Total pages in book: 174
Estimated words: 173355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 693(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 693(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
“Yes,” I whisper. “Because I’m an artist and I need to get this sketch done.”
He tightens his fingers around my wrist and gives it a pull, a slightly forceful tug, and there I go.
I’m jerked toward him, my sketchbook sliding off my pillow, my pencil falling from my fingers, as he leans forward too, coming off his pillows.
As he descends over me, all massive shoulders and dark eyes.
“Let’s see how much of an artist you are,” he rasps, bringing his other hand forward and clutching at my necklace. “Let’s see if you can finish this sketch on your knees. If you can color within the lines when I’m giving it to you doggy style. When I’m making this tight body shake and your pinky pussy talk.” His lips are breathing over me now, his fingers flexing around my wrist. “Come on, Bronwyn. Let’s see if my pretty little wallflower can make art when I smack her tight ass and ring all the bells on her body.”
I kiss him then.
Because fuck art.
He can smack my ass and ring all the bells on my body any time he wants. Also spoiler alert: I couldn’t.
Color within the lines, I mean.
When he was giving it to me doggy style.
God, I love these weekends with him.
I absolutely love them.
I love painting his house. I love painting him.
I love making him watch Disney movies — yeah, I make him watch Disney movies. He was disgruntled about that in the beginning but once I told him that they are my favorite, he agreed. They’re not actually my favorite though. I mean, I like them, but I like watching them with him more and laughing at his pained expressions.
I love waking up in his bed, kissing him whenever I want to, being kissed whenever he wants to. I love going out with him, because we do go out. Not where we can be recognized. Just on long drives.
He also brings me to his soccer practice.
Just for the record: That wasn’t an easy thing to achieve.
I didn’t even know that he was still helping out at Bardstown High. I thought they borrowed him for that one week and that was it. But apparently he’s helping them over the weekends.
Which he told me very reluctantly after disappearing twice on Saturdays while I was staying with him.
So naturally my first question was if I could come see his practice. To which he definitely said no. But I kept at it and kept at it and one weekend, he gave in. On the condition that I’d sit on the bleachers, out in the open, and watch him. As opposed to finding a discreet place somewhere, hiding away from all the players, and watching him.
Which was my plan, of course.
Because I don’t want people to ask him questions about me, about what I’m doing there and how he knows me and all that. I’m not sure how I was going to accomplish ‘hiding’ in a wide-open field, but I was going to figure something out.
But he shut it all down and said that he’d take care of it.
And he did. Take care of it, I mean.
He told everyone that I was his student from St. Mary’s and that I’m an artist and I’m doing a series of soccer related portraits for my college portfolios. And so as a good teacher, he’d given me permission to sit in on his practice. And since Coach Thorne has such a stellar reputation, no one even batted an eye at his lie.
So since then I’ve been to his practice a few times.
I sit at the bleachers with my sketchbook open, watch him command a group of about twenty teenage guys.
I watch his eyes light up when a player does something right and how when they don’t, he goes into his inspiring coach mode. Where he guides them, patiently works with them and doesn’t let them quit until they’re on the right track. Oh, and if they fuck around, he easily slips into his hardass coach mode as well and lets them have it.
I watch it all with the same feeling I got back at that game.
That Conrad might… like this. He might like his job. He might like coaching and guiding and teaching people.
Only he doesn’t know it.
Maybe because he’s too angry at it. That he had to take this job years and years ago instead of fulfilling his pro dreams.
So as I watch him, I draw.
I sketch all that in my sketchpad and later when we get to his house, I show him all my sketches.
I show him how he shines and glows when he’s around soccer. When he’s coaching kids and guiding them, making them better players. I tell him how wonderful that is. How wonderful and amazing and awe-inspiring that he touches so many lives on a daily basis.