by Lily Cahill
Every time I say something like that, I get a little thrill. Who would have thought I would ever be the one in charge of a classroom?
I never did particularly well in school—I was always too busy doodling in the margins to listen to my teachers. As an artist, I’m mostly self-taught. Gamma could barely afford supplies when I was growing up, let alone private lessons. Instead, I watched art shows on PBS and read every book I could find. By the time I started winning contests and bringing in a little money, the habit of figuring things out on my own was ingrained.
But now, I’m starting to see what I missed. Being surrounded by other creative-minded people is more fun than I expected. For example, someone has been leaving little hand-carved figurines all over the classroom. They’re beautiful and whimsical, and every time I find one it feels like a gift from the universe, just for me. Whoever is making them is incredibly talented. I’m planning on showing them to Marty when he gets back into town. He might be interested in carrying something like this in his gallery. And I get a kick out of the idea of shepherding a young artist.
“Lilah? Do you still have time to do that private lesson?”
I blink myself out of my reverie. I’m glad I asked the students to call me by my first name, but there is part of me that wishes I could change the rules for Riley. My name sounds too intimate, too warm, on his lips. The slight country twang in his voice always has a powerful effect on me.
“Yes, of course,” I say, determined to be professional. “Why don’t you grab the acrylics out of the supply cabinet, and I’ll grab you a fresh canvas.”
During the first class, when I had gone through the basics of acrylics with the rest of the students, I had walked among them so I could see what they were doing. But there is no need to do that today. I perch on a table near his easel so I can watch over his shoulder.
“Okay, so this is a basic lesson in blending and scumbling. Acrylics blend really well when they’re wet, and layer really well when they’re dry. We’re going to experiment a little with both techniques.”
“Sounds good,” Riley says. “Where should I start?”
“Hmm?” I snap my attention back to him and his innocent question. I had been too distracted by the play of muscles in his back. I can think of plenty of places he can start. I have to clear my throat before I say, “Just pick a color and paint a patch on the canvas.”
“Okay,” he says, choosing blue.
This close, his scent wafts around me. He’s always shower-fresh, like plain soap and sunshine. I’m pretty sure he goes to the gym before class, which means he must get all hot and sweaty each morning. I can almost imagine him, his hair and shirt dark with sweat, his skin glistening with it, his muscles—
“What now?”
“Uh ….” What was I doing again? “Let’s start with blending. Don’t clean your brush—just dip it straight into the white. Do you see how the blue comes through when you paint with it? So now, blend that color into what you already have. Do you see how it’s easier to blend while the paint is still wet?”
“Yeah.”
“So scumbling is a little different than blending. It’s a sort of scrubbing motion with your brush, using the side.”
“Like this?”
“Not quite.” I hop off the desk and walk up beside him. “It’s more like this,” I say, adjusting his hold on the brush.
“Like this?” he says again, turning his face toward me.
I’m standing closer than I should be, just over his shoulder. We’re separated only by the muscle of his arm. This close, I can see that he has a dip in his upper lip that looks perfect for kissing.
“That’s fine,” I choke out, stepping back. “Do … do that for a minute.”
Jesus, what the hell is wrong with me? It’s been a while since I got laid, but I’ve never felt this hungry and reckless about sex before. And Riley is out of the question as a partner. I don’t have to be in love with every man I sleep with, but I probably shouldn’t hate some intrinsic part of his life. Football is a big part of him, and I’m not sure I can tolerate that.
Not to mention that I’m his teacher. Yeah, it’s just for the semester, but I’m taking it seriously. It wouldn’t be right to indulge this momentary lust, not when I have to see him every other day for the next three weeks.
When I dare to look at him again, Riley is still dabbing at the canvas, his brows lowered as he studies the various shades he’s creating. “What do you think of working with acrylics?”
“Takes a firmer hand than watercolors,” he says, still focused on his work. “But the colors are bolder. Gutsier.”
I raise my eyebrows at that description. “Gutsier?”
“Well, harder to blend, at least. I think I’ve made a mess of it.”
I come around to look at the canvas. “No, you’re doing great. Do you see the difference between the two techniques? Blending makes the brush strokes more obvious, while the scrumbling has more of a spongy texture. It’s great for trees and waves.”
“Do you mostly use acrylics?”
“Or oils. You’ll like oil paint; it’s definitely gutsy.”
He smiles, his dimple winking at me. “First Sky—the painting that won you the Pitkin—that was acrylics, right?”
“Right. Have you been googling me?”
He shrugs and goes to get more paint. “I had a while, sitting out in the hallway on the first day of class. It’s an amazing painting,” he says, returning to First Sky. He sits back down with the new paint—more shades of blue. “The MOMA website says it’s ten feet high and eighteen feet wide. That’s crazy big.”
I smile wanly. “Crazy big paintings are my specialty.”
“I’m pretty sure my phone screen didn’t do it justice. How does it feel knowing that thousands of people are looking at your painting every day?”
“Surreal,” I say, before thinking. “I never thought I had the chance to win it.”
“I looked at your website. It looks like all your stuff is pretty amazing.”
Warmth is crawling up my cheeks, and I have to look away. I have been praised before, I remind myself. “Thanks.”
He continues to work for a few minutes. Something about his silent presence invites confession. After a moment, I say, “You weren’t wrong, you know. The other day, when you called me a one-trick pony.”
“That was a shitty thing to say. I was riled up, and—”
“I said some shitty things to you, too. Don’t worry about it. But the truth is … I’ve hardly painted anything since I won the Pitkin.”
He touches me—just the tips of his fingers, tilting up my chin. “Did you lose your mojo?”
I can’t help but smile at the term, but it falls quickly. “Sometimes I wonder if my well of talent is dry.”
He shakes his head, exhaling out his nose. “Yeah, right. I’ve never seen anyone as talented as you. When you demonstrate this stuff, you make it look effortless.”
“That’s just technique.”
His hand drifts to my shoulder, its warmth seeping through my blouse. He’s still seated at the easel, but even at my perch on the desk he’s eye-level with me. It feels close, intimate.
“You’ll be that good too, with enough practice,” I say, trying to ignore the way my entire body is becoming slowly consumed with heat.
Something makes his brows twitch before he focuses on me again. “I’m not sure how much time I’ll have. But I’ll always appreciate everything I’ve learned from you in this class.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
I’m not sure how it happens. One second, he is looking at me with his serious, soft eyes. Then his mouth is on mine.
Chapter Seven
Lilah
OUR LIPS ARE JUST BRUSHING, our bodies still inches apart. It’s a kiss to float on, to drown in. I part my lips, seeking more, and for an instant Riley dares to meet me.
Then he’s pulling away.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, shit
,” he says in a tumble of rough words. “I didn’t mean to do that; I know you don’t want that from me. I’ll just go, I’ll just go now. I can still drop the class. Don’t worry, you won’t have to see me again. I should never have done that without getting your consent, and I—”
“Riley. It’s okay.” My heart is thundering in my chest. “You don’t have to apologize. You didn’t force me into anything.”
“I didn’t?”
My voice hitches a little as I admit the truth. “I wanted that too. I haven’t been able to stop—”
His eyes darken with desire, and before I can say the rest, he’s swept me up again.
Holy God, that mouth! Fast and strong and soft … devastating. This time his kiss is anything but sweet. His tongue is clever and insistent, tangling with mine until I’m giving as good as I get. When he finally tears his mouth from mine, I can only moan in protest.
His lips slide down my throat, and his arm wrap me up so closely I have no choice but to arch against him. I can feel my hard nipples rubbing against my slick satin bra, and it’s not enough, not nearly enough. I want his hands, his fingers, his mouth.
He has other ideas, apparently. His hands travel down to my ass. He groans when he cups both cheeks in his huge, spread hands. My knees go watery as he nips at my neck. I can feel his erection pressing against my belly—hard and hot and huge.
God, I want to fuck this man. I want him to fuck me right here on this desk until I’m screaming his name.
It’s my own shocking desire that makes me shove him away.
“Stop. We have to stop.”
The gravelly note in his voice turns me on even more. “Why?”
I stare at him, emotion swirling inside me. His big chest is heaving, the Mustangs logo taunting me.
“I won’t,” I manage through panting breaths. I can’t believe I almost did this, that I almost betrayed my best friend. “I won’t have anything to do with a football player.”
Without any heed whatsoever for locking up my classroom, I escape out the door.
A bike ride home in the hot afternoon sun does nothing to cool me off. The thoughts in my head chase each other with the same driving rhythm of the pedals.
What have I done?
What am I doing?
What am I going to do?
I want—no, need—to dislike Riley. If only he were a lazy, arrogant lunkhead, instead of the hardworking and respectful man he’s turned out to be. I’m finding myself opening up to him in a way I haven’t since Natalie’s death. She was the person I always trusted with my fears and insecurities, since my Gamma never allows me to doubt myself. Natalie listened to my worries, sympathized with my frustration, then always found a way to distract me.
Riley has found a way to distract me, all right. So much so that for a moment back there I completely forgot about the pain his kind caused my best friend.
The media never revealed Natalie’s identity, but everyone in Granite knew who she was. And a lot of people didn’t want to see their beloved Mustangs destroyed by scandal. Natalie was inundated with hateful messages on social media and dirty looks all over town. She lost her job, lost the guy she’d been dating … lost herself. And I didn’t see it happening.
My eyes are blurry with sweat—maybe tears. I pedal harder.
Football players destroyed Natalie’s life. They took everything from her. And I can never, ever forget that.
But I had forgotten it. In my haze of lust, I’ve ignored all the reasons why I shouldn’t be attracted to Riley. I feel weak and pathetic … like a bad friend.
Because that’s the thing: It doesn’t matter if she’s no longer here. I’m supposed to be Natalie’s best friend. That connection wasn’t severed by her death. If anything, I’ve clung to it. I have to keep her memory alive, or a part of me will die.
“Is that you, Lilah?” Gamma calls as I rush through the door.
“Yeah,” I shout, not even bothering to drop my bags. “Going to the bathroom!”
I just can’t face my grandmother yet. I need a minute to get my head together.
“You want a snack, honey?” Gamma asks. I can hear her measured step coming down the hall.
“No!” I cast about for a reason to stay in the bathroom. “I’m going to take a shower.”
“Okay, hon,” she says.
I sit on the edge of the tub and cover my face with my hands. How could I have let this happen? Why him of all people? It’s just so … wrong.
I’m holding on to Natalie’s memory so tightly that I can’t reach for anything else. Riley has reminded me that I’m letting my life pass me by. But how can I move on without abandoning my best friend?
I can’t blame Riley for something he didn’t do. He wasn’t one of the football players who raped her; he wasn’t one of the angry fans who drove her to suicide. But blame is all that’s holding me together. If I blame football players, I don’t have to blame myself for not saving her.
Miserable, I curl in on myself, slinking down to a ball on the floor. I should have been there for her. If I hadn’t gone to New York to accept the Pitkin, I would have been home the night she was raped. I could have protected her, and none of this would have ever happened. And then after, even though I tried to be there for her, it still wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough to stop her from slitting her wrists.
Now I’m crying in earnest.
She cut deep gouges longways into her flesh. Her parents had tried to get her to go to a movie with them, but she said she wasn’t in the mood. When they got back a few hours later, she was long gone. She was alone as she slowly bled to death. The same way she was alone that horrible night when she went to the party.
And now, months later, I can’t shake the feeling that I should have known. With all the years of our friendship, I should have been able to sense that she was planning to die. In retrospect, everything seems like a sign. Everything seems like a missed opportunity. Instead, I was sitting on the couch with Gamma watching Project Runway at the moment she was ending her life.
I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to shift that guilt. Even if I can, I’m not sure I want to.
With a groan, I knock my head against the wall. Why does it have to be Riley? Why can’t I have this intense attraction to someone more suitable? I’d be a fool to pretend that his size and strength aren’t part of his appeal. But I wish more than anything that he wasn’t a football player.
I pull my sketchbook out of my bag. For me, drawing is like therapy. It helps me think through things, think around them. I set my pencil to paper and let it go.
What I draw is his face. Not in the moment before he kissed me, though that image flickers endlessly in my brain. No, I draw how he looks when I give a lecture in class—open, interested, curious. The hardest part of all this is that I genuinely like him, even though I hate everything he stands for. Maybe I’m being melodramatic. He was right when he said I was judging him based on the actions of others. Maybe I’m going about this the wrong way. Instead of pulling away from him, maybe I need to get to know him better.
There’s a sharp rap on the door. “Lilah, are you all right? I thought you were taking a shower.”
“Yeah, I am,” I say, snapping my sketchbook shut. “I was just … uh … looking at my phone.”
She pops the door open anyway.
“Gamma!”
“Well, I didn’t hear the water running, and I was worried. And here you are, sitting on the floor with your makeup a mess.”
I swipe under my eyes. “I got sweaty. And my eyes were watering from … allergies.”
“Allergies?”
I shrug. “Or something. I’m going to hop in the shower in a minute.”
My grandmother still looks suspicious. “All right. But if you need anything, honey, I’m right here.”
She closes the door again. I get up and turn the lock, and hear my grandmother huff before she walks away.
I don’t know why I’m being so secretive about Riley. I’m de
finitely not ready to tell my grandmother that I was … doing whatever I was doing with a football player. I pick up my sketchbook and peek at the drawing of Riley.
There is something here. Something I need to understand. Despite who he is, despite how I judged him, Riley is the only one who can help this make sense.
Chapter Eight
Riley
“HIT HIM, LOTTO! HIT HIM hard!”
I grunt, my cleats tearing up turf as I dig in to drive the tackling sled down the field. My legs and shoulder are screaming, but I keep pushing, pushing, pushing. And the dummy is barely moving.
“Fuck,” I say, dropping back.
“What the hell, Lotto,” Coach Prescott says, dropping down off the sled. “You got more than that.”
“I’m giving it all I’ve got,” I protest, wiping sweat off my forehead.
“Bullshit. Is that what you’re going to say when there’s a big bastard linebacker snarling at you from across the line?”
“Yes,” I say mulishly. I’m hot, tired, and so worked up over Lilah I can’t think straight.
“Well, that’s not good enough! These boys are depending on you, Lotto. They are counting on you to crush the other team. That is the purpose for your existence on this field, and if you can’t do it, then why are you here?”
“Fuck if I know,” I spit.
Football used to be fun, it used to feel like family. But everything feels wrong now, everything feels off.
Coach grabs me by the muzzle of my helmet and pulls my face down to his. “You could be somewhere else. Playing for someone else. Is that what you want?”
I don’t know Coach Prescott very well. The school brought in an outsider to replace Coach MoFo, which I suppose makes sense, but none of us quite trust him yet. I don’t know how he’ll react, but I figure I’ll answer with the truth. “I don’t know what I want.”
He lets go of the helmet’s guard. “I know why you’re here. Because you are good enough. Because you’re tougher than any of the rest of the cowards who ran away from the Mustangs when it got hard. You’re here because you care.”