by Goode, Ella
“Really?” I find that hard to believe. She loves to draw and paint. Every time I see her, she’s got a pencil in her hand and her sketchbook out. And she’s so good. It seems like a crime that she’d rather learn how to handle bookkeeping and run The Sugar Factory for another generation.
“No. There’s no money in it. Most artists don’t make any money off their art and end up having to do art that kills their spirit or mooching off some poor family member. I would not ask my grandparents to support me while I try to sell watercolors of flowers.”
“What if you didn’t have to make money? What if you had a partner that made enough for both of you, and you could draw or paint or do whatever for fun?”
“Like you?” She glances down at me.
“Yeah, like me. Agents make a shit ton of money—even more than my dad makes. We won’t have to worry about where our next meal is coming from.” I roll over on my back and tuck my hands under my head. It’s all worked out in my head. Carrie has a big room with lots of light, filled with paint canvases and easels and a mountain of supplies. We make out on the velvet sofa she uses for portrait sittings and then eat dinner on the fur rug in front of the fireplace. After easing the one hunger, we attack each other again. The rug will have to be washable since I plan on using a lot of toppings while I fuck her. I’m going to dress her up like the most expensive sundae, complete with honey, chocolate, candies, some whipped cream. The list is endless.
“I can’t leave The Sugar Factory. My grandfather built that business up from nothing. Who else is going to run it but me?” She shrugs and pops a caramel into her mouth. “This is really good. We should sell these at the factory.”
I chew on mine slowly, tumbling Carrie’s words in my head. She loves art but she can’t pursue her dreams because she’s tethered here by her love for her grandparents. I want to give her everything in the world, but this one thing seems out of my reach.
Chapter Ten
Carrie
I savor the piece of candy, trying not to let what Booker is saying get to me. At least the part about our future. We only just opened the door for the possibility of us being more than friends. I don’t even think I’ve fully comprehended it yet.
His talk of wanting to take care of me is beyond sweet, but it’s also not something I can have. Not only because of The Sugar Factory. But the fact that we are so young.
I’m always going to live in this small town. Booker is meant for the big city and fast life. He’s going to end up rich, and he’s already freaking hot. His life will be so different from mine. Even if we weren’t working out he wouldn’t call things off because Booker is always the good guy at the end of the day. If he promised to take care of me, he would never let himself back out of that. I can’t let him make that promise to me knowing what the future holds for me. I don’t want to hold him back or for him to resent me later on in life. He has his own dreams to follow.
He never takes his eyes off my sketch pad as I keep drawing. His hand slips up the back of my shirt, his fingers caressing me back and forth. Goosebumps break out across my skin, and my body heats more with each stroke.
“What’s this art showcase thing you said you have coming up?”
“It’s nothing big.” I shrug. Okay, it might be a big deal, but I don’t want to psych myself out. “There is an art showing in the city. I entered on a whim for the one junior artist spot that was open, and I got it. I have to bring five pieces to display in my area.”
“Of course you got it.” I try not to blush at his praise, but one can’t stop a blush. He’s always had so much faith in my art. And he’s always so supportive of me. “Do you already have all the pieces completed that you plan to show? Or are you still working on them?”
“I need one more, I think.”
“We should make a trip of it. Go up the night before and get a room.”
“Get a room?”
“Yeah, so you’re not rushed. I could take you to dinner the night before and celebrate. This is something to celebrate, Care-bear.” I worry my bottom lip between my teeth. “Come on. You’re my girl now. I can take you out to dinner.” He pushes, making it hard to say no.
“Okay,” I give. “I mean, I need to check with Grams first. I already got the weekend off. The show is Saturday. We’d have to leave after my shift Friday.”
I know my mom would be more than okay with me taking off to a hotel with a boy for the weekend. Grams will be a bit more hesitant, and I respect whatever she’ll have to say. I already know it will likely be fine with her, but she’ll have a few words with me first. We are eighteen.
“We can leave whenever you want. You talk to your grams and then I’ll arrange everything.” I don’t know how I got like this with Booker, but I’m not complaining. The idea of going on a real date never seemed appealing to me before. But Booker has changed that for me. Butterflies fill my stomach thinking about us staying overnight together.
“Will you be getting two separate beds or one bed?” I ask. He sits up, pulling my notepad out of my lap, gently placing it on his nightstand.
“I’ll never push you for more than you want to give me. When it comes to sex,” he corrects himself. “But cuddling will be happening.”
“Cuddling.” I snort a laugh. I find myself leaning into him. “I don’t know if I’m a cuddler. I’ve always slept alone.”
“I’ve always slept alone too, but I know I’m going to cuddle the fuck out of you.” He grabs me, pulling me into his lap so that I’m straddling him. My heart starts to race.
“Booker?” I lick my lips.
“Yeah, baby?” He raises his hand to brush some of my hair off my shoulder.
“Will you kiss me—” His mouth cuts off my words, coming down onto mine.
I melt into him as he locks his lips with mine. His tongue comes out, licking across the seam of my mouth, asking for permission. I answer him by parting my lips.
He groans against me as I press my body into his. My breathing is heavy, and my sex grows slick. I gasp when I shift against him, his hard cock pressing against my clit. I can’t stop myself from rocking my hips back and forth, stealing the friction I desperately need. His mouth breaks from mine.
“Baby.” Booker grips my hips. “I’m going to make you come.”
“Yes.” I dig my fingers into his shoulder as he takes over, his hand pulling me back and forth across his cock. “Booker. Yes, please.” Words spill from my lips, the orgasm building quickly. It’s long overdue.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he says against my neck as he licks and sucks at me there. He moves me faster. My panties are so wet they start to stick to me. “Let me see you come. Come for me, baby.” He thrusts his cock up hard, hitting my clit perfectly.
I go off, coming for him. Booker groans my name. His whole body goes hard as he jerks against me. He continues hitting my clit again and again, drawing out my pleasure until I collapse onto him, burying my face in his neck.
“Now I understand the whole coming in your pants like a teenage boy thing.” I giggle against his neck, never wanting to move. My whole body feels warm and fuzzy.
“We could have been doing this for years,” I whisper against him.
“I guess we have a lot of making up to do then.” His cock jerks against me, drawing out a moan.
“I suppose we do.” I kiss his neck before I nip him. He shifts. In a heartbeat I’m under him, and he’s kissing me again, showing me a Booker I never knew existed.
I may not have known, but now that I do, I’m going to enjoy learning every inch of him.
Chapter Eleven
Booker
“This one is really good. I’m jealous.” Carrie points to a painting that appears to be one big brush stroke of red with black on the bottom. We’ve been touring all the art that will be on display tomorrow before going to the hotel. The painting that Carrie is admiring looks like a mistake, as if someone was painting something else and accidentally swiped their painting tool across
a nearby canvas. It’s the third piece of art that Carrie has said is better than hers.
“It’s not as good as yours,” I say.
“But the color. It’s so vibrant. I need to work on my colors more. Some painters are famous for their color mixing. The Italians for one. Renaissance art was full of color that the past periods weren’t. Doesn’t this red jump off the canvas? It feels alive to me.” She’s so enthused that I nod along, feeling dumber than a pet rock.
She continues to talk about the other artwork in the room, almost always mentioning how great it is as if hers isn’t the best thing here. We stop in front of another piece, only this time it’s a sculpture made out of iron. With its straight lines it seems simple and kind of phallic, but Carrie’s jaw drops slightly as if it is one of the most amazing things she’s ever laid eyes on. A guy steps away from the side and sticks his hand out. “Carrie Montlain, right? You did the acrylic and pencil work. Admirable stuff. Reminded me of Julie Mehretu stuff. I’m Ray Whitney.”
Carrie’s eyes fall out. “You know Julie Mehretu? I love her work. History and art all in one. Yes, I’m Carrie. How did you know?”
“I saw your work in the catalog and wanted to meet you.”
Carrie finally takes his hand. “Gosh. I love this piece. It looks so strong yet effortless. The iron almost feels like it’s floating.”
If he holds her hand for another minute, I’m taking his floaty iron work and bashing his fucking head in.
“Thanks. That’s what I was going for. Your work is delicate, kind of the opposite of mine, which is why I liked it so much. We should do something together.” He covers her hand with his. The hairs on my neck prickle, and my hand involuntarily reaches for his work. He glares at me. I arch an eyebrow. Try me. He sneers and turns his attention back to Carrie. “I think it could be great. I’ve got a group of several other artists, all girls just so you don’t think I’m some creep trying to get you alone,”—as if that isn’t something a creep would say— “you should come over. Bring a swimsuit, too. I’ve got a pool at my place. No adults either. My mom’s an artist and understands what it takes to really dig deep to find your inner muse. What do you say?”
“Well, I work a lot when I’m not in school.” Carrie slides her hand away. I fist the air, trying not to act like a caveman and drag her away by her hair.
“I graduated last year and do just this.” He waves a hand toward his piece. “We can get together whenever you like. Skip a class or ten. It won’t hurt you. Besides, nothing high school has to offer will sharpen your skills like working with me.”
“Well, I appreciate your off—”
“I’ve won quite a few awards, although you probably know that from my bio in the catalog. I’m not saying it’s an honor that we’re sharing the same space, but I’m also not saying it.”
“I will thin—”
“An invitation like mine is a once in a lifetime—”
“She said she’d think about it,” I cut in, tired of dealing the asshole who loves hearing himself talk more than anything.
He tilts back his head in an effort to look down on me, but I have four inches on this dickhead. “And you are?” he tries me.
“Over you.” I take Carrie’s hand. She clasps her other hand around mine and lets me lead her back to her corner of the exhibition room.
“I’m not going to tell you what to do because it’s the twenty-first century and I’m not a knuckle-dragging Neanderthal, but that guy is not asking you over for tea and crumpets—not that I know what the hell a crumpet is.”
“I know.” She rubs her hands up her arms. “And I’m bummed because his work is good, but he gives me the creeps.”
“Because he is one.” I hesitate and then add, “When it comes to you, I am actually a knuckle dragging Neanderthal. The minute he said your name, I wanted to take his exhibition piece and shove it where the sun don’t shine.”
Carrie grimaces. “Sounds very painful.”
“Yes.” I form a mean smile. It would be painful and a good learning lesson. I doubt he’d be hounding her for private lessons any time in the future.
“I won’t be going to his house for anything,” she says and pats my chest.
“Good.” I cross my arms.
“Are you mad?”
“Nope.” Just keeping my eye on the threat across the room.
“I think he’s watching us.”
“Yeah.” He hasn’t taken his eyes off Carrie since we walked away. “I don’t think he’s used to being told no.”
“Probably not. He has won a lot of awards for young artists.”
“Does his family have money? Because that’s how you win shit like that.”
“Are you serious?”
I cut away from Whitney to gaze down at my little innocent. “Yeah, really. My dad’s won dozens of awards because he’s given a ton of money to different organizations. He even donates stuff so my mom can win floral arrangement prizes. I’m sure that’s how it goes in this world, too.”
“Man, that sucks. Why would I even go to art school if that’s how the world works?”
I latch on to the one important thing she said. “You’re thinking of going to art school?”
“No. I’m saying theoretically. I have The Sugar Factory, remember?”
“Yeah.” I swallow a sigh. The Sugar Factory is going to tie her here forever, but if that’s what she wants then I’m going to support her even if I think it’s a huge waste of her time and potential. I sling an arm around her neck and pull her close. “Your grandparents are lucky to have you.”
She rests her head on my chest. “No. I’m the lucky one. Let’s go to the hotel.”
And that’s the crux of the problem. Carrie doesn’t think she’s the greatest artist in the room even though she clearly is. She doesn’t think her grandparents are lucky to have her. She needs to value herself more, but I don’t know how to make that happen.
Chapter Twelve
Carrie
Booker tangles his fingers with mine as we make our way toward the hotel. I lean into his side, enjoying being in the city. It’s so much different than what I’m used to. For a moment I let myself pretend this could be my life. To live here in the city, getting to spend a night out with Booker taking in an art show. It’s a fantasy that I can’t help but have. Booker doesn’t help the situation by making it feel as though it could be a real possibility for me. But I know I can’t let my mind wander too far because that will only lead to some sort of disappointment when reality sets in.
“Are you less nervous now that you got to take a peek around before tomorrow?” Booker asks. He has so much faith in me. I honestly don’t think him telling me that he thought my work was the best was him trying to calm my nerves but that he really meant it. He’d only given the other artwork a few glances but with mine he’d stare and take in each piece for long minutes at a time. There is one I’ve kept hidden from him. I’m not sure how he’ll react when he sees it tomorrow.
“Not really,” I admit. I soaked in every piece that I looked at today. Some I liked better than others, but to be honest, I appreciated them all.
“Promise, babe. You've got nothing to worry about.”
“You think everything I do is great.” I let out a small laugh. It’s actually really sweet. I wish I could see myself the way he does. I wish I were as confident in my ability as he is.
“I call it like I see it.” He untangles our fingers so he can wrap his arm over my shoulders. “I made a few later reservations for dinner at a couple places if you want to pick one.”
“Room service?” I suggest. All I want to do is go up to the room and be with him. I’m going to soak up all the alone time I can get with him. Booker said we have a lot of time to make up for, and now seems as good as any. I have to admit that he’s been trying all week. Every day after school he takes me to work and then lingers around until it’s time for me to go. A few of the nights we went back to his place where we’d make out for the rest o
f the night before he’d have to take me home. This time I don’t have to go home. I get to stay in bed with him.
When I told Grams about going to the city with Booker, she didn’t hesitate. She told me to have fun but to be smart. I’ve been on birth control since I was sixteen. Grams hustled me into the Obgyn as soon as she could. I don’t blame her with my mom having gotten pregnant so young. So at least that part is covered, and I don’t have to worry about pregnancy. It’s also nice that Booker and I are both virgins. It makes me feel more at ease knowing that we’ll be experiencing everything together for the first time.
“You sure you don’t want to live your night up in the city?”
“Who said I wasn’t going to be living it up?” I bite down on my bottom lip. As much as I loved our make-out sessions this past week, I need more. Booker could kiss me for hours and I’d never get tired of it. He's damn good at it. Not that I have anything to compare it to. But I’m guessing if it wasn't good then I wouldn’t always be trying to get more of it. Making out was enough initially, but now I want his kisses in other places. I need to see more of him. I’m over the heavy petting.
“You’re killing me.” He starts to walk faster, making me laugh.
“I can’t keep up with your long legs,” I say through my giggles. In one quick swoop, Booker has me in his arms, carrying me into the hotel. “Booker!” I hiss his name, burying my face in his neck. I’m slightly embarrassed, but more than anything I’m turned on by his need to get us back to our room as quickly as possible.
We’d only checked in and dropped our stuff quickly before we had to rush over to the showcase to drop the pieces off for tomorrow’s showing. He steps onto the elevator with me still in his arms. I peek out when I hear the doors shut, realizing we’re all alone.
Once I confirm that it’s only the two of us in here together, I run my mouth across his neck. “I wonder if they have creme brulee.” I dart my tongue out, swiping across his neck. He lets out a groan. The sound goes straight to my clit. His grunts and moans always turn me on. I feel sexy when I can get those sounds from him. My panties flood with desire.