Rejected
(Lawson)
I can’t believe she’s sitting on my desk naked like that. Most women wouldn’t have the confidence to hang out in the nude. Skye’s got confidence in everything, except her talent.
Normally, I’d have been out of my chair, bent her over the desk and be balls deep in any woman who sat like that. But I’m completely content just to watch her, although it helps that we’ve been at it all night and morning.
I love the way her brow moves and knits as she concentrates on her drawing.
From my angle, I can’t see what she’s drawing and I’m curious to know what it looks like. Somehow I find the patience to wait. Right now, I’m happy to make her happy.
“Ta-da,” she says, flipping the paper around for me to see.
“Wow, you did that in twenty minutes?”
“Obviously, you just watched me do it.”
“It’s amazing.” It really is, it looks eerily like me and seems like something that should’ve taken hours to do.
Skye purses her lips, fighting back a smile. She should allow herself to be proud of herself.
“Thanks.”
“Do I get to keep it?”
She hesitates, “Sure, if you want it.”
I stand, take the paper from her and tack it to my white board. It might be strange to have a picture of myself on display, but it reminds me of her.
“Do you ever do self portraits?”
“Ew, God no.”
“Can you do one for me?”
“Seriously?”
“I’ll hold the mirror.”
“If you really want one, I’ll do you one.”
“Can it be below the waist?”
She rolls her eyes and says, “Don’t push your luck.”
“Come with me, I think I know a good place.”
I hook my arm around her shoulders and lead Skye to yet another room in my house. This is one of the smallest rooms in the house, so one whole wall is mirrored to make it seem bigger. Which, to me, defeats the whole purpose of having a small room. I have a shitload of big and even bigger rooms, I wanted a small one.
“There are certainly enough mirrors in here.”
A black lacquered chest blocks most of the floor space in front of the mirrored wall. I shift it out of the way, exposing the complete height of the floor-to-ceiling mirror.
“How’s that? Do you want a chair?”
“I’m good,” she says, sitting cross legged on the floor.
My eyes are drawn to the pink spot between her legs. It’s like she’s completely forgotten that she’s naked. My dick twitches, seeing her exposed like that. I clear my throat and move to the window, staring out it intently until it’s passed.
When I turn back, I’m relieved to see she’s laid the paper across her lap, blocking my view.
I flop onto the armchair and watch her. This was intended to be a quiet room, where I could go to think or reflect or read or whatever the fuck the designer had in mind.
Skye moves with the same level of focus that she had when she drew me. Her body leans to the mirror while she studies herself, then straightens again while she transfers her findings to the paper.
From my vantage point, this time I’m able to watch the creation as it takes place. The way it develops from a blank page to a virtual photograph is mind-blowing. She has more talent in the tip of her finger than most people have in their entire bodies.
Though I suspect a lot of that talent was honed with years and years of hard work and dedication. I have nothing but admiration for Skye.
“Okay, here you go,” she says, passing me the finished paper.
I trace the pencil line of her cheek.
“It’s good, but missing something.”
“Huh?” Skye grabs the paper out of my hands.
“It’s missing your spark. Can’t you see it in yourself?”
“Whatever, you’re just mad I didn’t draw my boobs,” she says with a quick smile.
“You’re probably right.”
“Never argue with the artist.”
“I’m starving, come and get lunch.”
“What time is it?”
“Maybe two, two-thirty?” Damn, time goes fast with her.
“Should we get dressed?”
“If you want, but I’m enjoying having you naked.”
Skye shrugs and smiles. “As long as you’re happy to eat like that too. I thought it would make you lose your appetite.”
“Fuck no, it makes me hungrier.”
“For food?”
I smirk and say, “There’s a million ways to answer that, but I’m going to keep my mouth shut.”
“That’s not very suit of you.”
“You said no sarcasm.”
We make sandwiches, and sit to eat them at my kitchen island.
“Does your family ever come from Michigan to visit?” Skye’s arms flop to the counter, causing the sandwich to drop onto her plate.
“I’m an only child of only children, I don’t have much family.”
“And your parents?”
“We don’t speak anymore.” She shifts her eyes to the floor.
Oh, right. I move to her side, brushing her arm with my hand. Tears fill the corners of her eyes, and I clear them away with my forefingers. The tenderness of my action surprises even me.
“Sorry. I haven’t talked to anyone in person about it before, not even with Ava.”
“No one?”
“I Skyped and emailed my college roommate Amy a lot when I was first thinking about moving out here, but life moved on and now our discussions are on the other things going on in our lives, not the old news of my estranged parents.”
“Is that, I mean, was that…” How do I phrase that question? I want to shout ‘what happened?’
“They disowned me for using my grandma’s inheritance to move out here and pursue my art. After a lot of screaming and yelling and them telling me not to waste the money and that I was living in la la land thinking art can actually be a career, I stormed out and haven’t had any contact with them since.”
I pull her off the stool and draw her against me. No longer able to hide her feelings, she weeps into my chest. It reminds me of how I felt about the loss of my own parents.
“What hurts most of all, more than them not believing in me, is that the money mattered more to them than I did. And it wasn’t even their money — she left it to me.”
“They’re the ones in the wrong. You know that, right?”
“Yeah, but why? Why did they do that to me?”
“I wish I knew.”
“At least your parents wanted you. I’m not even good enough for my parents. Sometimes I think I was a mistake right from the start.”
“But there’s still a chance, Skye, a chance that they’ll realize how wrong they’ve been and phone you. Don’t give up.” The way I had to give up on my parents ever walking back through the front door.
We stand like that for several minutes. Though all my own pain feels like it’s suddenly rushed back, holding Skye in my arms calms me. Like she’s entered my life and finally plugged a gaping hole that’s been part of me for my entire adult life.
I would give anything to have my parents back. It’s a fucking joke that her parents are alive and won’t talk to her. Over money, for fuck’s sake. Feeling her sob against me makes me want to rush to her parents’ house and shake them.
“You were right to come out here and follow your dream.”
“No,” she pulls her hand to her face and wipes her eyes. “They were right. It’s a stupid pipe dream. I’ve wasted all my grandma’s money and I’m a failure.”
“That’s just stupid.”
“I’ve been here months and, until last week, only sold one painting. I’m obviously not as good as I thought I was.”
“You’re crazy good. It just takes time.”
“That’s what Ava says, but it’s bullshit.”
“So let me help you. I can get you publicity. Anything you need.”
“No way,” she says, shaking her head.
“Why? I want to.”
“Having some rich guy I’m fucking pave my way isn’t making it. It’s just as big a failure.”
“Don’t be stupid.”
Skye looks at me, her eyes narrow. “I’m serious.”
“Fine, but don’t ever think you’re not the best artist in the country.”
It pisses me off that she doesn’t want my help. I tip her head up and smooth back her hair.
Pressing my forehead against hers, I say, “Listen to me. You have an insane amount of talent. You will get discovered, I promise you.”
She sighs. “I’ll never get discovered if I run out of money and starve to death.”
“Why will you accept help from Ava but not me?”
“Ava’s different — she’s a fellow artist.”
“Oh yeah, what does she paint?”
“She’s a professor of art history.” Her voice sounds exasperated, but I’m not stopping now.
“So she’s not an artist, she’s a teacher? And you’ll accept her help but not mine?”
“She’s still in the art community. You run hotels, that’s nothing to do with art. The only reason you’d offer my help is because I let you in my pants.”
“There’s nothing legit a hotelier could do to help you?”
Her lips tighten. “Nope. I keep saying, I’ll only take help from within the art community.”
“And Kelso.”
“That’s a commission.”
“But I’m not allowed to commission something from you?”
“I thought we were dropping this subject.”
“Fine.” She’s getting annoyed, so I drop it. I don’t know what pisses me off more: her not accepting my help, or knowing what her parents did to her.