by Liora Blake
“Are the prices on these brushes for real? Or is this one-hundred-dollar price tag a typo?” JT called out, still eyeing the display of brushes.
Anya rolled her eyes a little; she knew exactly which brushes he was referring to.
“No typos, that’s the actual price. Those are kolinsky sable brushes, handmade by a company in Europe. They’re made with hair harvested off male weasels from some remote part of Siberia and people covet them because they’re rare and ridiculously expensive. But unless you’re working professionally, those brushes are a complete waste of money. Hell, even if you are a working artist, they might still be a waste of money.”
She flipped off the lights, checked to be sure that she had locked the back door, and then returned to grab her purse. JT was waiting near the front door.
“Do you use those brushes?”
Anya snorted. “Uh, no.”
“Why not? You’re a professional artist.”
“Because I’ve never had a couple of hundred bucks lying around that I didn’t know what to do with. No one needs a brush like that.”
Anya shrugged. JT shot her a skeptical look, brows arched as if he knew that she’d secretly always wanted to try one out, just to see.
Anya sighed. “Okay, fine. Aside from all the fancy marketing designed to jack up the price, these brushes are made differently. Structurally, they’ve built a perfectly balanced brush, which is supposed to reduce fatigue in your hands and arms when you paint. And I won’t lie, that idea has some appeal. When I work for long stretches of time, I swear my whole body hurts.”
She spoke while gathering her belongings from behind the front counter, hoping her answer had been enough to satisfy him. They were straying a little too close to talking about her work, and she still wasn’t interested in doing that tonight, no matter if it was to strangers or the guy she was sleeping with. Anya slung her bag over one shoulder and leaned against the front door, doing all she could with her posture to make it clear that this part of their conversation was over. JT took in her rigid stance and—kudos to him for reading her body language astutely—swept his hand toward the door.
“You ready to go eat? We can try that place next door if you want. I haven’t been forced to eat tapas since I was with my ex, but it’s close by and I’m game if you are.”
Anya scrunched up her face. “That place is too swanky. And too expensive.”
Immediately, JT’s face turned to stone. “I can take you out to dinner,” he bit out. “I wouldn’t have asked if I couldn’t afford it.”
She felt her eyes widen at the hostility in his tone, something she’d never heard from him before. It came out of nowhere, and so quickly that Anya reared back a little in response.
“Whoa,” she said, holding up a hand, palm out. “Retreat, Officer Touchy-Pants.”
JT scowled, which only made Anya want to stick her tongue out at him. Instead, she let out an exasperated sigh.
“Look, I don’t care whether you can afford to take me there or not. I think it’s too expensive. I don’t want to go someplace where they act like wrapping an anchovy around a green olive and charging five bucks for it is somehow a satisfying meal.”
Tension visibly fell from JT’s shoulders as he drew in a long breath. “I just don’t want you to think I’m—”
Anya cut him off. She was hungry and not the least bit interested in whatever it was he wanted to say about paying too much money to eat at a stupid tapas restaurant. But he still had flecks of silver glitter in his hair and on his face, so it was impossible to be too irritated with him.
“Whatever it is you’re worried that I’m thinking, I’m not. Unless it’s worrying that we’re going to stand here bickering and you’re never, ever going to feed me. Because I am worried about that.”
JT shoved his hands in his pockets. The sleeves of his dress shirt were still rolled up, which showed off the ink on his arms and highlighted the taut ridges of muscle rippling up his forearms, all evidence that there was still plenty of tension coursing through him.
“I just want to have dinner together and be with you,” he said quietly. “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”
Anya reached up to dust some glitter off his forehead. “I know just the place.”
14
Anya
Anya paused, took a deep breath, and found she was . . . happy.
As a generally happy person, this didn’t come as much of a surprise. Simple pleasures surrounded her because it was a quiet night, there was a full moon, and they had plenty of good food to nosh on. All things that she’d experienced before, in other places and at different times—yet this was different. She ruminated on that for a second and realized that there was only one part of this night that was new to her. Her company.
Anya watched as JT took his first bite of a hot, freshly griddled pupusa and waited for his reaction. A few bites later, there was no question that this makeshift eatery had made a new fan in JT. Given all the pleased little grunts he was making with each new mouthful, he found his first experience of Salvadoran food to be a positive one.
“These things make me happy. They’re like my mom’s corn cakes and a killer taco all mushed together,” JT said, scanning the tray in front of them before making his next flavor selection. “I thought you were crazy when you basically ordered the entire menu, but now I’m glad you did. And you can’t beat the price. All of this for twenty-five bucks? That’s nuts.”
Anya smirked. Just another reason that this place was a much better choice than the tapas restaurant he’d suggested. Being carryout-only probably helped keep the prices down, as did the location. The owners had renovated an old walk-in ATM building into a tiny restaurant by adding a commercial kitchen to prepare the food, and a walk-up window for customers to place their orders. The adjacent strip mall was run-down, and except for a lone insurance agent’s office at one end, the other storefronts were all vacant, so a few rickety tables sat in the otherwise empty parking lot for seating. Worn red-checked vinyl tablecloths and recycled Chianti bottles serving as candleholders dressed up the tables. No one seemed to care that the table decor looked like it had come from a retro Italian restaurant and made absolutely no sense style-wise for a place that served Salvadoran food.
Anya tore off a chunk of a pupusa that had a bit of cheese seeping out from one edge. She popped it in her mouth, and a well of homesickness sprang up inside her when the flavor hit her taste buds. Anya’s grandparents had been from El Salvador, and making pupusas was a tradition there, one they’d brought along after moving north to Mexico. Her mom’s childhood in Oaxaca had included learning how to make the filled masa cakes, and even after being in the States for the last thirty-plus years, she still made a batch nearly every week. For Anya, a well-made pupusa was a bittersweet reminder of her unconventional childhood, where people moved in and out of her young life like phases of the moon, but her mother’s food was always on the table no matter who was sitting around it.
Anya gestured to the one she’d just sampled.
“You have to try this one with the cheese in it, that’s the most traditional kind. My mom makes them like this all the time. I grew up eating these as an afternoon snack.”
JT split what remained in half, adding a dollop of the tangy curdito cabbage relish on top, just as she’d shown him when they’d sat down. He nodded his agreement as he chewed, then took a sip of the watermelon drink she’d ordered for each of them.
“Your mom really makes these? You must have been the most popular kid in the neighborhood if this is what you had around after school. Hell, I would have camped out on your doorstep.”
Anya studied the trays in front of them, eventually deciding to try the pupusa stuffed with refried beans next. She ignored the way JT’s question was like an open door to telling him about her family if she wanted to—which she didn’t.
Mostly that was because, well, she did want to tell him more. About the wild but wonderful place where she had grown up, the w
ay her father could be both brilliant and bullheaded, the way her mother had come to this country with nothing to her name. But they didn’t have that kind of relationship. The sort where talking about your family was just a natural step along the way to knowing more about the person you were with. She and JT were casual, which meant she could—and should—answer him with nothing but the basics.
“Mom’s from Mexico but her parents were originally from El Salvador, and pupusas are a staple there. Asadero cheese is the same as what she uses, and you can taste the difference. Most people up here just use jack cheese. This is so much better.”
JT leaned back into his chair and said nothing, as if he was waiting for her to continue. Finally, Anya motioned toward the bean-filled pupusa she’d just sampled, signaling that he should go ahead and try it. His face took on a slightly frustrated expression, his mouth fixed into a thin line. Anya raised her brows and JT sighed, reached for the tray, grabbed the pupusa and then added a few drops of the spicy red salsa.
Anya tried to ignore the way her heart wrenched a little. So what if he looked annoyed? Who cared if she thought it was because he wanted to hear more about her family and she really wanted to tell him more? Did it matter that she wanted to share things with him she hadn’t told any other man? They’d spent plenty of time talking to each other already. Sometimes they talked for hours post-sex, and even if it was just everyday chatter, it always felt like more than enough. Nothing should be different now.
JT wiped his hands on a paper napkin, tossed it on the tray, and relaxed into his chair again. His gaze settled on her, and the skin on Anya’s bare arms prickled as a weighty silence fell between them. She couldn’t be sure exactly what was coming, but she knew that something was hanging in the darkness between them.
“Can I ask you something?” JT crossed his arms over his broad chest, and his dress shirt stretched taut over his shoulders and biceps.
Anya nodded, still on guard because no matter how good he looked sitting there wearing that shirt, he’d asked that question too hesitantly. In her experience, whenever someone carefully asked if they could ask you a question, you weren’t going to like whatever came out of their mouth next.
“Why didn’t you want to talk to those girls about your paintings? You got all cagey and blew them off.”
Yup, that was par for the course, then. Because she did not like that question. Anya dropped her gaze and picked at a few remaining pieces of curdito.
“I’m not good at talking about my art,” she said, keeping her tone crisp. With any luck he’d take note and drop the conversation. Just to be safe, though, she added two words that should make it clear she wanted to shut the door on this topic. “To anyone.”
“Why? It’s what you do. Why not talk about it?”
She suppressed an eye roll and bit back a retort explaining that “anyone” included him. But JT was undeterred, taking her lack of a reply as nothing but an opening to press on.
“I watched you teach that class tonight, Anya. When my stupid penguins looked like giant radioactive cotton puffs, you did that thing with the gray paint, and boom, they looked halfway normal. You’re totally at home teaching people about art. I’ve seen it when you’re working with that kid Kevin in the neighborhood, too. So what changes when it’s your art you’re talking about?”
“I don’t know,” she whined.
JT fixed her with a flat stare. Apparently even her I don’t know dramatics weren’t going to deter him. She sighed.
“It’s weird, okay? Either people want you to describe your work in a thirty-second sound bite, or they want you to babble about the inspiration behind every brushstroke until you sound like a pompous ass. I’m not a fan of either approach. I work best off instinct, so I don’t really have a larger strategy I can tell people about anyway. Truthfully, if I think about my work too much, then I get stuck in my head and everything shuts down.”
Surprisingly, when she was finished, Anya felt her body relax into the chair, as if saying those things aloud somehow made them less daunting. Her natural instinct was to clam up at this point, but with the way her heart felt a little lighter, she decided to say more. Maybe if she did, JT would feel less compelled to keep prying. Even if he didn’t, she could always employ another kind of diversionary tactic.
“Painting is a whole-body experience for me. That’s why sex is the perfect catalyst when I’m stuck creatively. I don’t have to be sleeping with someone in order to paint, but my body is like a conduit, so I need good energy around me. Orgasms are good energy, obviously.” Anya flicked her gaze JT’s way. “And the ones you give me are especially good.”
JT’s eyes moved over her, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip as they did, worrying that spot until Anya was almost positive that her mention of orgasms was doing what she’d hoped it would. It was no secret how good they were together when their clothes were off. She let one side of her mouth curve up, thinking that would be enough to distract him entirely.
Instead, he released his lip with a flick of his tongue and then cleared his throat.
“What about your career, then? You can’t tell me that you want to spend your life teaching paint-and-sip to guys like me that are all thumbs and can’t draw a straight line. That means you have to figure out a way to make a living from selling your own paintings, right? Which probably requires talking to people about what you do.”
Anya grumbled inside. So much for distracting him with orgasm talk. She heaved a sigh.
“Being a professional artist is rarely about making a living. Supplementing your income is a given for almost everyone, and I can’t imagine ever being able to say that my paintings pay all the bills. The work sells itself, if it’s the right fit. If it isn’t, you can’t convince someone otherwise. Even when I show at an art festival, half the time I pretend like I’m just someone hired to work the booth so that I don’t have to play meet-the-artist with strangers who have no interest in my style of work. People don’t really care either way.”
“Seriously?” JT said. “That’s your sales plan? Pretending to be someone else and leaving it all up to chance? Jesus, Anya, that’s a little fucked up.”
Anya gritted her teeth at his reaction. “Not really. Sometimes it’s just a means to an end.”
“Telling people about what you do, or what you want, should not just be a means to an end,” JT chastised. “It should be something you take pride in, something you want to get out there and tell people about. Loudly. And continuously. Wanting some success is a good thing. You can’t shy away from that, not if you truly want something.”
The Fenton award crept into Anya’s mind almost immediately. She truly wanted that success. But JT didn’t need to know that; no one did. The Fenton remained a private, guarded, desperate hope for her—and she wanted to keep it that way, at least when it came to owning just how much it meant to her.
“You sound like my ex, Martin,” Anya said. “When I applied for this artist-in-residency program, that was one of the reasons he told me not to get my hopes up. He said that if I really wanted a chance at it, I’d have to get out there and prove myself to the committee. He said my work isn’t good enough to speak for itself. He might be right, but I’m not sure that going out there and promoting myself is really going to change anyone’s mind.”
JT’s face turned stony. “Hold on. Is this the same guy you caught doing another woman in your studio?”
“The one and only,” she snorted.
“Fucking asshole,” JT muttered under his breath. “You deserve better than that. Better than someone who talks down to you about your work or who doesn’t believe in you one hundred percent. And you sure as fuck deserve better than some guy who cheats on you.”
She brushed off his big words with a little shrug.
“He’s entitled to his opinion. Art is subjective. Some buyers will like what you do, and some won’t.” Anya tipped her head back and blew out a breath. “And people cheat. It’s no big deal, that’s just how it
goes.”
“Some people do think it’s a big deal. They wouldn’t even consider cheating on the person they’re with,” JT insisted with a sharp edge to his tone. “Commitment isn’t just some fucking burden they’re managing. They actually like it.”
Anya kept her gaze on the darkened sky above, replying tiredly.
“Well, apparently every guy I’ve been with doesn’t like it.”
It was true. From minor indiscretions to long-running affairs, Anya had yet to have a relationship end without some degree of infidelity. Normally, those betrayals didn’t eat at her much. She found it easier to apply the live-and-let-live mantra she had grown up with. As a child, couples had come and gone at her parents’ desert hideaway, and surrounded by an ever-changing cast of healers, hippies, and wanderers, Anya had learned early on that love wasn’t forever—it was transitory and fleeting.
No one had shouted or cried or lost their minds when their couplings fell apart; they’d simply parted ways. Her parents were the only grown-ups in her life who had stayed together for longer than a growing season. Although, now that she was an adult, Anya suspected that even her mom and dad’s relationship included some nontraditional elements, ones she didn’t care to know a whole lot about. But their love was an exception to the norms she’d been taught to accept. Love simply came and went. So even if she liked monogamy—for as long as it lasted—she knew it wasn’t something to count on.
Yet these days, a part of her sometimes questioned whether that was what she wanted to believe. For the first time in her life, Anya found herself thinking that, if she chose wisely, then maybe somewhere out there was someone who would choose to love her—day in and day out, no matter what.
Someone like JT.