Carnal: Pierced and Inked

by Simone Sowood

  Lawson smooths my hair. “I want to, I only meant it isn’t something I expected to be doing today.”

  My face beams. I’m so excited to draw him. Exploring someone with my pencil reveals them to me.

  “Where’re your pencils and paper?”

  “In my office.”

  Lawson leads me down the hall and into his office. The room is huge, almost as big as his living room, with a massive corner desk and a leather sofa and chairs set. One wall is lined with three massive windows, making the room bright and ideal for my needs.

  “Wow, this is impressive,” I say.

  “The paper and stuff is here,” he says, opening a drawer.

  “Sit there,” I demand, pulling out his desk chair. He sits, and I wheel it across the room to position it where I want the light to be. It falls on his face, illuminating him beautifully, and my breath catches. His face and body seem straight out of a magazine, and I struggle to understand how someone like him is interested in me.

  I perch on the edge of his desk, propping my foot on his trash can. Resting the pad of paper on my leg, I begin tracing the shape of his eyes in the center of the page.

  As my pencil makes the first marks, I realize I haven’t drawn or painted anything since yesterday afternoon. More than that, I haven’t even thought about it. Which is huge, because I’ve spent every waking hour since I was a teenager obsessing over my current project and dreaming up my next one.

  Nothing and no one has ever taken my mind off it before. Weirder still, the realization didn’t make me want to get up and run home to my studio. I’m exactly where I want to be right now.

  He’s still while I work, and before long I’m happy with his eyes and move onto his nose. Each stroke allows me to examine him more deeply. His deep eyes, inviting lips and strong jaw. Occasionally, I reach out to touch him, sometimes to get a better sense of him, and sometimes to make sure he’s real.

  There’s a certain vulnerability in him, that only rarely peeks out through his outer shell. I know what it is, of course, but I wonder how many others do. The charity is no secret, but I wonder how many people who don’t need the charity even know it exists.

  Most of the time, his eyes are sparked with confidence. Even the line of his mouth as he rests is a display of confidence.

  As I’m smudging the pencil to create the sheen of his lips, he speaks, breaking the silence for the first time. “How long have you been doing this?”

  “Since before I could walk.”

  “And you never get bored of it?”

  “Never. If anything, the more I do, the more I need to do.”

  “So you’re an addict.”

  “I hadn’t thought about that before, but maybe. I think it’s more a driving need to create and get all my ideas out there.”

  “And to change the world.”

  I smile. “That too, if I can get my ideas out, then maybe I can influence someone.”

  “What is it you’re creating now that’ll change the world?”

  “I’m exposing some rich fucker for what he is.”

  Lawson’s eyebrow raises. “What is he?”

  I chew my bottom lip a moment before saying, “Someone I really want to kiss.”

  Rejected

  (Lawson)

  I can’t believe she’s sitting on my desk naked like that. Most women wouldn’t have the confidence to hang out in the nude. Skye’s got confidence in everything, except her talent.

  Normally, I’d have been out of my chair, bent her over the desk and be balls deep in any woman who sat like that. But I’m completely content just to watch her, although it helps that we’ve been at it all night and morning.

  I love the way her brow moves and knits as she concentrates on her drawing.

  From my angle, I can’t see what she’s drawing and I’m curious to know what it looks like. Somehow I find the patience to wait. Right now, I’m happy to make her happy.

  “Ta-da,” she says, flipping the paper around for me to see.

  “Wow, you did that in twenty minutes?”

  “Obviously, you just watched me do it.”

  “It’s amazing.” It really is, it looks eerily like me and seems like something that should’ve taken hours to do.

  Skye purses her lips, fighting back a smile. She should allow herself to be proud of herself.

  “Thanks.”

  “Do I get to keep it?”

  She hesitates, “Sure, if you want it.”

  I stand, take the paper from her and tack it to my white board. It might be strange to have a picture of myself on display, but it reminds me of her.

  “Do you ever do self portraits?”

  “Ew, God no.”

  “Can you do one for me?”

  “Seriously?”

  “I’ll hold the mirror.”

  “If you really want one, I’ll do you one.”

  “Can it be below the waist?”

  She rolls her eyes and says, “Don’t push your luck.”

  “Come with me, I think I know a good place.”

  I hook my arm around her shoulders and lead Skye to yet another room in my house. This is one of the smallest rooms in the house, so one whole wall is mirrored to make it seem bigger. Which, to me, defeats the whole purpose of having a small room. I have a shitload of big and even bigger rooms, I wanted a small one.

  “There are certainly enough mirrors in here.”

  A black lacquered chest blocks most of the floor space in front of the mirrored wall. I shift it out of the way, exposing the complete height of the floor-to-ceiling mirror.

  “How’s that? Do you want a chair?”

  “I’m good,” she says, sitting cross legged on the floor.

  My eyes are drawn to the pink spot between her legs. It’s like she’s completely forgotten that she’s naked. My dick twitches, seeing her exposed like that. I clear my throat and move to the window, staring out it intently until it’s passed.

  When I turn back, I’m relieved to see she’s laid the paper across her lap, blocking my view.

  I flop onto the armchair and watch her. This was intended to be a quiet room, where I could go to think or reflect or read or whatever the fuck the designer had in mind.

  Skye moves with the same level of focus that she had when she drew me. Her body leans to the mirror while she studies herself, then straightens again while she transfers her findings to the paper.

  From my vantage point, this time I’m able to watch the creation as it takes place. The way it develops from a blank page to a virtual photograph is mind-blowing. She has more talent in the tip of her finger than most people have in their entire bodies.

  Though I suspect a lot of that talent was honed with years and years of hard work and dedication. I have nothing but admiration for Skye.

  “Okay, here you go,” she says, passing me the finished paper.

  I trace the pencil line of her cheek.

  “It’s good, but missing something.”

  “Huh?” Skye grabs the paper out of my hands.

  “It’s missing your spark. Can’t you see it in yourself?”

  “Whatever, you’re just mad I didn’t draw my boobs,” she says with a quick smile.

  “You’re probably right.”

  “Never argue with the artist.”

  “I’m starving, come and get lunch.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Maybe two, two-thirty?” Damn, time goes fast with her.

  “Should we get dressed?”

  “If you want, but I’m enjoying having you naked.”

  Skye shrugs and smiles. “As long as you’re happy to eat like that too. I thought it would make you lose your appetite.”

  “Fuck no, it makes me hungrier.”

  “For food?”

  I smirk and say, “There’s a million ways to answer that, but I’m going to keep my mouth shut.”

  “That’s not very suit of you.”

  “You said no sarcasm.”

 
We make sandwiches, and sit to eat them at my kitchen island.

  “Does your family ever come from Michigan to visit?” Skye’s arms flop to the counter, causing the sandwich to drop onto her plate.

  “I’m an only child of only children, I don’t have much family.”

  “And your parents?”

  “We don’t speak anymore.” She shifts her eyes to the floor.

  Oh, right. I move to her side, brushing her arm with my hand. Tears fill the corners of her eyes, and I clear them away with my forefingers. The tenderness of my action surprises even me.

  “Sorry. I haven’t talked to anyone in person about it before, not even with Ava.”

  “No one?”

  “I Skyped and emailed my college roommate Amy a lot when I was first thinking about moving out here, but life moved on and now our discussions are on the other things going on in our lives, not the old news of my estranged parents.”

  “Is that, I mean, was that…” How do I phrase that question? I want to shout ‘what happened?’

  “They disowned me for using my grandma’s inheritance to move out here and pursue my art. After a lot of screaming and yelling and them telling me not to waste the money and that I was living in la la land thinking art can actually be a career, I stormed out and haven’t had any contact with them since.”

  I pull her off the stool and draw her against me. No longer able to hide her feelings, she weeps into my chest. It reminds me of how I felt about the loss of my own parents.

  “What hurts most of all, more than them not believing in me, is that the money mattered more to them than I did. And it wasn’t even their money — she left it to me.”

  “They’re the ones in the wrong. You know that, right?”

  “Yeah, but why? Why did they do that to me?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “At least your parents wanted you. I’m not even good enough for my parents. Sometimes I think I was a mistake right from the start.”

  “But there’s still a chance, Skye, a chance that they’ll realize how wrong they’ve been and phone you. Don’t give up.” The way I had to give up on my parents ever walking back through the front door.

  We stand like that for several minutes. Though all my own pain feels like it’s suddenly rushed back, holding Skye in my arms calms me. Like she’s entered my life and finally plugged a gaping hole that’s been part of me for my entire adult life.

  I would give anything to have my parents back. It’s a fucking joke that her parents are alive and won’t talk to her. Over money, for fuck’s sake. Feeling her sob against me makes me want to rush to her parents’ house and shake them.

  “You were right to come out here and follow your dream.”

  “No,” she pulls her hand to her face and wipes her eyes. “They were right. It’s a stupid pipe dream. I’ve wasted all my grandma’s money and I’m a failure.”

  “That’s just stupid.”

  “I’ve been here months and, until last week, only sold one painting. I’m obviously not as good as I thought I was.”

  “You’re crazy good. It just takes time.”

  “That’s what Ava says, but it’s bullshit.”

  “So let me help you. I can get you publicity. Anything you need.”

  “No way,” she says, shaking her head.

  “Why? I want to.”

  “Having some rich guy I’m fucking pave my way isn’t making it. It’s just as big a failure.”

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  Skye looks at me, her eyes narrow. “I’m serious.”

  “Fine, but don’t ever think you’re not the best artist in the country.”

  It pisses me off that she doesn’t want my help. I tip her head up and smooth back her hair.

  Pressing my forehead against hers, I say, “Listen to me. You have an insane amount of talent. You will get discovered, I promise you.”

  She sighs. “I’ll never get discovered if I run out of money and starve to death.”

  “Why will you accept help from Ava but not me?”

  “Ava’s different — she’s a fellow artist.”

  “Oh yeah, what does she paint?”

  “She’s a professor of art history.” Her voice sounds exasperated, but I’m not stopping now.

  “So she’s not an artist, she’s a teacher? And you’ll accept her help but not mine?”

  “She’s still in the art community. You run hotels, that’s nothing to do with art. The only reason you’d offer my help is because I let you in my pants.”

  “There’s nothing legit a hotelier could do to help you?”

  Her lips tighten. “Nope. I keep saying, I’ll only take help from within the art community.”

  “And Kelso.”

  “That’s a commission.”

  “But I’m not allowed to commission something from you?”

  “I thought we were dropping this subject.”

  “Fine.” She’s getting annoyed, so I drop it. I don’t know what pisses me off more: her not accepting my help, or knowing what her parents did to her.

  Rumbled

  (Skye)

  Damn, I realize I didn’t text Ava to say I wouldn’t be home. Either Friday night or last night. I dig out my phone and text her.

  It hadn’t been my intention to stay over for one night, let alone two. But Lawson gave me no choice, he was impossible to walk away from.

  And it’s not just his touch. We stayed up late every night, talking and laughing until we fell asleep out of sheer exhaustion. I’ve never felt so connected to anyone.

  Throwing myself into my art at such a young age meant I never bothered much with friendships. In college I was at least surrounded by lots of likeminded people, and I count them as good friends, but our connection was always art.

  With Lawson, the connection is much deeper. It’s about me and him and nothing else.

  By the end of the second evening, I realized how silly I was being, thinking his money would’ve turned him into a bad person.

  Especially after everything he told me about his charity and his childhood. I can’t imagine how hard it is to lose both your parents so young, and so suddenly, but to also have to drop out of school and support your sisters is heartbreaking.

  We’re sitting eating the breakfast that Lawson made, again without even letting me help. It’s a clear, bright morning and sunlight pours through the breakfast room window. A beam of light illuminates Lawson’s tattooed arm, the Laughing Cavalier image in particular.

  “So, why the Laughing Cavalier?” I have to ask. “I mean, most people go for a Monet or Van Gogh, you have to be pretty arty to know of Frans Hals.”

  “I like the look on the smug bastard’s face.”

  “He reminds you of you?”

  “Very funny.”

  “But how do you even know about him? Are you going to tell me you have a degree in art history or something?”

  “No degree. I told you, I’m a high school dropout.”

  I roll my eyes. “Fine. Don’t tell me.”

  “When I started opening hotels in Europe, I lived in London. My place was around the corner from the Wallace Collection, and I used to go in whenever I needed to escape Kelso’s bullshit.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Afraid so,” he says, arching an eyebrow.

  “I’ve always wanted to go to Europe to see the art collections and paint in the light of Provence.”

  “Are you free next weekend?”

  “What?”

  “Let’s go. We can go to Provence or the Louvre in Paris, the Uffizi in Florence, your pick. I can only spare a couple of days this time, but as soon as the lawsuit’s over we can go for as long as you want.”

  My heart is pounding. It’s been my dream since I was a little kid to go to Europe and see all the art. I can’t even comprehend his offer being reality. Would going make me a hypocrite? I wouldn’t want Lawson to tease me the entire time.

  I can’t contain my excitement anymo
re. With a smile I can’t hide, I say, “I can’t imagine how awesome that would be. I mean, that’s something I’ve wanted for years, and now you’re offering it like it’s no big deal.”

  Lawson reaches across the table and grips my hand. “I can’t think of another way I’d rather spend my weekend than initiating you into the mile-high club.”

  “Oh, I get it now.”

  “Don’t say you don’t want it.”

  “So anyway, in college, my friend Amy and I took a Greyhound to New York. We spent all day in The Met, slept in the grottiest hostel ever, spent another day at The Met, then caught an overnight bus home.”

  “I can take you back there too, if you want. We’ll stay in the penthouse of my hotel and fuck all night.”

  I fold my arms and roll my eyes but still can’t help laughing. “You can’t just woo me with your money.”

  “I’m not trying to. If you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly the kind of guy who woos.”

  “Well, whatever it is you’re trying to do.”

  “I’m trying to get in your pants.”

  “You are such an ass. But if you missed it, you already got in my pants.”

  “Don’t worry, I didn’t forget.”

  I’m now a day behind on finishing the scarecrow painting — two days if I don’t leave here soon.

  “I really have to get home now to work on my paintings.”

  “What car do you want to go in? The Range Rover? Maserati? SLK?”

  “Not that I care about overpriced cars, but let’s take the Maserati, I want to hear the noise.”

  Lawson revs the engine a few times, a roaring purr that grabs my attention. We take off down his street, the engine singing. I hate the effect it has on me, but I’m tingling between my legs.

  Laughing, he looks at me, “It’s good, isn’t it?”

  I want to call him an ass, but I shake my head. I’m not admitting what it’s doing to me.

  “You know, they’ve scientifically proved that the sound of a Maserati turns women on, biologically.”

  “You don’t say.”

  Though I’d never admit it, fantasies fill my head for the entire journey of him ripping my clothes off and bending me over the hood. I can’t help it.

  The feeling passes when we pull into Ava’s driveway. I hang my head, feeling like I’m fifteen all over again. Even though it’s my first, this is going to be the world’s worst walk of shame.