I pulled back, looking down to see that I’d let my brush slide off my hand and across the sheet of little animals I’d worked so hard to produce.
“This sucks,” I said, and I wasn’t talking about the painting . . .
“It is what it is,” he said, shrugging. “And I can’t share it with you. Say the word and I’ll walk out, leave you alone. I’m not trying to fuck with your head, Mel, but I can’t change who I am, either.”
I swallowed, deciding to ignore that particular reality for now.
“Can you show me how to make a flower?”
He nodded, pulling the brush out of my fingers slowly.
“First, you need to start with a clean surface,” he said, catching my chin again, turning my cheek toward him. He dipped the brush into the green, raising it to my face. The paint was cool where it touched my skin, but it still burned deep inside.
“Long, smooth strokes will keep the color even,” he continued, as the brush slid down my face, all the way down to my chin. I studied his expression, intent and purposeful as he started another line. His eyes were so blue, so clear and full of light. Intellectually, I knew he was one of the bad guys. I just couldn’t reconcile that with the man sitting here next to me.
“Will you help me tomorrow?” I asked. He cocked a brow. “With the face painting, I mean. Do you want to come to the carnival with me? You’re way better at this than I am.”
A strange look crossed his face.
“I’m a felon, Mel,” he said. “I don’t think they’d want me there.”
“A lot of people are felons,” I said earnestly. “Spending time in prison doesn’t mean you can’t do any volunteering for the rest of your life. Well, aside from sex offenders, I guess, but that’s not you. Why couldn’t you volunteer? Aren’t you friends with Bolt? It’s his old lady—Maggs—who runs the program. He’s helped out a bunch of times. The club even did a fundraiser for the program last year.”
A thoughtful look crossed Painter’s face.
“I met Bolt in prison, have I told you that?” he asked. I shook my head. “The first time I was inside. He helped me figure shit out, hooked me up with the club. Good brother.”
“Well, your good brother is going to be there tomorrow, so I guess if he’s okay, you’re probably okay, too. And I know they can use the help—I mean, if they’re desperate enough to have me painting, you know it has to be bad.”
He gave a low laugh.
“Point taken. You win. Happy now?”
Yes. Yes I was.
“Thanks,” I said, smiling widely. Then I lost the smile as he scowled at me.
“Don’t move your face—I’m working.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, trying to relax. I didn’t know what he was painting on me and I didn’t care. Every stroke was like a finger running over my skin, sending chills through me while sparking a slow-burning need deep inside. He leaned in closer, eyes searching across my features, then darting back down toward the colors, utterly absorbed in his work.
This seemed a little unfair, because ten minutes later he’d covered most of my face (which I didn’t have a problem with) and I’d seriously soaked my panties (big problem). So far as I could tell, Painter hadn’t even noticed that I wasn’t just another mural board.
“Lift your chin,” he said, his voice soft. I lifted, shivering as the cool brush stroked down the length of my neck.
“What are you doing?”
“Expanding the picture,” he said, sounding almost detached. “This is fun and I’m not ready to stop yet. In fact, why don’t you unbutton your shirt and take it off? Gives me more room to work.”
I pulled back, staring him down.
“That sounds like a pick-up line from a bad porno,” I said, torn between laughter and frustration, because deep down inside I wanted nothing more than to strip down in front of him.
Well, actually what I wanted was him stripped in front of me, but you know what I mean.
“You wanted me to show you how to paint,” he said, frowning. “I’m doing that. And you’ve got a bra on—trust me, I’d know if you didn’t—so it’s not like you’ll be naked. And you should stop watching bad porn. The good stuff is harder to find, but it’s worth it.”
I opened my mouth to reply, then snapped it shut because no way in hell did I want to discuss the varying quality of porn across the spectrum. But he made a good point about the bra . . . I had no issues with wearing a bikini top down at the beach during the summer.
(And yes, I knew I was rationalizing—I was in heat, not stupid.)
I started unbuttoning my shirt, pretending his eyes weren’t following my fingers like his life depended on it, because if I had to suffer, it seemed only fair that he should, too.
Painter’s breath caught when I pulled my shirt apart, then slowly pushed it back and off my shoulders. I had a decent body—I knew that. It wasn’t as great as Jessica’s, but when I made the effort I could definitely hold my own. Even so, I wasn’t used to the kind of appreciation I saw in his eyes.
The shirt dropped back down behind me, and I found myself sitting up straight. Thankfully, I’d put on a decent bra that morning. Black and lacy, dipping low between my breasts. It wasn’t a sexy push-up, but it wasn’t plain white cotton, either.
Painter reached out, running the brush down my neck and along my collarbone, sending shivers through me. When he did the other side, I felt the first goose bumps breaking out, all along my arms.