by Lynn Cooper
Despite the serious look on Hazel’s face, it’s all I can do not to giggle. I have to bite the inside of my jaw to keep from doing so. In all my days, I have never heard anyone refer to the vagina in quite that way.
She takes a long sip of her coffee before continuing. A little of it dribbles down between the whiskers on her chin, and I have to fight the urge to dab it off with a napkin.
“No matter what a man says or does to woo you, Violet, don’t give in. Keep your legs locked together. Those knees shouldn’t fall open until the church is booked for the wedding and you have a ring on your finger. Honeymoons are made for hoochie coochie. Don’t give it up until then.”
Visions of Rhett and I standing at the altar flash through my mind but are quickly replaced with the memory of our earlier exchange in his classroom. He behaved in a mature, chivalrous manner while I acted like a huffed-up child. By pushing me away, setting up boundaries and drawing professional lines, he was only trying to do what was best for both of us.
As I stand to go change the lightbulb, I turn to Hazel and ask, “What if I met a man who wanted to protect me and my reputation?”
“I’d tell you to hold onto him with both hands. Fight for him, and never let him go,” she says, emphasizing each word with a pump of her frail fist.
I nod, acknowledging her response while trying to think of how I can hold onto a man who is forbidden to me. How I can fight for something that is never supposed to be.
Making my way down the hall, I suddenly realize I left my phone at home on the kitchen table. Crap! I wonder if Rhett has texted me about my car. Feeling a need to get back and check, I hurry to the small walk-in closet where Hazel keeps the spare bulbs. When I open the door, I’m hit hard by the pungent odor of mothballs. I’ve never understood how anyone could stand to use them. If I were Hazel, I think I’d take my chances with the moths. But then, in the shadows, I begin to see the colorful paisley shirts and polyester bellbottom pants like she does. Not as garments hanging on a rack but as snippets and snapshots of a life well-lived. Memories worth preserving with stinky mothballs.
Carefully climbing up onto the stepstool, I quickly change the bulb.
In the few minutes it has taken me to return to the living room, Hazel has nodded off. The box of Danish Wedding Cookies are clutched to her chest. Her feet are propped up on the coffee table. Not wanting to wake her, I tiptoe to the kitchen and out the back door.
As I’m locking it behind me, I see the Subaru pulling into my driveway. Rhett is behind the wheel with a scowl on his handsome face.
Chapter Six
Rhett Calder
On bare feet, Violet seems to float across the grass-covered path leading from the house next door to her paved driveway. A young woman her age has no right to move so gracefully. She should be skipping about, bouncing around like a carefree eighteen-year-old instead of a prick-teasing seductress. My breath catches in my throat, making it impossible to fill my lungs with oxygen. The sight of her is like a wrecking ball to the chest.
I shouldn’t be here.
I could have had her car towed to a mechanic, but instead I fixed it myself. I needed a justifiable excuse to see her outside of school. But nothing justifies the god-awful longing in my loins.
She is no longer wearing the polka-dot dress that had dipped so dangerously low to reveal the most delicious cleavage I had ever seen. Now she looks even sexier in an old, white baseball shirt with three black stripes adorning both sleeves. For a second, I wonder if it had belonged to her father. But the thought leaves my mind too fast for further analysis.
When I glimpse the faint outline of her pussy beneath form-fitting yoga pants, I grip the steering wheel hard enough to crack all the bones in my hands. But no amount of squeezing can dampen desire I should not be feeling in the first place. With each passing second, my need burns brighter. The urge to touch her. To hold her. To kiss her. Each grows to epic proportions.
When I couldn’t get her on the phone, I pulled up the school website on mine. Logging into the student database, I located her address and put it into my GPS.
As she approaches the driver’s side door with a shy smile on her face, I step out of the Subaru and confront her with more attitude than I intended. “Why the hell didn’t you reply to my text?”
“I had to help out an elderly neighbor and forgot my phone.”
“Umm. And here I thought every teenager in America was welded to their devices.”
She shrugs. “I guess I’m not like other young adults my age. I see you got the old Subaru running.”
I didn’t miss the emphasis she placed on adults, but I can’t think of her as one. If I don’t force myself to focus on her numerical age, I’ll rip her pants off and take her right here against the hood of the car.
“Yeah. It was the battery. I picked one up at the parts place off the highway. You’ll be ready to ride in the morning,” I say, handing her the key.
She takes it, purposely grazing her fingers against mine.
I swallow hard, jerking back from the scorching heat of her not-so-innocent touch. When she bats her eyelashes and licks her lips, both of us know exactly what she is doing.
“It’s awfully hot out here, Mr. Calder. Would you like to come in for a glass of lemonade?”
I shake my head. “I best be going. I’ve a got a good three-mile run back to my car.”
“Nonsense. I’ll drive you. A man can’t exert himself like that wearing dress clothes in the dog days of summer, now can he?”
“He can and will,” I say, turning to make a hasty exit.
“Wait!” she says, grabbing my shirtsleeve. “The least I can do is give you something cool to drink. You know, to say thank you for fixing my car.”
I feel myself wavering, and I know she can see the indecision on my face. I should run like the fucking wind, as far away from Violet as I can get.
She turns her big, brown eyes on me and pooches out her bottom lip. “Please come inside.”
Your house? Your mouth? Your pussy?
Fuck! I might have been strong enough to resist her if she hadn’t said please.
“Okay,” I say. “Just for a minute. For a quick drink of lemonade, then I’m gone.”
She nods happily, taking my hand and practically dragging me up the steps to her front door.
She pulls me through the living room and down a short hall before taking a sharp left into the kitchen. Despite how quickly we make our way through the small house, I am able to take note of how neat and clean it is. I was expecting to see dirty floors with clothes and books strewn all over the furniture. Apparently, Violet is a good little housekeeper.
“Take a load off,” she says, gesturing toward a round, oak-finished table with four matching chairs. The legs on the first one I attempt to sit in wobble so badly, I fear it’s going to collapse. As discreetly as possible, I slip onto a sturdier one while she gets the pitcher of lemonade out of the refrigerator. Before she closes the door, I notice there’s not much there in the way of sustenance. The shelves are practically empty except for some milk, yogurt and a pack of lunch meat.
Accepting the glass she offers me, I say, “Looks like you could use some groceries.”
“I’ll pick a few things up on the way home from school tomorrow.”
She doesn’t meet my gaze when answering, making me wonder if she might be lying.
I take a long drink of the sweet but still overly-tart beverage. Lemonade has never been my favorite. I’m more of an ice-tea man.
Sitting down across from me, Violet takes a slow sip while simultaneously twirling the ends of her wavy-blonde hair. When she sets her glass down, she opens her pretty mouth to speak, and it’s all I can do not to reach out and trace the curve of her bottom lip with the pad of my thumb.
“Why did you fix my car?” she asks coyly.
“Because it was broken. How are you paying the bills?”
“With the money I made working the rodeo.”
“That
was a seasonal job. You couldn’t have possibly made enough to carry you through the school year.”
“I didn’t. In hindsight, I should have gotten work as a cashier at the grocery store or somewhere more permanent,” she says, sighing. “I guess I wasn’t thinking long-term. I liked being at the rodeo because it made me feel closer to Dad. And a part of me thought my mom would be back home by now.”
“Have you heard from her recently?”
“No, and I don’t expect to.”
I finish my drink and get up to carry the glass over to the sink. She stands, stopping me with a hand on my forearm. “I’ll get the dishes later. Why don’t you rest and cool off a while longer.”
“I can’t. I need to get going, and you need to make out a list of your bills. You can give them to me at the start of class in the morning.”
Her big eyes grow even bigger. “What are you talking about?”
“You have no income, Violet. You have very little food in the house. Without a job, you can’t keep the lights on or gas in the car. I’m in a position to take care of you financially. If you—”
“I won’t be taking a damn dime from you, Daddy Warbucks! I’m not some charity case. I can fend for myself just fine.”
“Bullshit. You’re a parentless, high school senior who needs all the fucking help she can get. I’m going to help you.”
“You can help me by not being a coldhearted bastard.”
Her words sting worse than a slap across the face. I want to silence her lips with mine but don’t dare.
Poking me in the chest, she rails on. “If you really care about me, you won’t keep pushing me away. I don’t want or need your stupid money. I want your arms around me. I want to kiss you and be kissed by you. I—”
“I can’t do a damn thing about either of our wants, Violet. But I can supply your basic needs. A list of your bills better be on my desk first thing in the morning, or your first mark of the semester will be a big, fat zero in my gradebook.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Try me,” I say, leaving the room and heading back down the hallway. On the return trip, my eye catches a painting hanging at the entryway of the living room. It stops me dead in my tracks.
I have expected Violet to follow me, maybe even beg me to stay. When I realize she is nowhere in sight, I call back over my shoulder. “Who painted this picture?”
My heart gives me a start as she seems to materialize out of nowhere. She is standing too close for comfort, and her voice is too soft and sensual. “I did.”
I furrow my brow, not bothering to hide the look of extreme skepticism on my face. “No you didn’t.”
“Are you calling me a liar, Rhett?”
Damn her for using my first name. On her lips, it sounds like a passionate prayer. One I would kneel at an altar every day and night just for the chance to hear again.
“It would have taken years of intense training, and you would have to be some sort of fucking prodigy to accomplish this degree of craftsmanship. So, yes. I’m calling you a filthy, little liar.”
“I watched a thirty-minute art tutorial on YouTube. It took me the better part of an afternoon to paint this picture.”
I scrub both hands over my face, not believing what I’m hearing. This girl has got to be playing some kind of fucking mind game. I know master artists who have studied at Yale and not reached this level of accomplishment.
“Show me,” I demand.
“Now?”
“Yes. Right now. I assume you have paints and a canvas. If not, I keep supplies in my car. I can get them.”
“That won’t be necessary. I have what I need in my bedroom.”
“Retrieve them, and be quick.”
She shakes her head. “If you want me to paint for you, then you’ll have to come upstairs with me.”
Chapter Seven
Violet Driscoll
WITH HIS HEAD DOWN, Rhett follows me up the stairs to my bedroom. The pained expression on his face clenches my gut. He looks like a man headed to the gallows. It was wrong of me to give him such a selfish ultimatum. But the second he saw my work, I knew I had found a way to follow Hazel’s advice. Art was how I was going to hold onto him with both hands. To fight for him. To never let him go.
The canvas is already set up on an easel in front of my bay window. I have been planning to paint a portrait of my dad, but I could never do that in front of anybody. It is way too personal. And there is a good chance I would cry with each stroke of the brush. So I decide to create something safer for Rhett. A seascape. It won’t be a memory extracted from family trips to Hilton Head Island but an original creation, reflecting all the conflicted emotions constantly surging through my heart like waves churning in the ocean.
My palette is wooden, similar to the one the late, great Bob Ross used. Mine has the same curved shape with a thumbhole. Picking it up, I gather various tubes of acrylics. One by one, I squeeze out perfectly-rounded dollops of dark sienna, Vandyke brown and cadmium yellow. Quickly and proficiently, I use a two-inch brush to prep the canvas. Broad, back-and-forth strokes make easy work of laying down the colors which will serve as a backdrop to my skyline.
As I fall into a rhythm, Rhett’s presence grows dimmer. I’m faintly aware of the sound of his breath leaving his lungs, the scent of his cologne circulating beneath the ceiling fan and the heat emanating off his body behind me.
Forcing myself back to a sharper awareness, I turn toward him and say, “Maybe you could have a seat on the edge of my mattress or in that chair over there instead of hovering.”
He glances at the disheveled bed, and I can tell he’s thinking about me sleeping in it. Dreaming in it. Even touching myself intimately in it while fantasizing about him. He shakes his head and looks over at the hot-pink desk chair housing a light-pink throw pillow with frilly edges and says, “I’m good right where I am.”
I huff. “In that case, can you at least stand beside me instead of looking over my shoulder? I don’t think you would like it too much if someone was lurking behind you while you worked.”
He smiles. “I have thirty students doing that very thing five days a week. But your point is well taken. I’ll step to the side. Please carry on. Your color combination intrigues me.”
In an effort to redirect my thoughts, I train my eyes on the canvas. Sneaking peeks of his handsome face out of my periphery is too easy and tempting. With my base shades in place, I choose the warmer colors of crimson, lavender and blue to transform the upper portion of my painting into a turbulent, stormy-looking sky. Loading my fan brush, I engage my wrist in a rhythmic rocking motion, depositing feathery yet distinct cloud formations. After manipulating the bristles into fine details and outlines, I take the corner of a dry brush and blend rough edges into smoothness.
Breaking my flow to clean one of the smaller brushes, I steal a glance in Rhett’s direction. His arms are folded across his broad chest, and a frown pinches his face.
Bumping my shoulder against his, I say, “Hey! What gives?”
He shrugs. “Nothing. I’m a little surprised by how angry that skyline is. Given the light, cheerful décor of your bedroom, I was expecting a bright, happy horizon. That’s all.”
“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
He unfolds his arms, reaches out and gently takes my face between his strong, warm hands. “You could never disappoint me, Violet. The range of emotion in your painting thus far pleases me very much. Without some degree of darkness, the light has no meaning.”
I give him a crooked grin. “You sound more like a philosopher than an art teacher right now.”
“That’s because when I’m with you, my thoughts travel to a deeper place.”
I know I shouldn’t say it, but I cannot help myself. “Like the deep, dark, wet place between my thighs?”
He sucks in a sharp breath, and I’m afraid he’s going to run away from me again.
“Paint, Violet. For God’s sake, just fucking paint.”
His command sends a zing of desire spiraling through my veins. Loading up my brush with titanium white, I purposely drop light into the darkness. The stark contrast is breathtaking. I can feel Rhett’s excitement radiating beside me, silently urging me on in my efforts. I want to impress him with my skill. To show him I’m gifted. At least that’s what Mrs. Hoover called me before she retired last year. She said I had more artistic ability in my little finger than she had in her whole body. According to her, I had so far superseded her abilities, she could no longer be of any assistance in furthering my talent.
Although painting has been a nice hobby for me, it never gave me joy until this moment. Sharing it with Rhett has brought me to a level of elation I never dreamed existed.
Early evening is closing in, causing a loss of natural daylight from my window. My chest fills with a sense of urgency, prompting my hand to move with lightning-like speed. Quickly but precisely, I lay down some sap green against the edge of the horizon, block in secondary waves, outline my main wave and go about adding transparency to the center of its crest.
With increasing confidence from Rhett’s grunts of admiration, I swirl white and lavender together to form foam on the shoreline where the ocean waves will crash against boulders not yet painted. I want to be finished because I am dying for my new art teacher’s critique. Roughly knifing in three boulders, I turn my head to meet his gaze and say, “What do you think?”
He smiles. “I think you were telling the truth earlier. You did paint the picture downstairs.”
“So you’ll know for future reference, Mr. Calder, I don’t lie.”
“Neither do I, which is why my assessment of your art will always be brutally honest.”
I nod. “Let me have it.” In my mind, I’m talking about his cock and not his opinion of my work.
“Pick up a brush,” he says, stepping behind me.
“Which one?”
“It doesn’t matter. I can make magic with any tool you give me.”