Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55738 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55738 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
“There was nothing funny about earlier,” she says.
“You’re right,” I reply. “And about earlier, you don’t have to be—”
“I’m not ashamed,” she says quickly, but I think she’s lying. “It’s just a lot all at once. Nobody has ever, uh, seen that part of me.”
My cock stiffens, and my balls are tingly like my seed is trying to escape. Knowing that nobody else has seen her perfect slit and nobody else ever will make me even hungrier to claim her. Own her. Take her over and over and hurt anybody else who tries. Even my own son?
“When are you free?” I ask.
She pauses, then sighs. “I need some time,” she says. “Mom’s never given me bad advice. She doesn’t give much advice, but when she does, she’s usually right. If she says I should wait, then I think I should.”
“Wait for what?” I say, trying not to sound needy.
Neediness is sickening in a man. Desperation is a surefire way to turn any woman’s interest into disgust, but the truth is, I am needy. Hungry. I’m starving for my perfect painter.
“Wait and see,” she replies vaguely. “I’m sorry.”
I swallow. There’s so much I want to say. I could drive to her place right now, but she deserves respect. “Yeah,” I tell her. “I understand.”
After hanging up my cell phone, this dark cloud consumes me. I sit on the couch and stare at the black-and-white footage on the TV, opening and closing my hands. It’s something I’d do before an op. Open and close my hands, focus on that movement, nothing else, a mindfulness thing. Focus. Now, there’s only one thing I want to focus on.
Thirty minutes later, James walks into the room and drops into the chair.
“Do you want the truth, Dad?” he says, staring at me with red eyes. Has he been crying?
I sit up and nod. “Always.”
“I love her,” he whispers. “Okay? I love her.”
The first time he says it is like a kick in the gut. The second time is like a haymaker right to the jaw. Suddenly, I’m full of adrenaline, urgency pulsing around my body, roaring at me to do something, but I don’t know what.
“You barely even know her,” I say hypocritically.
“I’ve known of her for months,” he says. “I’ve seen her around the gym. I’ve seen her with Lexi, too, at the college campus downtown. Before I even asked Lexi to set us up, I had a crush on her. Ha, a crush. It’s way more than that. Honestly, Dad, I don’t know what it is, but I can’t get her out of my head.”
I run a hand through my hair, just like James often does. I wish Charles Malone would call me and tell me he’s finally found where Loki is. Tell me to bring weapons because it’s going to get bloody. It would be so much easier than this.
“So, what are you going to do?” I ask.
“Try to win her over. Try to make her love me, too.”
“You can’t force somebody to love you,” I say.
He stares at me miserably. “I know that, Dad.”
Oh, damn. That’s the worst of all. An emotional knife slips through my ribs. “I love you, son. Nothing will ever change that, but I think you should leave Samantha alone. Definitely don’t send anything to her house again.”
“We’ll see,” he says, picking up his cell phone and leaving the room.
Once, feeling helpless was a foreign concept to me. There was always a next step. There was always a definite direction. Whether it was bullets, blood, or tactics, I had a path, but now I sit here, feeling useless, staring at the TV.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Samantha
“Brilliant, exceptional work,” Professor Haywood says, giving me the first bright sparks of emotion for the past three days, which is, not coincidentally, the last time I spoke with Fletcher. Professor Haywood has laid out all my gym paintings on a large table. “But…” She taps her manicured fingernail against her chin. “I remember you mentioning a bird’s-eye-view piece. I don’t see it.”
That was going to be my last painting, the finisher for the entire project. Since telling Fletcher I needed some space, I haven’t had the courage to return to the gym and risk seeing him. The only reason I asked for space is because Mom advised it. If I see him again, the emotions will sweep me away.
“I didn’t have time to get around to that one,” I say lamely.
Professor Haywood takes off her glasses and cleans them on her colorful dress. It’s a gesture I’ve seen her do many times in class. A gesture that means she’s about to deliver some criticism. I steel myself for it. I was far too sensitive when I first started college.
“That seems like a defeatist attitude to me,” she replies. “The deadline isn’t for five days yet. You’ve painted quicker than that many times. Is there any way you can finish the set?”