“Come here,” he says. “And leave your clothes off.”
“What?” I half-chuckle.
“If I don't get to fuck you, at least let me sketch you.” He reaches for his phone and taps on the screen until Nirvana begins to play from a wireless speaker across the room.
The idea of being drawn naked is equal parts thrilling, terrifying, and flattering. “Why would you want to do that?”
“What kind of question is that?” He scoffs, pointing at the chair across from him. “Sit. Get comfortable.”
I fold my clothes and place them on the edge of his bed before taking a seat in the chair, drawing my knees against my chest.
“You’re covering all the good parts.” Madden places the sketch pad in his lap and stares up at me, chin tucked. “Try something else.”
My feet return to the floor, and I clear my throat. “I’m … I'm not good at this.”
“If you’re worried someone’s going to see it, I promise they won’t.” He points his pen at me. “Cross your legs and rest your arm on the back of the chair.”
Swallowing the thickness in my throat, I do as he says, but only because I can’t think of anything better. “You’re giving me the sketch when it’s finished.”
“Fair enough.”
Brushing my hair over my shoulder, I assume the position and watch him sketch. Each time he glances up at me with those shiny dark eyes and bites his lower lip, I relax a little more. As long as he gives me the drawing when he’s done, I don’t see the harm in this. And maybe I can think of it as a lesson in self-empowerment, in being comfortable in my skin.
It helps that when Madden looks at me, I know he sees a woman and nothing else. And more important than that, he treats me like a woman.
“So when were you going to tell me about med school?” he asks a few minutes later.
“What do you mean?”
“Your parents mentioned you were going to med school this fall.”
“Oh. That. Yeah, I’m not going,” I say.
He stops sketching and looks up. “Do they not know that yet or …?”
“Not yet.”
“And when do you plan on telling them?” he asks.
“Once I have a job and some money saved up … because more than likely they’ll cut me off financially. I have to be prepared for battle before I drop the bomb.”
“You know they’re probably going to blame me for this,” he says.
Shoot. He’s right. That’s something I hadn’t thought of before. They’re going to correlate the meeting of the “boyfriend” with my dropping out of med school.
“I’m sorry,” I say, because it’s all I can say.
“It’s all right. I’ll take the fall. It’s the least I can do since I’m having my way with their perfect little princess.”
I roll my eyes. “You make it sound dirty.”
“It isn’t?”
“No. It’s fun,” I say. “I’m having fun. Are you?”
“That’s a stupid question.” He continues to sketch, shading something in it would appear. A second later, his eyes flick to mine. “I’m having a fucking ball. This is the best sex I’ve had in my entire life—and I’m having it multiple times a week. If it means getting blamed for shit I have nothing to do with, then that's a price I’m willing to pay.”
He makes me smile, and I try to catch a glimpse of his drawing when he shifts positions, but it’s too dark and he’s too far away for me to make out any detail.
“So why don’t you have any tattoos?” I ask. I feel like we’ve been in each other’s lives long enough now that it justifies revisiting this topic.
“Almost finished ...” he doesn’t look up.
“Madden,” I say. “Don’t ignore my question.”
He’s quiet and Kurt Cobain croons in the background.
“I'm sure you get asked that all the time,” I say. “A tattoo artist with no tattoos … you’re quite the enigma. Or maybe you’re trying to make a statement. I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”
"It’s not something that I talk about,” he says.
I pause for a second. “Really? That’s all I’m going to get?”
“Yep.” He continues to draw. “Aren’t there things in your life that you don’t talk about?”
I think about my grandparents’ deaths all the time. That tragedy has sort of become the background music to my life. An undercurrent that’s always there. I’m reminded of them constantly, little memories that fill my head when I least expect it or when I catch a whiff of my grandmother’s perfume while walking through Saks on an ordinary Tuesday afternoon.
They’re never not on my mind.
But talking about that night has always been too painful.
It stirs up the muck and mire, sucks the joy out of the present, and it’s something I’ve generally spent the majority of my life avoiding at all costs—with the exception of my sessions with Dr. Greenberg, when I was forced to discuss that event inside and out, until my parents were certain there would be no lasting impact on me.
“Yeah,” I say. “There’s one thing that I don’t talk about.”
“So you understand.”
I nod, but he’s fixated on the drawing, his dark brows angling inward as he makes a few more strokes.
“There,” he says.
“All done?”
Madden flips the sketch pad to face me and I harbor a short breath, prepared to see myself ... as he sees me.
Only the image on the paper isn’t me.
It isn’t even human.
It’s a butterfly.
A beautifully detailed butterfly, spots and stripes and flared wings. It’s so realistic I’m half-expecting it to flutter off the page.
I’m at an utter loss for words as he carefully rips his art piece from his sketch pad and hands it over.
“There,” he says. “For you. Like I promised.”
This might be the sweetest thing he’s ever done for me—possibly the sweetest thing anyone's ever done for me.
I take the drawing, studying the intricacies. I knew the man was talented, but to just whip this up like it’s nothing is just …
“You feel better now?” he asks. “Thought this would be a good way to distract you, get your mind off of things for a little bit.”
I don’t know whether to punch him for tricking me or wrap my arms around him for being so wonderful to me.
I didn’t think about the interview once in the past twenty minutes.
Placing the drawing carefully on top of a magazine on the coffee table, I saunter over to him, grabbing the sketch pad and pen from his hands and tossing them on the opposite couch cushion before lowering myself into his lap.
Hooking my hands over his shoulders, I bring my mouth to his. “Thank you.”
His hands rest at my hips and he kisses me back.
A second later, he’s flipped me to my back, his body pinning mine. Hovering over me, our eyes meet, and without saying a word, I know what he’s asking.
“I want you,” I say, my fingers trailing down the bare skin of his muscled back. “Inside me.” I dig my nails into his flesh. “Now."
26
Madden
I stop over at Mom’s Tuesday morning, a bag of breakfast in hand for Dev.
Brighton stayed over last night and then left before the sun came up. At one point, I caught her asleep in my arms. We must have assumed that position in our sleep.
Sometimes I think the sleeping human body is like a heat-seeking missile. If someone’s next to us in bed, we’re naturally more inclined to gravitate toward them. At least that’s the explanation I’m sticking with.
As long as the cuddling and lovey-dovey shit doesn’t become a habit, we won’t have a problem. And I say that as someone who enjoys the ever-loving hell out of my time with her.
I’m protective of it.
It’s perfect.
And I don’t want it to get ruined by bullshit feelings.
It’s so easy to get caught up in that stuff, to make life decisions based on fleeting emotions.
Plus, let’s be real here—Brighton deserves a hell of a lot better than me.
“Dev, food’s here,” I call when I walk in. She comes out of her room, phone in one hand, hair wild, still in pajamas.
I haven’t told her yet about Brighton and me, and I don’t plan to. Figure there’s no point in telling her unless I have to, and so far, my time with Brighton has never intersected with my time with my sister. Besides, I’d hate to get her hopes up. I know how much she worships the ground Brighton walks on.
“What’s the plan today?” I ask when we take a seat at the kitchen table.
“Meeting with Brighton at noon,” she says.
“You need a ride?”
“She's going to pick me up here.” She pulls a sandwich out of the brown paper bag. “Your birthday’s next month.”
“Yep.”
“Brighton’s taking me to get you a present.”
“You don’t have to get me anything.”
She pouts. “Yeah, but I want to. You get me something every year.”