“You could, but you might be breaking a few laws. They’re protected. They serve as a natural barrier for storms and stuff. But that’s not why we’re back here. I wanted you to see this.”
He turns us around, and I jump down off his back. “Oh my gosh. This is crazy.”
The back of the fence is covered with amazing graffiti art, one scene morphing into the next. Different styles range from bohemian to metropolitan to anime to circus freak. But the artists have been careful to keep the integrity of each other’s style intact as they connected their own design to the piece. What started out as a 3D forest of exotic animals, turns to a magic carpet ride featuring a zebra, then to a waterpark where the zebra zooms down a slide, then to a city scene where the zebra sips a martini, then to an old Western town where the zebra acts as sheriff, and ends with a mosaic zebra shattering into pieces.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” I say.
“I guess beach kids can paint,” he says.
“Apparently so.” I turn to him. “Do you know any of the kids who did this?”
“Nah. A bunch of us from my school used to hang out here a lot hoping we’d catch them, but they never showed.”
I examine the art, processing all the intricacies and the different styles melding together. The work makes me excited and intimated all at once.
“So you said you were going to art school next year?” he asks.
“If I can get in. There’s a good one in Franklin, outside of Nashville. I’ve sort of been dreaming of going there since I was about twelve.”
“What will you do with it? Graphic design or…”
I shrug. “I don’t know, maybe.”
“Can I ask you something?” he says.
I turn toward him at the sound of his serious tone. “Yeah.”
“Why haven’t you offered to show me your sketchbook?” His eyes register an ounce of hurt.
It hasn’t really dawned on me before now that he’d want to see it. I figure most people who typically aren’t artists ask out of obligation, but by the look in his eye, I think he’s really interested.
“You want to see it?” I ask.
He lets out a huff and gives a rueful smile. “Do you know how pissed I was when I saw you take that thing when you went out with Hunter the other night? I wanted to rip his fingers off so he couldn’t draw with you.”
The passion in his tone gives away just how much he cares about my art or what he thinks is important to me, which is freaking me out in a really good way.
“Are you serious?” I ask.
“Yeah, I’m serious. Why do you think I was such a dickhead at the party? You’ve got this unique talent, and so does he. I couldn’t get the two of you out of my head drawing together or discussing chord progressions in some of that punk crap on the shirts he wears. I don’t know about that stuff.”
He’s so cute the way he looks so lost talking about music and art, which is so foreign to me because it’s my whole world. And the fact he’s intimated by Hunter is the most hilarious thing I’ve heard all summer. Hunter is this skinny little art geek, and Landon is this all-American, unbelievably fine, ridiculously smart, soon-to-be collegiate athlete. I can’t imagine Landon being intimidated by Chris Hemsworth much less Hunter Raborn. Hunter is kinda cute though.
I shrug. “Okay. I’ll show it to you when we get home.” I’m already thinking about the pages I’ll have to rip out first.
“So did you?” he asks.
“Did I what?”
He burrows his gaze deep into mine like he’s willing me to give the right answer. “Draw with him.”
I bite my bottom lip. “A little.”
He shakes his head in irritation, and then he points to the mural. “Did he take you here already? Be honest.”
I laugh. “No, of course not. Do you think I wouldn’t have said something by now instead of staring at it in awe?”
He shakes his head. “Sorry. I don’t know why I get like that with you.” He rests his hands on my waist. “I get crazy thinking about you with somebody else.”
My chest fills with the pride of his jealousy. I rest my hands on his shoulders. “What about you? I had to watch that girl maul you, and you just stood there and did nothing about it.” I punch him in the stomach playfully, and he doesn’t even flinch.
He tugs me toward him and pulls me into his arms. “I was just trying to make you jealous. I couldn’t stand that you were with another guy.”
“You succeeded. That girl was beautiful. I don’t even know how to compete with that.”
He slides his hand over my hips and rests them back on my waist. “There’s no competition. You win by a mile.”
I roll my eyes. It’s a good line but a big fat lie.
“You don’t need to be insecure,” he says.
I purse my lips. “I can’t help it. I’ve never dated a guy like you.”
He tilts his head backward. “What’s a guy like me?”
I squeeze his shoulders. “Please. Gorgeous, athletic, and you’re like this total smart guy.”
He worries his brow, diverting his gaze. I must have embarrassed him.
I pinch his arm. “Besides, I’m not finished with my confidence-building list.”
“Are you still on that?” he asks.
“Oh yeah. I’m over halfway through. I’ve got four left, and we’ve got four more weeks till the end of our time here.”
The expression falls from his face. I realize the clock is ticking on our relationship, the numbers on the days spiraling downward toward the single digits, counting down to zero. At the start of the summer it seemed like I had an eternity here. But now I feel the days slipping away, my grasp on them entirely too loose.
He pulls back from me. “Isn’t there something on there about sending food back at a restaurant?”
I frown. “Yeah.”
He taps his chin.
I take an exhaustive breath. Time to knock out number five.
Landon
I let Chloe in the dark house, the only light the one over the kitchen sink. I take her hand. “Do you want to get your sketchbook and meet me in my room?”
She grins. “Okay.”
We tiptoe up the stairs and stop in front of her door. I turn her toward me and lay a kiss on her. I don’t mean for it to be anything more than a peck, but every time I kiss her, this animal inside of me surfaces, and I have to have more of her.
She pulls away, holds up one finger, and then slips into her room.
I change into my gym shorts and a t-shirt and open the door to the bathroom. I wait for her on my bed, and a few seconds later, she tiptoes in sketchbook in hand. She has changed into a thin, gray pair of pajama pants and a white tank top exposing her smooth, creamy chest that I want to consume. But I give myself a mental kick in the balls. She’s not ready for me to maul her. I’m giving my patience a workout these days. But it’s worth it to make Chloe feel safe and comfortable with me.
I scoot to the side closest to the door and let her on the other side, just in case anyone decides to knock on the door. It’s locked, of course, but still. She snuggles in under the covers, her warm body heating mine up in places I don’t need to be thinking about.
She looks up at me. “Do you still want to see this?”
“Yes, of course. I’ve been waiting all summer, please.”
“You know, all you had to do was ask,” she says.
I shrug. “I guess I wanted you to want to show me.”
“I do,” she says with a comforting smile.
I turn on my reading light, and she flips through quickly. I get a glimpse of what she’s done. It’s mostly people, scenes from her life from what I can tell. And they are unbelievably realistic.
“Wait, stop,” I say. “What’s that one? Will you flip the page back?”
“Yeah, at the boutique when your mom took us shopping for dresses.”
“I can’t believe how much that looks like her.” Jenna’s face is full of life as her dress opens up around her. “She’s always spinning like that, isn’t she?”
Chloe nods, smiling.
I point at another figure in the picture. “Is that my mom?”
“Mmm hmm.”
“God, Chloe. These are amazing.” I’m not exaggerating. I point to an insignificant figure in the background. “Where are you? That’s not you is it?”
“No, that’s the lady who owns the store. I’m not in the scene.”
“Why not?”
“I’m the observer. Besides, I don’t like to draw myself.”
I look down at her and see her in a new light. I knew she was creative, but I had no idea how talented. I’m humbled and intrigued, and damn if I’m not turned on.
“Can I see another one?” I ask, and she flips again. I stop her. “Who is this? It sort of looks like your dad but younger.”
“Wow, you’re good,” she says.
I nudge her. “No, you are. Is this little girl you?”
Her expression turns a little solemn. “Yeah.”
“Are you in a church pew?”
She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “Yeah. It’s just a memory I had the day I drew it.”
I consider her and what her life’s been like with her dad, realizing we may have a lot in common in that area. “Did you used to be close to your dad?”
“When I was little, I guess.” She scratches at a mark on the page. “Maybe all dads are close with their little girls, but then they grow up.” She stares at her drawing, running her finger along the ruffles in her little girl dress. I pull her hand to my mouth and kiss the back of it. She smiles up at me, and then narrows her gaze. “What about you?”
Talking about my relationship with my dad isn’t my favorite thing in the world. He’s one of these old school guys who thinks the school system over-diagnoses disabilities and gives too many provisions. I overheard a few heated discussions between my mom and him about my math grades, especially when they threatened to keep me from practicing or playing football. My mom always stood up for me. I’m not egocentric enough to believe that was what caused the divorce, but I do know it didn’t do anything to help avoid it.
I pull on a string hanging loose from my t-shirt. “We’re okay. He calls me a few times a week.”
She frowns like that’s something unusual. “What do you talk about?”
“Sports, football, players, coaches, which SEC or ACC team’s gonna dominate their conference.”
She blinks at me, processing my words. I fear she isn’t buying my surface explanation, so I plow forward on her art before she can ask any more questions.
I point to her book. “Let me see another picture.”
She flips again, and I stop her. “Who is this guy?”
A drawing of a guy with straight, long hair, wearing a t-shirt and jeans tucked into combat boots catches my eye. The guy hangs onto some sort of bar, so his torso is stretched out from the top to the bottom of the page against a brick background. Dude wears some sort of bracelet around his wrist, and a chain hangs down from his front pocket to his back. I don’t know who it is, but I want to kick his ass.
She tries to flip the page, but I grab her hand. “Who is it?” I repeat.
She covers her face with her other hand. “Nobody.”
She tries to hide a smile but does a terrible job of it. “He’s somebody or you wouldn’t have had enough interest to sketch him. Is it an ex?”
She remains silent, so I tickle her side.
She giggles and scoots away from me taking her book with her. “Stop.”
I’m relentless now. “Only if you tell me who it is.”
She’s laughing hard but trying not to be loud. “Okay,” she stage whispers. I stop, but hold on to her side for collateral. She inhales a deep breath and looks up at me. “It’s you.”
I look at the picture again. “What? That’s not me. That doesn’t look anything like me.”
“It’s who I hoped you might be,” she says.
It feels like I got kidney-punched by a surprise attacker.
“Wow,” I say. “I’m nothing like this guy. I guess you were grossly disappointed when you saw me.”
She gives a laugh. “A little bit.”
I tickle her again, and she tries to fight me off with little success.
I stop. “I’m getting a complex here. The guy in this picture is all cool and mysterious. I’m about as transparent as a soap bubble.” I look down at her with a sudden panic I hope doesn’t show on my cool exterior. “Is this the type of guy you want to be with?”
She outlines the figure on the picture with her finger in a slow, fluid motion. The sensual move wakes up my dick. “When I drew this I was thinking of a brother type.”
And there goes that. “I guess your whole plan went all to hell,” I say.
She grins up at me. “I like the new plan better.”
She leans up to give me kisses on my cheek, and I move the sketchbook into my lap curious as hell to see what else lies in this book of horrors. I flip backward through the pages and land on one of a guy with shaggy hair pushed away from his eyes leaning against a beat up muscle car. His gaze bears directly at the observer, giving off an eerie vibe.
“Who’s this?” I ask.
She looks down at the book and grabs it away from me, but she’s not laughing this time.
“I thought I got them all,” she says almost under her breath. The color drains from her face.
A fire sparks in my chest as I put together who this is a picture of. “Is that him?”
She nods, her eyes closed, hands resting on top of the closed sketchbook.
I hug her into me in an attempt at comforting her. She wraps her arm around my torso and squeezes me like she’s trying to get closer to me. My lip quivers from the anger raging inside of me at the idea of this guy’s ability to ruin her good mood without even being present.
“I’m so sorry about that asshole, Chloe. God, I want to come home with you and find him.”
I leave it at that, not wanting to pull more violence into this moment. She’s already so uncomfortable. The idea that this guy thinks he can take what he wants from girls makes me insane. Justifiable homicide springs to mind. What jury would convict me for killing a sick fuck like him?
We lay in silence as I rub my thumb on her forearm, looking for a subject change. “Have you gotten to spend any time with your dad yet?”
“He hasn’t rescheduled our lunch date yet. I’m not holding my breath.”
I direct my anger toward Derrick. What the hell’s wrong with him? Can he not see his daughter wants to spend time with him? She didn’t come here for the summer to be ignored while he holes up in his office.
“I think he’s really busy with some work project right now,” I say, hoping to smooth things over on his behalf.
“Mmm hmm,” she says, not buying it.
“Is my mom staying out of your hair?” I ask.
“Your mom’s sweet,” she says. “She has good intentions.” She nuzzles her head into my chest.
I get an idea, and I pull back from her. “You want to go shopping tomorrow?”
“Really?” she asks. “For what?”
“Apparently I need some combat boots and a wallet with a chain.”
She bursts into laugher.
“What? I can’t pull it off?” I ask.
“No,” she says through a throat full of laughter.
She’s laughing a little too hard, which should sting a little, but I kind of like that she’s into me despite the fact I’m c
ompletely opposite from the kind of guy she thought she wanted. And I really like that I’m totally opposite from that asshole who tried to rape her.
“What are you talking about?” I ask. “I’m badass.”
Now she’s laughing way too hard.
I turn toward her. “This is starting to get little hurtful.”
I let her finish her laughing fit, and she finally looks up at me, trying to squelch a smile.
“Is that your type?” I ask. “Guys like that?”
“About a century ago,” she says. “At least that’s how far removed I feel from the time I felt that way.”
I run my knuckle up her thigh. “How do you feel now?”
It’s a bold question to ask, but I can’t help it. I need a hint at what’s going on in her head right now.
She bites at her lips, eyes focused on a random spot on the comforter. “I feel…good. Better than I have in a while.”
I’ll take it…whatever she’s comfortable giving. I pull her back into my chest and flip through the book, egotistically looking for a current drawing of me, but I don’t find one.
“Are you ever going to update that drawing?” I ask.
She moans.
“What’s that about?” I ask.
She covers her eyes. “I’m too scared to.”
“Why?”
She meets my gaze. “You’re too perfect as is. I’d only mess you up.”
My heart stings a little at her comment. I’m not ready to give anything up yet, but I’m sure I’m not going to live up to her expectations, so I’ve got to say something.
I scratch my eyebrow. “Chloe, I’m not perfect.”
She shakes her head. “Yeah, you kinda are.”
She doesn’t know about me. At school, everyone knows your status and brain capability by the teachers’ rooms you walk in and out of. Mrs. Tate has remedial English fourth period. Mrs. Porter has advanced calculus second period. I can look at every kid in my school and classify them into a category by the classes they take. She’s a brain. He’s just average. She’s an underachiever. Ah, that one. He gets services. He must be slow.
But Chloe doesn’t know me that way. She’s never seen me try to solve a word problem or read the dots on the dice in a board game. She’s never seen me freeze up in front of the copy machine in my school’s library. She has no idea that numbers dissolve from my brain any time I try to add them up in my head. She doesn’t know I can’t read an analog clock, or that I still use my fingers to count, or that multiplication is in no way a short cut because I still have to count the numbers one at a time.
The Summer Before Forever Page 18