Freeform (4 page)

He's toying with me on purpose. You know the way some animals like killer whales toy with their food before they devour it. I don't know whether to be turned on or terrified for my life. Is this how he keeps himself entertained? Coming onto the help? Testing willpower of defenseless, overworked assistants like me? Whatever the case may be, I know one thing for sure. Eight weeks of this will certainly get me fired when they send me to the loony bin for losing my grip on reality. He's just a man. A very charming, tempting, scrumptious when wet, man. A very charming, tempting, scrumptious when wet, and even more heavenly underneath me type of man. But he's just a job. One more thing to check off between picking up dry cleaning and searching old book stores for original Captain America comic books for Brandi's son's endless collection. I can do this. I can survive a couple months with an artist. Can't be that much harder than my normal job of pleasing a woman whose long list of 'I can't believe she's making me do this' continues to grow every single day. Like I said. He's just one more thing to check off

Tucker

I loved seeing June Bug wiggle in embarrassment. Her face faded to this deep rose color, which most would think impossible given her skin complexion. Common mistake. Any true artist not only knows that to be a myth, but appreciates the unique way different skin tones look when someone is blushing. Then there was the way her chest heaved harshly and those big brown eyes of hers widened to the brink of intrigue as opposed to humiliation. The look within itself is a work of art.
She
is a work of art. Even love the less than poetic way her sentences jumble together during the attempt to gain her composure. What's odd to me is....in a city I swear I know as well as I know myself, I've never crossed paths with anyone like her before. She reminds me of finding a new shade of paint after declaring you knew every one to ever exist.

I run my fingers through my wet brown hair. “And how long have you been working for my aunt again?”

June takes a left turn. “Almost two years now.”

“Hm.”

“Hm, what? What do you mean by hm? Hm, you don't think I make a good assistant for her? Why would you think that?”

The slight panic in her voice makes me smirk. “Relax, June Bug-”

“I object to that nickname.”

“I just think it's weird you've been working with her for two years and I'm just
now
meeting you.”

She casually replies as she merges onto the highway, “From my understanding you only visit sporadically and in short bursts.”

“Usually just long enough to get a medical stamp of approval.”

“Exactly. Chances are you've probably seen me before and just didn't pay any attention to me. I'm practically invisible. Very easy to forget.”

“Nothing about you is easy to forget, June.”

Trust me. I never had an issue
not
thinking about a specific woman before, yet June challenges that notion. I tried to think about the woman I left behind in Hilo, our memories together or any female memories prior to meeting June, but it didn't work. The only thing I wanted was to see her face again. I almost texted her at 2 a.m. to come over just so I could see her face. I don't know what the hell is wrong with me, but whatever it is, can be soothed with some more in depth art time. My sketch pad isn't cutting it.

She nibbles on her bottom lip.

“But even if that were true, you'd remember seeing me.”

“That's awfully cocky.”

“I didn't mean it like that.”

“Like what? Because you're sexy, and charming, and a walking wet dream, I wouldn't be able think about anything else after meeting you?”

Was that a secret confession her mind can't let go either?

“Oooo.” Her teeth chomp down on her bottom lip. “Sorry. That...wrong. You. Came.” She shakes her head, blushing again. “Came out wrong. Sorry. Really sorry.”

I give her a soft smile. “What
did
you mean to come out?”

“What did
you
mean by I would remember you?”

“Just that I don't look anything like my cousins, so if you saw a random stranger you didn't immediately recognize bumming around my aunt's place, it was probably me.”

“Oh.” Relief washes away any remaining frustration. “Your aunt doesn't usually require my services at home, just at or around the office, so unless you come to visit her there-”

“Which I do not. I
actively
avoid the office.”

More likely to run into my mother there. No. I have no interest in telling you that story.

“You're going to need to take the next exit then an immediate left. After that three streets down you'll need to take another left.”

She gives me a confused look. “But The Artz Depot is the opposite direction.”

“I don't shop at places like The Artz Depot.”

In a mocking tone, she snips, “What? Too mainstream for you?”

“Precisely.”

The sarcastic scowl causes me to smirk.

“I prefer supporting local businesses. Just because my family owns one of the largest chain hotels in history doesn't mean I'm not allowed to appreciate the importance, as well as the beauty,  found in local establishments.”

Spare me the rich boy with a morality issue speech. Only half of my genes have gold in them. The other half came from a hard-working man who worked to remind us all how money isn't everything.

To my surprise, June nods in agreement. “I actually understand and respect that. Sorry for my comment. It was out of line.”

I shrug. “Don't be. It's nice to see there's a feisty
and
shy side to June Bug.”

She does her best not to smile. “I completely agree with you, on local establishments, at least for some things. I love the idea of preserving classics like the drive in theater that's right on the outside of town. I love when they do the annual Pecan Parade and all the local vendors come out to sell their jewelry and artwork. You know, I had this idea to showcase local artists in the lobby of the Frost hotels around the world as a way to connect the chain to the destination. It would help Frost show they support the local community, allow for those visiting to get a vibe of the city before truly adventuring into it, and help the artists have recognition they may need for their reputation.”

“That's a brilliant idea,” I genuinely praise.

She briefly beams, but quickly shakes it away. “I...I can't believe I said that out loud.”

“What do you mean you can't believe you said that out loud? Have you never pitched that to them before?”

A frightened look appears on June's face as she turns left. “Are you joking?! I would never tell them that! I can't even believe I told
you
that. You just kinda...I don't know... made it easy to slip out.”

The compliment tugs that unusual feeling floating in my stomach. “Why haven't you suggested it to anyone? It's a fantastic idea.”

“That's not my place. That's not what I'm around for. No. I am allowed a very small opinion on a very select amount of things. I'm not meant to be seen or heard in that aspect. I'm....invisible. I told you that already.”

The hurt in her tone causes a familiar pang in my chest.

No one is meant to be invisible, no more than anyone is meant to spend their entire life running away.

In a quiet tone, I state, “Maybe it's time you change that. I think it's a great idea and you should tell Aunt Brandi.”

She tries to offer me a smile with the shake of her head.

“If you're really
that
worried, wait until she's had two glasses of the red wine she downs when her boys play each other during football season. I don't know if uncle Brett spikes it or what, but it never fails to relax her.”

June's giggle loosens the tightened up muscles.

Usually I find a way to do that for myself...

“She keeps a bottle of that in her bottom desk drawer too.” This time we laugh together and she whispers, “Shh...Don't tell her I told you.”

“I won't. I swear. It'll be our little secret.”

Fuck, I'm hoping that's not the only one we share...

After giving her a few more directions, I say, “I think local talent is very under appreciated. When I travel I make a point to not only learn about it but to embrace it. Certain places have a more defined devotion. For instance, when I was in Arizona, there was heavy Native American influence in several of the styles, which as an outsider it's almost impossible to really understand or properly acknowledge. It didn't stop me from trying though. There was a wildness mirrored in numerous paintings. I attempted to explore that side of myself. Capture what they captured. Feel some of what they did. Often the attempt to understand is mislabeled as the attempt to imitate. But I wasn't. I had nothing but appreciation for the small city of Navalaco and it's people. Some of the stories they told of pain and unresolved racism could bring a grown man to bawl like a baby.”

June gives me an excited glance. “Is that all you do? Travel around, create art, and listen to stories?”

“Pretty much.”

“And you do that living off your trust fund?”

The stab, though predicted, still stings. “Actually, no. I pick up work wherever I go. It's not usually hard to find somewhere to let you bartend or wait tables.”

An annoyed scoff leaves her. “Let me get this straight. You've probably got enough money in your bank account to buy at the very least, a small island, and you
choose
to serve food and liquor. Are you crazy?”

She immediately prepares to apologize when I cut her off, “No more crazy than anyone else just trying to get by. And for the record, I support myself by selling some of the artwork I create. In some places when I do 3-D sidewalk art people throw money into my art case the same way they would a street musician. I'm not just another spoiled brat with a bank account and no ambition in life. I live off of what I make and treat the hush money my mother siphons to me like a savings account.”

June puts the car in park outside of the art supply store. “Hush money?”

Shit. Did you hear that too? No. It's not up for discussion.

“Are you an art fan?” I question, side stepping a conversation I have no intention of ever having.

“You could say that.”

“Art major?”

“I was an art
history
major. Kinda one of those who can't do, so teach types of things.”

“Everyone's an artist,” I reassure and unbuckle my seat belt. “The question is what's your art form.”

“Finger painting?”

The two of us share a laugh and exit her car. We stroll inside the older building where we're immediately hit by cheap lighting and the overwhelming smell of something in the kiln. Grabbing a push basket, I take us left towards the drawing supplies.

Love that smell. Love the paint stained concrete floors. Even love the shitty flickering lights. Together they establish a rare environment no major chain can ever mimic. Appreciate the uniqueness in your city.

While I begin to contemplate over what I'm in the mood to grab, June informs, “You should know whatever you buy here is on me.”

I lift a curious eyebrow. “Oh yeah? You like me that much?”

A dreamy look swirls around her brown eyes and the desire to lean over to kiss her increases.

Been fighting the urge to do that since I helped catch her from falling yesterday. What if that's all it'll take to make the urge for her settle back down to tolerable? I should just do it now and see.

Before I can make a move, she tosses her hands in the air. “Oh! No! Not on me, me!” She bumps her elbow against the edge of one of the shelves. “Ou...What I meant was your Aunt Brandi insists whatever it is you want or need while you're here is on her. Her little treat to you.”

I roll my eyes, start pushing the cart again, and mumble, “I can take care of my fucking self.”

“Well apparently she wants to do that job or shall I say have me do that job with her money.”

The correction cocks a grin.

“Enjoy the fact someone wants to spoil you. Do you know how many people would kill to be treated like that?”

“There's more to life than having someone shower you with material bullshit.”