlyn tried to take his glass, but of course he evaded her reach. “We’ll be landing soon, and I don’t plan on making the early morning news when the local authorities escorts you off the plane.”

  The next trip he was riding economy, but she knew that was a lie even as she thought it. Bernie would refuse to go. Why couldn’t she find an assistant who actually listened to her, without an opinion at every turn? All she got from Bernie was back talk. She damn sure paid him enough to keep his mouth shut.

  Ashlyn looked out her window at the velvet night sky. She was actually considering taking the summer off, maybe even the rest of the year, a sabbatical of sorts. Her mind and body were telling her it was past time for a break. Her professional obligations were numerous, but for the first time in her career Ashlyn wanted to turn the assignments down. She decided when she got home she would begin to make the arrangements for another photographer to take her place.

  She was losing her creative drive. What had happened to her dream of traveling on a slim budget? She knew: 9-11, Katrina, fear, war, a massive tsunami striking Southern Asia, massacring of monks, earthquakes, secession in Sudan, the genocide in Darfur, an earthquake and the aftershocks in Haiti, and so on and so forth. Her camera became the eyes for millions, but she was having a harder time remaining impartial. The work was now following her home, spilling over, tainting her peaceful life. Which was how she’d found herself in Love Park, photographing skateboarders, merriment, feats of acrobatics, hand-slapping and back-pounding, listening to guilty pleasure music, and in the gorgeous presence of Kevin Dunmore.

  There was no getting around it; she craved him. He made her remember why she was born female. If she gave in would her craving flee or intensify? What could a man his age offer her? Youthful zeal, for damn sure.

  Ashlyn and Bernie made the long trek to baggage claim. Bernie bobbed up and down beside her like a jack in the box, then suddenly darted through the maze of people. She heard him before she saw him. His voice was very refined, his French rolling over his tongue with ease. Ashlyn wasn’t prepared for the sight before her: A miniature version of Antonio Banderas swung around a jubilant Bernie. Never had she seen Bernie seem so soft and approachable. His usual sour scowl had vanished. Obviously, this was Augustine Baptist. The man looked to be barely five feet tall, and Bernie was not much taller at five feet three inches.

  “Ashlyn, come meet Augustine.” He even had a gorgeous, sultry name. She needed a nice, stiff drink and a pep talk. Where was Makayla when she needed her?

  Swinging his arms like a love struck teenaged girl, Bernie said, “Augustine, dear, this is Ashlyn, my friend and boss.” He had acknowledged her as his boss? Unbelievable. The sky would begin to fall at any minute, just as Chicken Little said. Ashlyn and Augustine shook hands, and warm amber eyes greeted her. She felt ashamed of her jealousy. She couldn’t begrudge Bernie his happiness.

  “Can we give you a ride to Peachtree Center?”

  “No. You two go and catch up.” She hugged her friend, whispering in his ear, “I can tell you’ve been dearly missed. Don’t wear yourself out tonight.” She kissed his cheek, needing physical contact. She felt lost and bewildered.

  Ashlyn grabbed her suitcase and equipment bags and boarded the MARTA. Generally, she relished being one face of many, but not tonight. Her old routine wasn’t falling into place.

  Why wasn’t she looking forward to returning to her house? It was a home she had purchased for herself, a home in a much-sought-after locale, an eco friendly home. She wondered if she were going through an early midlife crisis or early menopause?

  Being overly melodramatic wasn’t her forte, but she guessed she was partial to it at times. Hell, what woman wasn’t? Ashlyn unlocked the trunk of her Lexus hybrid SUV, placing her luggage inside. The night sky soothed her, but it wasn’t enough. Why was it so difficult to admit to wanting to have someone to share the sky with, someone to greet her at the door, or even accompany her on work trips? Despite being a professional who traveled constantly, she always had the desire for hearth and home. To admit that aloud, though, would open her up to ridicule and leave her vulnerable.

  She guessed
her Midwestern roots were showing, but was it wrong to want what her parents shared? Not just a marriage, but also the love of a lifetime, a friend, a confidant, someone to grow with. Was it too much to ask? She prayed the morning would offer new insight.

  * * *

  He might have an artistic soul, but his body certainly didn’t agree. Any artist from amateur to professional knew the best time to paint was in early morning light. Kevin’s body had yet to catch up to that fact. He hit the snooze on his alarm one more time. When he heard his coffeemaker activate, he turned on his back, rubbing his eyes with the pad of his hands, scratching his scalp and yawning. He needed to get up; his showing was in just a few weeks. He still had much to do, including getting Ashlyn to attend.

  Kevin was the first to admit that he was used to having his way with women. However, where Ashlyn was concerned, his confidence wavered slightly. He fiercely desired her, which added to his early morning hard on. Every morning from the time he was twelve, he had awakened the same way: with a hard dick. This morning was no different, only more intense.

  He wondered if Ashlyn were a true redhead. He knew of only one way to find out. Kevin swung his legs to the edge of the bed. A week had passed since he’d seen her, and he heard nothing. Still he didn’t doubt she’d come. Call it an overly inflated ego, but that was what he believed.

  He cradled his face in his hands, saying a prayer of thanks for another day. His childhood friends were dropping too quickly for him not to be grateful. Only a few now resided outside of penitentiary bars or above six feet of packed earth.

  Kevin walked to the shower, turning it on full blast. As the hot water pelted his shoulders, the steam cleared his mind. If only the brutal ugliness of his world could run down the drain and come back distilled, fresh, replenishing.

  Kevin tried to wash away the pain and the twisted thoughts because he knew guilt would follow. Guilt because he’d survived; he and his brother had made it out thanks to a strong, no-nonsense father. Was it preordained, what some called predestined, and if so, who made the decision? Heavy thoughts for so early in the morning. At twenty-five, he was a man who had seen and lived through hellish experiences.