by Sara Cate
“Don’t go back there. Stay here and finish what you’re working on. You can eat dinner here tonight.”
“You don’t own me,” she mutters while throwing her pencils in her bag.
“Well you made a commitment to do this, so I think you should do it.”
“You’re being an asshole.” I hear it under her breath, and it makes me pause. I have to bite back my smile.
“Why don’t you say that to my face?”
I stalk toward her, stopping just a foot behind her while she packs up her things.
She turns around, and I see the quiver in her lip. “You were an asshole this morning, and you’re being an asshole now.”
“Does that make you mad?” I ask, leaning in. She straightens her shoulders.
“Yeah. I thought we were friends.”
“We are.”
“Then, what’s your problem?” she snaps back, leveling her angry stare on my face.
“You let people push you around too much,” I say, ignoring the buzz under my skin having her this close.
“Who? Like you?”
“No, Sunny. Not like me.”
Her jaw clenches even tighter as she realizes that I’m talking about her dad. And the boys she lets put their hands all over her without her fighting back.
Her shoulders soften as she backs away, her legs hitting the scaffolding. I have her cornered, pressed up against the cold metal.
Quickly, I step back, giving her space. I didn’t mean to back her into a corner like that, but as soon as there is space between our bodies, I miss the proximity.
Her thin little throat bobs as she swallows, turning back toward her things. I have to turn away so she doesn’t notice my dick getting hard behind my shorts.
“I’m making pasta puttanesca for dinner. Have you ever had it?” I ask, stepping toward the kitchen.
She shakes her head, her chest heaving even faster than before.
“Text your mom and tell her you’re working late. I don’t want you going back there until the boys are gone and your mom’s asleep. Understand?”
“Okay,” she whispers as I leave the pool house.
She eats silently across the table from me. Her face is still swollen around the eyes, and I notice a fresh doodle in black ink on the inside of her left arm. In my empty dining room, she’s dwarfed by the high-back chair that I inherited from my mother although I never really wanted the set. Formal dining arrangements aren’t really my style. I eat most of my meals alone around the kitchen counter or in restaurants where I am usually not alone. I feel about as out of place as she looks. Her dark hair is twisted into a round bun on the top of her head and—with not a touch of makeup on her face, she looks sun-kissed. It’s like a thin layer of warmth over her already bronze skin from days spent in the sun. Ironic for a girl who never seemed to leave her house.
I can see the strings of her bikini under her tank top, and I wonder if she ever wears regular clothes. It looks like I picked up a stray dog from the side of the road and dropped it in the middle of a foreign planet.
She doesn’t look up while she picks at her pasta. I wouldn’t claim myself as a master chef by any means, but I do love to cook, especially for other people. On the very rare occasion I had a woman over to cook for, it was usually because I liked her a little more than the others. It was because I was trying. Trying for what...I don’t know because it never worked. I could keep her devotion for a few weeks, maybe a month before I’d be sticking my dick elsewhere and undoing every goddamn good thing I worked toward.
“Do you like it?” I ask, but she only glares up at me, her leg bouncing under the table.
I’m about to drop my fork, give her hell for her ungrateful attitude, but before I can, she sits up a little straighter and speaks. “It’s good.”
“Does your mom cook?” I already know the answer.
She stares at me through her lashes, and it’s enough of an answer.
“Eat your dinners here. I’ll cook for you.”
Her eyes dance around the empty room with the boxes piled up, and I watch a question form on her lips like she’s building the words up with her tongue one by one. It just isn’t the question I expected.
“Are you trying to be my dad or something?”
“Look at me. I can barely take care of myself. You think I should be taking on wayward teenagers?”
She smirks. “You take care of me. I’ll take care of you.”
I try my damned hardest to swallow without letting her see the bob in my throat. My next question will be loaded no matter what I say. I mean, the kid walked me right into it. I know what she wants me to think, but fuck, she is making it very hard to not be a fucking creep right now.
“And how will you take care of me?” I ask, leveling her with my stare.
Leaning forward, she grabs the plate from in front of me. She stands from her chair, plates in hand and sinks her hip into the table. “I can do the dishes.”
She slinks away, and I let my chest relax, blowing out the heavy fucking breath that has been lodged in my lungs. This girl is going to fucking kill me.
After the dishes are done, I pour us both a drink—hers a lot milder than mine—and I follow her back out to the pool house. My phone is blowing up on the kitchen counter, but I flip it on its face and ignore all of the invitations and bullshit calls.
For this reason, Sunny is a good distraction. I realize that I could leave her alone to work in the pool house and go get hammered at some random bar in town, but if I keep my eyes on the back of her head as she starts outlining her sketch onto the wall, it will keep me grounded.
Sunny
Even though Alex gave me the scaffolding, I’m starting the painting at the bottom. It’s unconventional, but I want to work my way up. The outline is done, so now I'm adding color. The girl in the painting is surrounded by tropical elements that will need layer after layer, and what might take an actual professional a few days or weeks will take me months.
The pool house is hot today. It’s hot everyday with that sun blazing through those big windows, but today seems unbearable. Every hour or so, I walk out back and jump in the pool to cool off, but I dry off too fast and it leaves my skin feeling dry, which makes me irritable.
“You’re not getting paint in my pool, I hope,” he says as he walks out with a towel to wrap around me as I pad toward the door, soaking wet.
Alexander has been keeping himself guarded since I started coming over to work. He still watches me paint, sometimes working on the window seat or other small projects, and he always makes me eat at his place. I’m here every night, and I can see in his eyes that he’s fighting the urge to leave. Sometimes I wish he would. Go live his life. But then I hate the idea of this space without him. Him out in a club with a girl he barely knows doing god knows what.
I haven’t seen the blonde woman since the last time either.
For the last five days it’s only been Alex and me. Cadence barely talks to me, and my mom hardly notices when I’m gone.
The towel he wraps around me is so big it reaches my knees, and it’s the softest towel I’ve ever been wrapped in. The sun is starting to set, and I know this part of the day he’ll ask me what I want for dinner.
With the towel around my hips, I climb onto the scaffolding on the lowest setting and open the paint tray, so I can finish the piece I'm working on. The stinging scent of chemicals in the paint brings that comfort I love. It smells like home. And I don’t mean my house. Home like that feeling of comfort. Home like freedom.
The scaffolding shakes as he squeezes in, having to duck his head to keep from hitting the top rung. I can smell the sweet bourbon on his breath. He stretches one long leg behind me and folds the other in front of him so that he’s facing me. He’s sitting so close. Alex loses sense of boundaries when he’s drinking. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t love it. He’s always trying to get me to drink with him, and part of me thinks it’s because he wants both of us to forget our place—it�
�s tempting.
My feelings for Alex are constantly changing, and it’s only been recently that I can admit that I’m intrigued by the idea of something more than attraction. I’ve never been drawn to older men, and Alexander is miles out of my league, but the friendly connection between us has me wishing for more.
His piercing stare is on my face while I paint, something instrumental playing softly in the speakers.
“How long is this going to take?” he asks, glancing at the mural.
“Ready to get rid of me already?” Without taking my eyes off the wall, I keep up the blending before it can dry too much. The muscles in my right arm are already starting to tense and burn, but I have to get it done or it won’t be perfect.
“I’ll find another wall for you to paint,” he says nudging me with the leg stretched behind me. Sometimes I think this is a game to him, to push me and tease me so that the ball is in my court. He’s waiting for me to make the move, and I want to—so fucking bad I want to. But I don’t have it in me.
Plus, it’s only when he’s drunk. He doesn’t act so daring when he’s sober. At least then he tries to hide his boners.
“Except when you go back to art school,” he mumbles over his drink.
“I’m not going anywhere.” A sad truth that burns when I think about it.
“Why not? Why aren’t you going back, Sunny?”
“I just...don’t want to.” My hand tenses with the brush between my fingers. The feeling of inadequacy returns, making my breathing shallow and my heart race. It was all too much.
“You know...once you finish this, I can get my PR friend to get you set up on social media. You won’t need art school. Celebrities will be hiring you left and right.” He leans his head on the side of the scaffolding, watching my face as I keep my gaze away from his. Working for Alexander is different. There is a sense of freedom here, but with someone else...the pressure terrifies me.
“Say something, rain cloud,” he says in a harsher tone.
I shrug, nudging his leg away. “You’re going to make me mess up.”
Again, he presses into my back with his foot, and I shove him away. “I’m here to work, not play with you,” I growl at him, trying to look as stern as possible.
Next thing I know, the paintbrush in my hand is on the floor, leaving a streak in the mural, and I’m being hoisted up by my waist. “You little brat,” he says, pinching my sides. My body jerks in reaction, and I let out a howling laugh.
“I will kick you, Alexander!”
“I’d like to see you try.” He carries me over to the couch, dumping me on the cushions and attacking my legs, pinching them above the knee. I’m shrieking, laughing, thrashing—and growing more and more heated with every touch.
When he stops tickling me, his eyes are on my mouth, and when I finally take in a breath all I can smell is bourbon.
My lips part, and for the slightest moment, I think he’s going to kiss me. I notice the crack in his armor, like he might actually do it. Instead, he stands up and shifts in his pants, turning his back to me and heading for the door.
“Where are you going?” I snap, sitting up.
“I’m leaving,” he says, running his fingers through his hair.
“What?” My heart sinks. One minute, he’s about to cross a line, and now he can’t get away from me fast enough. He’s all mixed signals, and I’m getting the feeling that he’s holding back or even punishing himself for letting down his guard with me. It doesn’t make any sense.
Moments go by when he doesn’t return, leaving me to deflate on the couch; the heat he aroused in me still stirring under my flesh.
Getting up to my feet, I walk over to my stuff and throw the paintbrushes in the sink. Irritation boils beneath the surface, replacing the excitement I just felt. I turn the water on to rinse the brushes but decide to just leave them. He hates it when I do that, but I don’t have the patience to clean them right now. Fuck that. All I care about is getting out of there as soon as possible.
Suddenly his arms are around me, his body hard against mine, and I let out a gasp that steals my breath. His body pins me against the counter so hard it almost hurts.
My heart hammers in my chest.
“Alex,” I gasp.
“I would never hurt you, Sunny.” His lips are against my ear, and I feel the tip of his tongue along the edge of my lobe.
I melt in his arms. He is the only thing holding me upright.
“Which is why I have to go,” he mumbles against my back, and my heart sinks to the floor.
“Don’t go,” I beg.
“I have to. I’m so fucked up, Sunny.”
His hands release my body, and I nearly fall to the floor. “You’re drunk, but I can stay here with you. We’ll watch a movie or something.”
A laugh escapes his mouth, and it makes me feel about two inches tall. “You’re so fucking sweet, rain cloud. I can’t stay here because I need to fuck someone, and if I stay here with you…”
His drunk eyes find my face, and it sours my stomach to see him this way. This is not him. The light behind his eyes is gone.
“I’ll go home,” I say, struggling to get the words out.
Lifting his fingers, he grazes my cheek, pushing my hair back. “You don’t think I’d crawl into that bed of yours?”
Suddenly, all of his mixed signals make sense. Alex doesn’t want to hurt me, and to him that means keeping as much distance between our bodies as possible. Denying himself what he wants. Denying me.
His hands pull away from my body, leaving me standing there cold and alone.
A chime on his phone alerts him that his driver is there, and he gives me one last apologetic glance before he jogs out the door.
Cadence is sitting on the couch watching TV when I run through the house. She turns to see me scampering up the stairs, and I’m not even on my bed before she’s following me and closing the door behind her.
“What’s going on?” she asks in a demanding tone.
“I’m fine,” I lie, dropping my bag on the bed and grabbing my pajamas. I try to escape her attention by escaping to my en-suite bathroom, but she blocks the way.
“Did he do something to you?”
I laugh, a high-pitched cackle.
“Sunny…”
“He didn’t do anything to me, I promise.”
She lets me pass as I walk around her to the bathroom where I start the shower. Even when I untie my top, it doesn’t stop her from standing there waiting for an explanation.
“Do you want him to?” she asks.
My laugh doesn’t come out as sincere this time. Shredding my bottoms, I climb into the water, but it hasn’t heated up yet, leaving me standing in frigid water, shivering and thinking about his hard body pressed against me.
Cadence sits on the toilet. “Sunny, Alexander is...complicated.”
“I know,” I blurt out against the water spray.
“I won’t say he’s too old for you because I do believe age is really just a number, but Alexander comes with about forty years of fucked up baggage and bad behavior. I know girls who have been with him. One girl told me about how they fucked in a bathroom after they spoke two words to each other. He didn’t even know her name.”
My eyes squeeze shut, blocking out the pain. He was out doing that right now, wasn’t he? How many girls would he be with tonight alone?
“Alexander doesn’t do relationships, Sunny. If you lose your virginity to him…”
“Cadence!” I shout from the shower.
“I’m being serious. I just want you to be careful.”
“Everyone treats me like a child.”
“I’m sorry, Sunny, but I’ve been worried about you over there. I mean, on the bright side, if he hasn’t tried to sleep with you yet, you must be special to him.”
I want to ask if he’s tried to sleep with her yet, but I can’t bring myself to do it. The answer terrifies me.
I can’t sleep that night. I keep my eyes on his ho
use, knowing he is out somewhere fucking someone else. Someone his age, who deserves him, but no one who wants him as much as I do.
Because I do. Somewhere in all of the back and forth today, I realized that I want him. I want to stay friends with him while also knowing the touch of his hands and the muscles of his body.
He’s gone for hours before I watch him stumble through the house at 4:00 a.m. The bars closed two hours ago.
Go to bed, Alexander, I think to myself.
But he doesn’t. Just through the window to the kitchen, I can make out his movements. He stumbles through the kitchen, knocking something onto the floor. He stops, and instead of picking it up, he presses his head against the cool stone countertop. I watch him from my bed.
Go to bed, Alexander.
He stands and walks toward the door.
Stay away from the pool.
I sit up in my bed, feeling my skin prick as he passes the edge of the water and walks into the pool house. From the doorway, he just looks at the painting, swaying where he stands.
My beautiful, broken Alexander stares at my art on the wall, and I feel it from all the way over here—the lava boiling in his soul.
I should quit the job and let someone else finish the mural. My presence is torturing him, and this desire is torturing me.
But I can’t. I can’t sleep, leaving him like that. He’s never going to make it to his bed, and I couldn’t sleep knowing he’s too close to the pool in his condition. I could just see the headlines now. Billionaire trust fund prince dies in his own swimming pool.
In nothing but my tight cami and underwear, I tip-toe out of my house and through the backyard. The cool grass wets my feet as I run across. He doesn’t notice me as I step through the doorway, but I can smell the booze on him, like a strong cologne as I get closer. There are red splatters across the floor leading up to where he stands, staring at the wall.
When I touch his arm, he doesn’t jump. I have enough experience with drunk people to know that when they’re this gone, it’s like they’re not even there. There is no reaction, no life. You might as well be alone.