Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 92070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
I don't like you in the Dickson house. There's something about Mr. Dickson.
It's not just his dad's proclivities, Valeria. He's not the kind of boy who stays friends with a girl like you. He's the kind of boy who expects things.
Everyone sees the gulf between the worlds we inhabit.
Everyone except Val.
She stirs, nestling into the pillow with a yawn, then settling back into slumber.
She looks gorgeous here. Peaceful and easy and honest.
I can do this here.
In our world.
I don't know what the fuck I'm doing after.
But that's a problem for after.
For now, I'm going to enjoy the ride.
For the first time since we arrived, I move through my entire morning routine. The stretches, the strengthening exercises (I don't have a gym, but I have to keep up with shit—hunching over a canvas of skin isn't easy on the back), the shower, the sketches.
Val wakes in the middle of my third sketch. She stumbles into the main room with a yawn and smiles. "You're wearing a towel."
"Didn't want to wake you."
"Considerate."
I motion come here.
She takes a step toward me and stops. "Morning breath. I'll be right back."
"I might change out of the towel."
"I realize that." She gives me a long, slow once-over. "But you're probably going to make me wait either way."
"Probably."
"So I should encourage you to change. Lessen the torture."
"Isn't it more fun to increase the torture?"
"Sometimes." She moves toward the bathroom. "But sometimes, it's too much to take."
"That's what she said."
Val laughs. "Oh my god, Dare. Are you regressing to high school?"
"You laughed."
"At you."
"With me."
She motions a little then disappears behind the corner.
She's right, of course. Sometimes the torture is too much to take. And I hope to drive her right to the edge of that.
Of course, I have to survive myself. So I change into jeans and a t-shirt, and I meet Val in the main room.
She's sitting on the couch, in her sexy as fuck matching pajama set—blue shorts and a tank—staring at my sketchbook. "May I?"
"Go for it."
She looks up at me and frowns. "What happened to the towel?"
"I warned you."
"You did." She copies my come here motion. "So where's the list?"
"The sex list?"
"No, the list of museums in Paris," she says,
"Well, there's the Louvre. The d'Orsay."
She shakes her head you're ridiculous and turns the page. She studies the image—a sketch of a cathedral in the Gothic Quarter. "Did you do this from memory?"
"Reference image."
"It's beautiful." She flips through the book, studying the sketches of local sites, the space in the apartment, her. "When did you do this?"
"When we got here." It's a simple image, Val glued to the TV, all her attention on the movie she's watching.
She moves on to the next, Val, laughing at some stupid shit I said.
Then the next, Val, standing in front of the mirror, studying her naked reflection.
"Oh." She laughs. "So this is what you do instead of watching porn."
"It's for the challenge."
"Right. The challenge of capturing my ass."
"The perspective in the mirror."
"And I happen to be naked?" she asks.
"Absolutely," I say.
She flips through another few pages, noting the details in tattoo mockups. "Did you mean what you said at dinner?"
"Which part?"
"About starting a temp art business?"
"I've thought about it," I say.
"Do you really want to do it?" She looks up at me. "Or were you trying to impress Archie?"
"I haven't looked into the details yet."
"You don't need to do anything to impress him," she says. "Or anyone."
"Val—"
"Don't say we're from different worlds," she says. "That is total bullshit. You're my actual next-door neighbor."
"We went to different schools," I say.
"Your dad has as much money as mine."
"My dad has as much money as your mom," I say. "It's different."
She frowns. "You love your job. And you're good at it."
"Getting there," I say.
"And you make enough to afford that sweet place in Santa Monica."
"Are you arguing with me or yourself?" I ask.
"Why isn't it enough for you?" She looks up at me. "You have no idea how impressive you are." She turns the sketchbook to me, showing off a mockup of a gothic castle in a watercolor style. "This is beautiful. And it's this perfect mix of weird and classic. It's you."
"Maybe I want it for me."
"Do you?"
"Maybe I don't want people to think 'wow, Val's really dating down,' when you tell them your boyfriend is a tattoo artist?"
"Who would think that?" she asks.
"Everyone."
"Dare"—she closes the book—"I get this is a big thing for you. And I get that people don't appreciate the arts, in general, and certainly not more commercial art, like what you do. But you are being so fucking stupid."
That's not what I expect her to say.
She stands. "No one has ever replied that way."
"When did you tell someone I was your boyfriend?"
"When I tell them my best friend is a tattoo artist, they're in awe."
"Because it sounds like a cool hobby," I say.