Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 77718 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77718 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
His jaw is tight, but I’m getting the impression he’s not angry. Well, he might not be, but I am.
“Oh, well, that’s all right then.” I fold my arms over my chest. And then I remember I’m not wearing a bra.
Christ on a cracker.
I close my eyes on a groan.
He chuckles a dark sound. “Don’t worry, Jailbird; it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”
My eyes flash open, accusing.
“Locker room. Your bra didn’t exactly cover all the goods.”
He slowly runs his eyes down to my chest and then back up, and I can see the memory of that moment in his eyes.
He looked at me like he wanted me back then. Before he knew who I was.
The crazy thing is…he’s looking at me in the exact same way right now.
And I’m dying. From a blazing inferno of embarrassment and something that has my thighs clenching and my nipples pebbling.
I tighten my arms over my chest.
“You’re cute when you’re embarrassed.”
“And you are where you’re not wanted.”
I go to grab the painting out of his hand, but he’s faster, and he holds it out of my reach. Then, I remember…nipples, and I clamp my arms back over my chest.
He’s holding the painting I did of a ballerina a year ago. A teenage girl, facing away, a tutu on and her ballet slippers hanging over her shoulder, and on her feet are a pair of pink Dr. Martens.
I got the inspiration when I saw a teenage girl entering a ballet studio, close to the gallery I used to work at. She was all dressed up in her ballet garb, hair up in a bun, her ballet shoes hanging over her shoulder with bright pink Dr. Martens on her feet.
I thought she looked amazing. Perfectly made up with a hint of the rebel inside of her only visible on her feet.
I went home and worked through the night on that painting. It took me two days. And then I went out and bought myself a pair of pink Dr. Martens. Later that night, I wore them when I went out to a bar with Kyle where I got totally trashed, and he puked on one of my new boots.
We had a fight about it. Then, Kyle took off, leaving me in the middle of a street alone.
I had to walk home, as there were no cabs to be seen. And I scrubbed my boot clean when I got home.
He turned up the next day with flowers, a bottle of wine, and a lame-ass apology. And I forgave him.
“Why did you tell me it was just a hobby?” Ares says. “It’s clearly so much more than just that.”
“Again, none of your business.”
“Did you study art?”
I realize that he’s not going to stop asking questions until I at least give him an answer.
“Yes.”
“You’re incredibly talented.”
“I’m okay,” I say in response.
“Okay?” he repeats, brows furrowing. “So, that’s your thing.”
“What is? Painting?”
“No. Putting yourself down.”
Ah.
I bite my lip, sucking it into my mouth, and turn my eyes from his.
I hear him putting the painting down, and the next thing I know, he’s standing before me, and his fingers are holding my chin, turning my eyes to his.
I stare up at him, holding all my pain inside of me. Pain that is begging to escape.
“You shouldn’t hide your talent away like that,” he says gently.
A dry laugh escapes me. “And why would I have them out on display when all they do is remind me of what I can no longer do?”
Shit.
His brows come together in confusion. “What do you mean?”
Christ. Me and my big mouth.
“Why do you even care?” I toss at him. “You still hated me this time yesterday.”
Confusion turns to anger. “I never hated you, Ari. But this isn’t about me. So, don’t try to distract us from the issue. Tell me what you meant by that.”
“I can’t paint anymore, okay!” I push his hand away from my face. Stepping back, I bump into the wall. “I stopped drinking, and now, I can’t paint anymore. Happy?”
“No, I’m not happy.” He leans against the opposite wall, eyes watching me. “Why can’t you paint?”
“Weren’t you just listening?”
“I was listening. I just think it’s bullshit.”
“Fuck you.”
The bastard smirks. “There she is. Foulmouthed little Jailbird.”
“Stop calling me that!” I yell, my hands going into my hair and making two fists. “God, you’re so infuriating!”
He laughs this time, and I want to take a fist from my hair and use it to punch him right in his perfect jaw.
“I’m glad my life is a joke to you.”
His humor disappears, replaced with irritation. “Trust me; the last thing I think you are is a joke.”
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
“Tell me the real reason you can’t paint.”
“Because the alcohol made me good. I don’t drink anymore; ergo, I can no longer paint.”
“How long have you been painting?”