Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 35207 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 176(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35207 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 176(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
After running away from Summer and a lifetime of future disappointment, I retreated to my studio. I told myself it was because I was on a deadline and needed to work but, truthfully, I’ve come to recognize that I’m weak where Summer’s concerned. My dick wants to take control, and the only thing I can do is lock myself away. It’s been three days since the swimming lesson. Three days of agonizing fantasies with only my hand for company. Maybe that’s why I invite the kid inside.
“Come out from behind the door,” I tell him. “My studio isn’t the safest place.”
Colby creeps out from behind the door, a guilty look on his face. “We was just wondering if you were still alive.”
“I am.” From the video feeds, Summer is still working, but she’s stopped talking to me during the day. Not that I blame her. I would’ve quit by now. I keep waiting for that to happen, and when it does, I’m going to end up doing things I shouldn’t, like kidnapping her and locking her in the west wing.
Colby inspects the dark space, his hand hovering over a hammer here or a metal pinchers there. Some self-preservation instinct has kicked in and his usual uninhibited curiosity is banked, although I can tell he’s dying to handle everything.
“How come you have so many tools? I thought you were an artist.”
“I am. Not all artist use paint brushes. That painting is kind of a lost skill these days. Most of your contemporary artists are using mixed media. Do you know what that is?”
The seven-year-old shakes his head.
“It’s when you use more than one type of thing so you are not just putting paint on a canvas but you could also be using metal scraps of buttons or grass.”
“Grass?” Colby’s eyes light up.
“Yeah, there’s a famous artist that uses nature in his work.”
“Wow. I never knew that. So what do you do?”
“Mostly metal. I work with steel, copper, sometimes gold. It’s why I need the heat.” I point to the forge. “And why I wear this.” I pat the heavy fireproof apron covering my chest.
“What are you making?” He wiggles his finger toward the skeleton structure in front of me.
“I got a commission from the Tate. Do you know what a commission is?” I can tell by his blank stare that he doesn’t. “It’s when someone pays you to make something. It could be something specific like you coming to me and saying I want a replica of the Porsche 917 race car or it could be like the Tate saying they want a piece within their theme of future movement. And don’t ask me what they mean by that because when you commission something for me, I’m making what I make.”
“Can I watch you?”
“Sorry, kid, I’m just not used to that sort of thing. I work by myself.”
The boy’s face falls, which doesn’t sit right with my gut. But I’m having a hard enough time finishing this piece of work without a seven-year-old peering over my shoulder. I push away from my work table and pull off my welding gloves. “Do you want another swim lesson?”
“Nah. I guess I should get going and leave you alone.” He scuffs a toe against the ground.
“Where’s your sister?”
“Cooking. She texted you to see what you wanted to eat for dinner, but you didn’t get back to her.”
“Hell.” I grab my phone. Sure enough, there’s a number of unread messages. I scroll to the one that is from an unknown number.
Summer: Any thoughts on what youd like to throw in the trash for dinner
Summer: Okay so maybe that came off rude. It was a joke
Summer: Seriously a joke
Summer: Nevermind I’m making curry
“She’s making curry,” Colby offers unhelpfully.
“Yeah, I see that,” I grunt and scrub a knuckle across my forehead. I’ve handled this like shit. In my defense, I have no experience with women except for my sister and pretty sure that doesn’t count, but abandoning a woman who kisses you seems to be dumb. Ignoring her messages on top of that? Might as well just throw me out with the trash. Here I am looking like a torn-up piece of paper on my best days and yet, Summer, a woman more beautiful than the flowers in Tina’s garden, willingly put her mouth against mine. I could have had her that night, and I walked away. I don’t deserve a single chance to even breathe near her, let alone lay her on my bed and take her.
“Where’d you get your scars?” Colby asks, interrupting my train of thought.
“My old man broke a bottle across my face when he was tanked. He mistook me for an intruder and tried to defend himself.” I finger my scars and then squint at Colby. Since we’re asking uncomfortable questions, I say, “Where’s your parents, kid?”