"I told you already that we are not going to have sex so I can just watch you leave. If we do this, I want your promise that you'll stay."
His voice was flat and cold, and it brought all my sexually-charged hopes crashing down. I fell back on my legs and looked at him. He turned, snatched up his shirt and slipped it over his head, but it was inside out. With a mild curse, he realized his mistake, and I was treated to another nice view of his chest while he straightened himself out.
I refused to call this an impasse. I knew he wanted it. I knew he was like any other red-blooded man in his mid-twenties. And he was clearly turned on... How resolute could he actually be?
I leaned back on my arms and pushed my breasts out at an attractive angle. I was rewarded when William fixed his eyes on my chest, then I watched the struggle cross his handsome features. Finally, he closed his eyes and sat back.
"Put your clothes on," he said.
I ignored his request. "Why don't you want to--?"
"I never said I didn't want to." And judging from the still obvious erection in his jeans, he could hardly deny it.
"Then--"
"But we aren't going to. Not until I have that promise. And if not, then we won't."
I'd change his mind--sooner or later. No man, no matter how stubborn, was that strong. Besides, he didn't realize the favor I was doing him by not committing. Bad things tended to happen to people who loved me...
I swallowed and shoved that thought aside.
"This isn't the Middle Ages, Wil. You aren't responsible or committed to someone just because you sleep with them."
He tensed. "If you think that's the reason, then you've completely misunderstood me."
I raised my brow, the challenge in his voice rankling me.
Reaching over, I grabbed my shirt and bra and put them on my lap. After a long moment, he opened his eyes, probably thinking that I'd dressed. When he saw that I hadn't, he didn't close his eyes again.
"So even though we could be enjoying ourselves..."
"It's not about enjoying. It's about you running away afterward."
There it was again. It had riled me up when he'd leveled that at me earlier today at the park, and now it just pissed me off.
"You don't know anything about me or my history, so it's rude to say I'm running away."
He shook his head. "People are always calling my honest statements rude. I didn't mean to be rude to you. But what is it, then, when you have people here who care about you, like Alex and Mia...like me. And you're just going to go away with no plan to ever come back?"
"I--" How could I explain this? I'd always thought about it as moving on to catch the next rainbow. To learn, to grow as a person. To experience life. To not grow stifled...attached. Because attachments could wound and murder parts of your heart, tearing those parts in the most painful manner possible when those attachments left you forever.
He wouldn't understand.
He couldn't understand.
And there was no sense in arguing about it, so I did what I was best at. I changed the subject.
Stretching out in a pose, I pushed out my naked chest. "Wil...I want you to draw me. Like one of your French girls."
His gaze slid down my body, warming the parts of me that it touched. "I have already."
I licked my lips and smiled. "Like this?"
He didn't answer, but heat crept across his face.
I sat up. "You did?"
His face was stoic. "I refuse to answer on the grounds that it might incriminate me."
"Pleading the Fifth? Hmm...now I'm going to have to see this. I'll make you a deal. I'll put my shirt back on if you show me."
He thought about that for a long time. "I could just hold out until you want to go home. You have to put your shirt back on for that."
"That's true. But until then, I'd be wandering around topless in your house, maybe even brushing up against you, falling against you. You know...being wanton."
He continued staring at my boobs as if he was mesmerized.
"You want to touch them again, don't you?"
He stood. "I'll show you some drawings if you put on your shirt."
With a small noise of triumph, I did as he asked. But in reality, I would have won either way. Having him grope me again with those big, callused hands certainly wouldn't be considered a loss by anyone's definition.
William gave me the succinct version of a grand tour of his large, ranch-style home. As he led me into his art studio, which interestingly enough was in the master suite, he explained that not only was it the largest bedroom in the house, but the lighting was the best there. He'd even installed an industrial-sized sink and drying rack in the attached bathroom so he could wash his supplies.
The room was equipped to the nines with special tools and items I didn't even recognize. The floor was polished concrete, and there was special diffused lighting with filters and shades at the ready to adjust the lighting. There were also blackout curtains that could be drawn on all the windows. It was a lovely room and would have made a wonderful bedroom, but as an art studio, it was amazing.
Cabinets and standing equipment lined the walls, along with a roll of different backdrops hanging from the ceiling. A large, high-end drafting table dominated the room, located just under the skylight. Upon that table were a variety of brushes, palettes, boxes of charcoal, pastels and containers of special pencils and erasers, all perfectly organized. I reached over to pick up a shiny metal ruler.
"Don't touch," he admonished. After a stern frown creased his brow, he added, "Please."
My eyes widened and I pulled my hand back. Apparently, the studio was sacrosanct. "I don't see any of your rules posted in here like in your smithy."
"That's because people are not permitted to come in here--besides me."
I blinked. "Mia said she's been here."
"She stands in the doorway, as does everyone else. I don't like having people in this space."
"Do you want me to go stand over at the door?"
"No. Just--if you don't touch anything, that would be good."
I was a bit overwhelmed at the special status of being able to enter the artist's temple when his closest loved ones could not. Did that reveal a certain level of special trust? A lump formed in my throat at the thought.
I fidgeted in my spot, then stuffed my hands in my pockets as if to reassure him that I would behave. "Deal."
He went to one of the easels and removed a blank canvas from it, setting it carefully on the ground. Then he opened up a big cabinet and flipped through a few boards without looking at them. It was as if he knew exactly what he was looking for and exactly where it was.
Moving from the cabinet back to the now-empty easel, he slowly, tentatively set a board on it. Once I got a look at what was on that board, I about fell over in shock. I most certainly couldn't breathe.
It was an absolutely exquisite acrylic painting of me... Holy. Shit.
Though he'd hinted that it might be lurid, in reality, it wasn't at all. The image was a close-up of my head and shoulders, depicting me staring over my bare shoulder. I had no shirt on, but as I was turned away from the viewer, there were no anatomical details. Even if he had chosen to be more explicit, I could not have felt more special in that moment than if Degas himself had painted me with not a stitch of clothing on.
It must have taken him forever, and it was so lovingly detailed--the glint in my eyes, the strands of hair splayed across my shoulders, the curve of my earlobe. I labored to draw my next breath. "I don't ever remember you taking a photo of me. How--how did you do this?"
He seemed confused by my non sequitur question but answered anyway. "I don't paint from photos. Photos are two-dimensional. My memory remembers everything in three dimensions. And I've seen you enough to recall the details in order to create this image."
"So is that the reason you didn't do a full-frontal depiction? Because you haven't seen me naked?"
He looked away and shrugged.
> I couldn't take my eyes off the painting. It made me feel strange inside--special, like a queen. Janja, ti si kraljica. Those words in Papa's voice popped into my head. Telling me I was a queen. I'd never felt like one again until this moment. I swallowed.
"Do you like it?" he asked.
I was blinking tears from my eyes. Like it?
"It's stunning. I'm just so..."
"What?"
"Overwhelmed..." I shook my head. "You're amazing, Wil."
He didn't reply, but he did turn back to look at the canvas.
"Would you paint me if I modeled for you?"
"Naked?" I laughed at his shocked face, which was good. It helped those strong emotions dissipate, and I welcomed that. Because with those memories came pain. And I didn't want to remember. Not now.
"Yes, naked... Clearly, you don't need me to be here for a head shot."
He looked from my shoulder to the canvas and back again. "I don't need you here while I paint."
I smiled. "Okay, shall I just model for you now then?" I reached as if to pull my shirt up again--mostly because I wanted to rile him up a bit, but also because I couldn't get over my sheer awe of his talent. He oozed with it, and I was confused and a little at a loss for how to act.
His brows rose in alarm. "Don't take your shirt off again. I just got things under control," he said with a glance at his crotch.
"I'm sorry...I'm just being goofy because I'm uncomfortable." I sighed, dropping my arms to my sides. "You know, it's really not fair."
"What's not fair?"
"That you're handsome, smart and mega-talented. I have no idea why you seem to be of the opinion that you need to prove your worthiness to anyone."
His eyes lowered, that same troubled look clouding his features. Would he finally talk about it or would he be tight-lipped again? And what did it all have to do with his mom and Disneyland?
I figured this was as good a time as any to spring it on him. "I have an idea...we should go to Disneyland to have fun while working on your crowds issue."
He stiffened, big hands curling into fists at his sides. "I'm not going to Disneyland."
"Hey, if you want me to help you, you've got to be open to my suggestions. We don't have to go anywhere near Adventureland or the Jungle Cruise, okay? To be honest, it would be no big loss for me. They tell dorky jokes, and I really don't need to see the 'back side of water' for the zillionth time." When he didn't say anything, I pressed it further. "Come on, Wil. It's the happiest place on earth. You can go with me there, can't you? We'll just go for a few hours."
He took a deep breath, then let it go.
"If you don't say 'yes,' I'm whipping my top off again."
He held his hand out. "Okay, okay. Yes. I'll go."
"Damn," I harrumphed. "I kind of wanted you to touch them again."
This time he rewarded me with a deep color on his face. "You like teasing me too much."
I laughed. "Well, you're going to have to learn to tease me back."
His stern expression dissolved into a soft smile that made my stomach flip. "When will we go?"
"I'd say next weekend, but I have to work all day on Saturday. A weekday would be better--and definitely less crowded--but you have to work."
"I can take a day of leave," he said. "They wouldn't say anything because I never take a day off. We can go on Wednesday."
"So we'd be disrupting your regular schedule and working on crowds. Two birds with one stone. I like that." Once again his face clouded, so I continued on. "I have to work in the morning at the Refugee Support Center. The group therapy session ends at ten. If you come to get me early, you could sit in, if you want."
He looked like he was about to say no, so I scooted up to him and--very slowly, so he knew what I was doing--put my arms around his neck. Then I rose on my tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. "Please?"
He heaved a great sigh. "I'll be there. Just give me the address."
A little while later, he took me home, and after having spent practically the entire weekend with him, it almost felt like I had a William-shaped hole in my life. I was amazed and a little frightened at how much I really was looking forward to next Wednesday.
Chapter 16
William
As Jenna asked, I've arrived at the Refugee Support Center early. When I give my name at the front desk and tell them why I'm there, they are expecting me. Ann, her friend who I already know from the RMRA, comes out to escort me back.
"She's busy right now. Things got a bit emotional this morning, so while I think she originally wanted you to sit in on the circle, it probably wouldn't be best right now."
I have to admit that I'm relieved. I've been in a few group counseling sessions when I was a teenager and they did not go well.
When I enter through the door, I'm in a large room set up like a classroom with desks and chairs. There are computers along the wall, as well as groupings of couches and comfortable chairs near bookcases loaded with novels and nonfiction titles. In the back corner is a ring of seats with six people talking quietly.
Nearby, just opposite the support circle, Jenna stands beside a young woman, her head bent. They are talking quietly, and the other girl--a teenager, I think--is dabbing her eyes with a tissue.
Ann appears at my shoulder, speaking quietly. "Anchali is having some anxiety from some bad memories that were brought up in the session. Jenna is talking her down. It will be a little while."
I watch Jenna as she comforts the young lady, touching her on the arm much the way she does with me. I realize these things that I appreciate are things she shares with others, too. And while that might make me feel less special, it doesn't.
Jenna likes to help others. She's open-minded and sees things from different perspectives. Yet just last weekend, she told me that she wished she could see the world as I do. That thought elicits a warm feeling in the center of my chest.
As I watch her now, I can see that she likes to help people. And it can't be easy helping people here, in a refugee center, when she still has such awful memories of the war she lived through. But she listens to others tell their stories and helps them however she can.
Just like she's helping me. And though I know that it's in her best interest, I'd like to think that she'd help me anyway, without her tiara on the line.
Ann is speaking to me now. "Can you help me with Raul? Jenna asked him to make a sign, but I need to get the classroom ready for our next session." She points to a young man with black hair and bronze skin sitting at an art desk.
I'm wary of approaching a stranger so I walk slowly, trying to formulate what to say. What kind of help does he need? He appears to be drawing something. As I get closer, he glances up at me and then looks away.
"Hello. I'm William Drake. Do you need any assistance?"
Without looking at me, he shrugs. I stand there for a moment and watch him continue to work. He's creating rather complex lettering in a very modern, urban style, similar to some of the more artistic street tagging I've seen on random concrete walls and freeway overpasses. Ann said it's a sign for the support center, and it looks like he's doing the outline.
I stuff my hands in my pockets, unsure of what to do. I continue standing there before interrupting to offer a suggestion.
"You've created an interesting font. But if you are going to overlap the letters like that, then the bottom leg of the 'n 'should be on top of the 'g' instead of beneath it, as you have it. It's more aesthetically pleasing to have the letters overlap all the same way."
The young man sits back and studies the lettering for a moment, tilting his head. "I guess that might look good."
I bend over to grab a stray piece of paper and a woefully dull pencil, then quickly sketch out what I mean. "I'm not well versed in urban-style art, but it might look like this."
The young man is watching every move I make without saying anything. "How did you do that so fast?" He speaks with a heavy Spanish accent.
"It's just a mock-up, bu
t you can also make sure you center your word on the page by counting the number of letters in the word. Then, pick the middle letter and start with that right at the center of the page. Like this." As I demonstrate, he puts his pencil down to focus on what I'm doing.
"Where did you learn that?" he asks.
"I just drew a lot--like you are doing. I was never any good at school besides art classes. I tried college and it wasn't for me. But the instructor there said I could study privately with her and a group of other students. You could study with friends and learn by critiquing each other's work. That's mostly the way I learned."
"I'm still in high school."
"Start with an art class there."
"But don't they just teach you stuff you don't want to do?"
"You have to learn the basic exercises in order to do the stuff you want to do. It's about building your skills and technique."
I pass along a few other tips, and then he pulls some sheets from his binder, showing me some of his previous work. It's impressive. I ask him about certain choices he's made and find I'm learning new things, too.
"I'm Raul," he says suddenly, holding out his hand. I stare at it for a few seconds then realize he wants me to shake it. I'm not a big fan of shaking hands, so I hold mine out as a high-five and he smiles and hits it.
"I'm William."
"Are you going to teach here?"
"I'm here to pick up Jenna. I'm not a teacher."
He tilts his head to the side. "You should be."
Something about how he says that makes me feel good. He turns back to his paper and begins working again on a new sign using my suggestions as examples. Then Jenna is by my side, watching him.
"Hey, R," she says. "Sorry I couldn't get to you earlier. I had to help Anchali."
Raul looks up. "That's okay, your boyfriend was helping me. He's pretty good. I just need to know how to spell some of these words for the sign you want."
Jenna looks at me out of the corner of her eyes as she bends to write down a phrase for Raul. She's blushing. I'm thinking about Raul's assumption that I am Jenna's boyfriend, and it makes me feel warm, too, right in my chest. Is Jenna thinking about it, too?
I watch her as she's bent over, the curve of her legs, her butt, her hips. I want her to be my girlfriend. I want it in every sense of that word. But it's more than just about kissing or having sex with a woman I find incredibly desirable. I want to spend time with her. I want to spend my days with her, along with my nights.
For The One Page 17