Date With the Prick

(Skye)

In the morning, I beeline for Kelso’s creepy bedroom and continue on with his spread eagle. I’m concentrating on getting the subtle tones of her inner folds right when my phone chimes. It’s a text from Lawson.

I’ll pick you up at seven.

My eyes shift between the phone in my hand and the painting on my canvas. Seven can’t come fast enough.

Awesome!

The second I hit send, I worry my response sounds too childish. Is it obvious I’m not an experienced dater? Can Lawson tell? He might think I’m pathetic. Especially since he’s mister billionaire — he’s probably got tons of experience.

I keep the phone in my hand, waiting for a response from him, but none comes. Sighing, I toss the phone onto the bed and pick up my brush.

Why does he have this effect on me? Is this what I’ve been missing all these years? Maybe it was a mistake to concentrate on my art at the expense of all else. It’s not like it’s got me anywhere. Anywhere other than painting a pussy in some slimy rich guy’s creepy bedroom, anyway.

Ava and I still haven’t had any discussion about Lawson. She hasn’t brought him up, and neither have I. I guess I’m too afraid she’ll tell me what I don’t want to hear.

What will happen during the date? I went out on a couple of dates in college with other guys in my art program. But they were both artsy people with a similar world view to mine.

Not freaking billionaires. My favorite college professor, Dr Lakeland, would not approve of this one little bit.

Stop it. Dr Lakeland is my past — I have to consider my present. And right now, my body is sending a very strong message.

It might be shameful, but I’ve got to admit, spending all day thinking about Lawson has definitely had a positive effect on my painting. Yesterday it seemed kind of flat. Now it’s glistening so much, it’s even turning me on.

***

At home, showered and hair done, I stand in front of my closet, wondering what, if anything, I have to wear.

My clothes mostly consist of comfortable things to paint in. Tops that allow me to move my arms freely and bottoms that don’t annoy me. The one thing they all have in common is that they were all bought at Wal-Mart, and all before I moved to California.

I have a few summer dresses, at least. I pick out the newest one: one my mother gave me for my birthday last year, and put it on. It’s a navy halter neck with small white flowers all over it. It’s not exactly fancy, but it’ll have to do.

Why is it I can paint a realistic face on a canvas but can’t apply make-up to my own face with any skill? Maybe it’s something to do with my shaking hands. I wipe it off my eyes and start again. In the end, I’ve gone with a subtle amount of eyeshadow and some mascara.

The doorbell rings, and an explosion of butterflies goes off in my chest. I grab my lipstick and apply it as I move to the front door, hoping it looks half decent and that most of it ended up on my lips.

Ava doesn’t know about my date tonight. I never worked up the courage to tell her.

“Yes, she’s here. Come in, I’ll let her know,” Ava says as I round the corner to the entrance.

She turns and sees me, she’s smiling but her brow is furrowed.

“Ava, have you met…” My voice gets stuck in my throat when I see him, and I’m unable to finish my sentence.

Lawson’s wearing a dark suit again, and one glance is enough to send all the butterflies in my chest straight between my legs. Why did I ever think suits were evil again?

“Skye, you look beautiful,” he says and smiles.

He steps through the door and his clean scent fills our little hallway. He rests his hands under my elbows, and kisses me on the cheek. I know it’s only hello, but I turn every shade of red at the fact that he’s done it in front of Ava.

“I’ll leave you two. Have a nice time tonight,” Ava says, returning to the living room.

“I see I’m going out with the prick tonight,” I say, playing with his lapels.

“You lucked out, I got stuck at work and didn’t have time to go home and change.”

“That’s okay, as long as he stays in line.”

Lawson’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead and he laughs.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m not old enough to be called ma’am, sir.”

His leans over and speaks into my ear, “I happen to like it when you call me sir.”

“Yes, I think you mentioned that. Let me show you my studio,” I pause to gaze into his eyes, “sir.”

Before he can respond, I turn and walk down the hall to my studio, trying to collect myself on the way. It seems like every time I see him, his pull on me becomes stronger.

Lawson’s long legs means my head start vanishes in three steps. He rests his hand in the small of my back, as if he is the one leading the way.

I open the door and the familiar smell of paint and solvents hits me. I flick the light switch. Ava installed a circle of sodium lamps around the room for painting at night, and after a few flickers, my studio is bathed in bright light.

“Wow, impressive,” Lawson says, walking around the empty space with his hands in his pockets.

“Thanks,” I say sheepishly. I’m suddenly unsure why I brought him in here.

He comes to stand in front of the two easels that still hold the last two ‘rich things out of place’ paintings.

“These are breathtaking,” he says looking at me.

“These, actually, were inspired by Freya.”

“By Freya?”

“Yep. Her being a rich thing out of place inspired me to think of other rich things in places they don’t fit.”

“I get it. The tiara on the scarecrow. Very clever.”

“And the diamonds earring on the tree.” I point to it. “There was a third, but I finished it and it’s now for sale at the gallery I sell through.”

“Was it about me? Being a rich person where I don’t belong?” His eyes bore into mine as he says it.

The butterflies inside me swirl like a tornado, but I try to hold his stare. “I thought the prick was staying in line tonight. Sir.”

Still holding my eyes, he closes the distance between us, his hands still in his pockets. “If you keep calling me sir, I’m not going to be responsible for what the prick does to you.”

“Is that so? Sir.”

“Now you’re just playing with the poor prick.” His hands whip out of his pocket and land firmly on my shoulders. Lawson pulls me close and kisses me. Our first kiss in private, and there’s most definitely a difference.

He backs me up against the bare wall, grinding his mouth into mine. A whimper escapes my voice and my knees are on the verge of buckling. But he holds me up by pressing his body into mine.

I’ve never known any feeling like this. The butterflies have multiplied again; it seems each one has turned into a thousand, and they’ve spread from my chest to my fingertips and toes.

Lawson could rip my dress from me right here, and I’d do nothing to stop him. The acknowledgement of my feelings creates a loud moan that starts from deep within me and carries on up to the ceiling.

He pulls away and says, “We need to get out of here, now.”

I lean back on the wall, panting for air. He’s right, we need to go before I melt into a puddle right here in my studio.