Pretty and Reckless (12 page)

ELISE

I fiddled with the knob on the car radio, changing the station every five seconds until I found a song tolerable while I waited for Weston to come back out.

I didn’t want to look up when we’d pulled into the parking lot. But like a car crash, I couldn’t help myself. I blinked a few times before focusing on the normal looking building. Nothing had changed, but that still hadn’t stopped me from grinning while I flipped Sun Gate the bird.
 

Weston was gone less than ten minutes before he came strolling back through the parking lot with a cardboard box balanced in his hands. He casually walked to the car, each leg taking long, even strides while the wind smacked into his face. He paused for a second, hiked his knee up to rest the box on it so he could push his glasses farther up his nose.
 

God, this man was adorable. He was handsome. He was … I couldn’t even come up with the right words to describe him. There were actually no words.

I couldn’t believe I was referring to a man as adorable or handsome. I had a tendency to not refer to men as either one of those things. My terms of endearments tended to be along the lines of: sexy, hot as fuck, or
fuckable
.
But never handsome and definitely never adorable.
 

Then again, I’d never met a guy like Weston. My ‘hot as fuck’ men were typically womanizers who only wanted a girlfriend while they were getting their dick sucked. As soon as they exploded in your mouth, they had a change of heart and now wanted their freedom.

“I see this place looks just as lovely as it did three years ago,” I joked, after he set the box in the backseat and got back into the car.

“Hey now, look on the bright side of things. If you hadn’t been here, we would’ve never met. We wouldn’t be here sitting in my car after enjoying a mini-road trip.”

He had a point there. The place had never hurt me. It had actually taken me away from my prison. And most importantly, brought Weston to me.

He tapped my knee. “Now, lunch. I’m starving.”

Because of the snow, the streets were pretty much deserted while we drove to get food. We ordered through the drive-thru, but didn’t eat until he pulled onto the side of a vacant street a few miles out of the town. He shifted the car in park and left the car running.

“I like to come here and think,” said, opening up the bag of food. My stomach embarrassingly growled at the smell of greasy
french
fries. “I use to eat my lunch here all the time.”

“I don’t blame you,” I said, looking out the window at the small park. It was the most serene place I’d ever seen. A partially frozen narrow creek flowed between rows of trees. Patches of melted snow and ice covered sections of the dying grass. Quiet tranquility surrounded the entire place. There were no people there. There were no tables. The only feature other than nature’s mark was a small wooden bench sitting in front of the creek.

He handed me a cheeseburger, and situated a container of fries against the shifter until it stood up without falling. I took a large bite and drowned it down with a sip of coke.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” I asked, looking over at him. The burger in his lap remained untouched.

He shook his head and lolled it back. “Will you please tell me what happened last night?”

“Why don’t we eat first?”

He unwrapped his burger and took a giant bite. His lunch was gone in three bites. He was on a mission. I continued to take small, slow bites as a way to bide me some extra time.
 

“It’s bad,” I finally said. “It’s disgusting.”

I wasn’t sure how much more bad shit I could take before I completely lost it. I’d been raped several times, I’d overdosed on pills on more than one occasion, and been sexually assaulted by my own father. I didn’t want to keep feeling sorry for myself. I didn’t want to keep thinking about it. All of my life, I thought that it was wrong for me to tell somebody what happened. I’d been told telling my story was begging for attention.

“Look at me,” he demanded, and my eyes shot over to him. “You’re one of the strongest people I know. I don’t know how the hell you do it, but you are.”

“Do what?”

“Stay strong. Do you know how many people would’ve given up by now? But you keep going. You’re strong, but I need you to do me a favor. I need you to take that strength you have in you and tell me what happened. You need someone to take some of that burden off of you. You need to get it out.”

“He tried to rape me.”

“Your dad?” He asked, caught off guard by my answer. “He tried to rape you?” He clarified in shock.

“Yes,” I whispered.

I jumped at the sound of the horn blasting when his fist connected with the steering wheel. “Mother fucker!” He screamed, and another roar came from the horn. He threw his door open, jumped out of the car and stalked away from me. He cursed to the sky and kicked rocks while he moved towards the small stream.

I reached over the console to turn off the ignition before going after him. I found him slumped down on the wooden bench with his head slumped down between his open legs.

“Hey,” I said, softly, standing in front of him and tucking my hands into my coat pockets.

“Get back in the car,” he insisted, without raising his head. “It’s freezing out here.”

“I’m not going back until you do.”

“Please,” he begged. “Get back in the car. I need a minute to clear my head.”
 

I brushed a layer of snow from the bench and plopped down next to him. I scooted closer until my thighs hit into his, and rested my head against his drooping shoulder.

“Did he do it?” He finally asked.

“No, Marlon stopped him.”

He lifted his head up and turned to the side to face me. That’s when I noticed his eyes. They were watery. “Thank God,” he said, exhaling a breath. “Now please, get in the car. Just give me five minutes,
please.”

“Okay, but if you’re not back in five minutes, I’m coming back out here.” He responded with a nod and his head fell to look back at the ground.
 

I slowly walked back to the car, turned it back on and switched the heat on high while I waited. I watched him through the window. He looked torn. He looked regretful. My confession had made him as broken as I was.

“Is everything okay?” I asked when he got back into the car ten minutes later.

“Yeah, I just needed a minute to think.”

“Please don’t be upset with yourself. You couldn’t have stopped anything.”

“I should’ve been there for you,” he muttered, looking at me with red eyes and wind-burned cheeks.

“Don’t you dare beat yourself up about this, okay? You’ve helped me more than I could ever ask for.” I needed to lighten the mood. I told him what had happened, but it was over and I wanted to forget about it. “Can I drive?” I asked, changing the subject quickly.

His chin lifted and he stared at me like he was trying to figure out if I was being serious or not. “Do you have your driver’s license?”

My muscles loosened. “No.”

“Then no.”

“Come on, I’m twenty.”

“And?”

I crossed my arms across my chest. “And I’ve played
Grand Theft Auto
.”

A slow smile crept across his face. “How in the world does that make you a qualified driver?”

I tapped my cheek. “Uh, let’s see. I can outrun the cops, shoot a few bastards and pick up a hooker all at the same time. I would say I’m a woman of many skills.”

He laughed, shaking his head, and drove down the street. “Now that, my dear is talent.”

I pushed his shoulder. “Now get out of my seat before I pull your ass out and leave you on the side of the street.”
 

“Not happening, keep practicing with your video games, and we’ll get you your permit.”

I slumped back against my seat. “My permit? Seriously? What am I twelve?”

“Yes, seriously, and it’s sixteen when you get that.”

I opened up my clutch and pulled out a bill. “I’ll give you ten dollars,” I offered, flicking the bill back and forth beside him.

The car slowed down and he looked over at me. “Really, you’re trying to bribe me?”

“I sure am.”

“Ten? You better up the ante.”

I groaned. “Fine.” I pulled out another bill. “Eleven?”

His eyes widened. “Now we’re talking the big bucks. Give me twelve and hell, you can have the whole damn car.” I busted out in laughter and pulled out another bill. “And you just won a new car.” He swiped the bills from my hand and shoved them into his pocket.
 

“You’re so lying,” I grumbled, holding out my hand. “Now give me my money back.”

“Not so fast there, babe.” I looked away from him as he turned onto an old snowy road. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he muttered, stopping the car.

I jumped out of the car before he had the chance to change his mind and into his seat. He held his hands into a steeple as soon as he got in next to me and looked up at the ceiling. “Lord,” he said, his voice low. “Please forgive me for all of my sins.”

“What are you doing?” I asked, knotting my hands around the steering wheel.

“Praying for my life because I’m not so sure I’ll be making this out alive.”

“Very funny.” I stretched the belt across my body. “Now, buckle up.”

He did as he was told and then turned around to look at the back seat. “I knew I should’ve kept a helmet in here.”

I shook my head at his comment and shifted the car into the D symbol. That had to be drive, right? Immediately after the light hit the D, I slammed my foot onto the pedal and we went flying forward.

“Fuck, I definitely know I’m not getting out of here alive,” he said, when I used my other foot to press on the brake. My chest smacked into the steering wheel and both of our bodies swung forward. He grabbed the door handle. “Maybe we should do this another time, when it’s not snowing, and you actually know the basics of driving a car.”

 
“I’m just testing you,” I lied. I had no clue what I was doing.

His hands smacked into the dashboard when I braked again. “Right. I’m pretty sure you’ve never even been behind a steering wheel, but we’ll figure this out.”

I brightened up. “Really?”

He nodded. “I’ll talk you through it. Just lay easy on the pedals and we might make it through this with a few limbs left.” He shook his head. “And you’ve got me turning more reckless with each passing minute.”

“Life’s supposed to be fun, Weston. It’s not like we’re making it out alive, anyway. We might as well make the best of it.”

“True, that doesn’t mean I don’t want it to last as long as possible.” He grabbed the handle on the ceiling. “Now, ten and two.”

“Ten and two? What the hell does that mean?”

His head fell back. “Ten and two are where you need to keep your hands on the wheel.”

“Oh right. I knew that.” I adjusted my hands until they were perfectly at ‘ten and two.’ I slowly pressed down on the accelerator and we scooted forward.

“Good, now keep your hands on the wheel and drive at a very slow speed. Stop at fifteen miles per hour.”

“This doesn’t seem as fun as Grand Theft,” I muttered, my foot tingling to press down and gain some speed.

He chuckled. “Gradually, and I mean gradually, increase your speed. Just give the gas a little more pressure.”

I gave it more gas. More gas than I probably should have. I shrieked as we went barreling down the street. My hands flew off the steering wheel when we started to slide. Shit. Shit. Shit. Maybe there was a reason I’d never been given the chance to drive. I needed to stick to video games.

Weston bent over my lap to latch onto the steering wheel and stopped us from landing in a ditch. I threw my foot down on the brake and we skidded to a stop.

 
“I think that’s enough for today,” he said, blowing out a breath and putting the car in park.
 

“So how did I do?” I asked, slowly turning my head to look at him with a smirk on my face as we sat idle.

He tried to hide his smile, but failed when he busted out in laughter. “I’d say you failed. Rule number one, never let go of the steering wheel.”

ELISE

Weston pulled me up from the passenger seat and led me up the snowy footpath to an aging, brownstone building. Snow crunched underneath our feet¸ and I tucked myself into his side to block the bitter cold from smacking me in the face.

“What is this place?” I questioned, running my hands up and down my arms when we walked in.

The exterior was misleading to what was inside. It was spotless and in the process of being renovated. Dark mahogany wood covered the floors and led through the entry and down the hallway. The walls were coated with a fresh taupe colored paint, and rows of mailboxes labeled with apartment numbers lined the walls.

“You’ll see,” he said, snatching my hand back up. Each step creaked while he guided me up the stairs to apartment 2B. “I thought we’d find a more creative way for you to express yourself today.” He dug out a set of keys from his pocket and jiggled one into the rusty lock a few times before it clicked open.

“A new what?” I already hated any form of expressing myself, so I doubted charting into new territory was going to make it any better for me.
  

“Patience is a virtue,” he said, looking back at me.

I rolled my eyes. “I’m pretty sure I don’t have any virtues.” That granted me a smile while he shook his head.

“Holy shit,” I breathed out, looking in awe when we walked inside. My eyes flew to each side of the room and I was suddenly flowered with pure beauty.

I was standing in a small studio. The floors matched the ones downstairs. It was sparsely furnished with only a single couch. The rest of the space was absorbed with art.

Canvas after canvas, in every size, was hanging along the walls, situated along the furniture, or carefully planted onto the floor. I’d attended plenty of art shows with my father, but I didn’t recognize the work. My brain ticked and I realized they were familiar to the paintings in Weston’s place.

“This is my friend’s art studio,” he told me, fussing with the thermostat until the furnace kicked on. We both slipped out of our coats as soon as the place warmed up and draped them over the couch.

“They’re breathtaking,” I said, moving around the room and pausing to admire each piece.
 
The artist liked colors. The pieces glowed with every hue in the spectrum splashing together as one.

I reminded myself to breathe, my feet moving slower when I felt Weston’s presence behind me. “He’s so talented,” I whispered, my voice getting fuzzy at our close proximity.

Breathe Elise. Don’t forget to breathe. I shivered every time his hot breath hit my shoulder while he shadowed my steps.

I stopped abruptly at one piece in particular. For some reason, it completely drew me in. I inched closer, my eyes squinting and scanning every inch of it. My hand went to my chest and I gaped.

“She looks like me,” I muttered, tilting my head to the side. It was the largest painting in the room. A woman’s face was sketched wildly and then filled with an array of shapes and colors to complete it.

“This one is my favorite,” he said into my ear, his chest bumping into my back. “And you’re right, she does remind me of you.”

It was like I’d been the artist’s muse. Her long, black mane draped over the right side of her face and you could barely make out the dark features that lay behind it. The left side contrasted with the right. Her hair was pulled back, putting her side on display and exposing the array of vivid colors and shapes making up her face. Her blood red lips started as a frown on the right and then morphed into a smile on the left.

She was contemplating whether or not to come out of her hiding. She was halfway there, unfolding that piece of her, but hesitant on unraveling it all.

“She’s stuck in two places,” I told him.

“She is,” he said. I quivered when his hands skimmed down my side and cradled along my hips. “She’s thriving to be happy, but scared at the same time. Is that what you see, too?”

I nodded, my belly constricting. I was trying to focus on the picture, but the ambience of his hands on me kept interrupting my line of thinking. “The right is her darkness, the left is her light.”
 

“She’s dark, but she’s innocent,” he whispered, his voice thick and husky. The grip of his hands on my waist clamped on tighter and caused pinpricks to trickle down my arms. “She’s broken, but she’s tough. She’s a paradox, but she’s an open book.”

“She’s one giant contradiction.”

“No, she’s a beautiful creature trying to find her place in the world.” I shuddered, his wet lips nudging my ear. “Are you ready?”

His hands stayed put while I waited for him to elaborate on what I needed to be ready for, but he didn’t care to fill me in.

“Ready for what?” I asked, the words squeaking out. The hairs on the back of my neck stood
up
as I suddenly felt chilly. The way his fingers were lightly tapping on my hips and the feel of his tongue at my ear were making me delirious.

What was he asking me? His question seemed so simple, but the meaning more complex. Was he asking me if I was ready to participate in expressing myself? Or was he asking me for the permission to touch me more?
 

I let out a rush of air when he released me and took a step back. I yelped when I was twisted around to face him. His fiery eyes latched onto my gaze intensely. This was going to be more than just our typical therapy session. I had a feeling we were going to be digging much deeper.

“I asked if you were ready,” he repeated, testing me.

“I am,” I lied.

“Then, let’s go.” His thumb jerked out and he signaled towards the steel, spiraled staircase in the corner of the room.

My body briefly brushed up against his chest when I walked around him. My heart raced with every footstep as I led the way, taking slow, gradual steps until I finally hit the top step and landed in a loft. A long table covered with buckets of paint and paintbrushes was pushed up against a wall.

“This is where he does his magic,” he said, walking around me and into the room. “He sees it as his therapy.”

“And today it’s going to be mine?”

“It helped him. I have a feeling it’ll do the same for you.” He walked over to the table, popped open a can of paint, and grabbed a few wilted brushes from aluminum canisters.

“And why do you think that?” I grabbed a paintbrush, feeling the dried up paint linger against the tips of the fibers as I massaged the rough bristles. “And just so you know, I’m an atrocious artist. They wouldn’t even hang up my pictures for the first grade art show.”

 
“It doesn’t have to be beautiful to anyone, but you. Art is a form of interpretation. You communicate your feelings through it. You surrender all of your frustrations, your fears, your anger, you put it all out there until you feel cleansed.”

“I’m telling you whatever I make will be far from beautiful,” I grumbled.

“What it looks like doesn’t matter. Take your anger out on it. Just like your life, it doesn’t have to be beautiful, you only need to be happy with the strokes you’re taking.”

He pulled out a paint-splattered sheet from underneath the table and spread it out across the floor. “Every brush you make is different because every path you’ve walked is distinct. When my friend lost someone close to him, he didn’t want to go to therapy, but he didn’t want it to fester either, so he decided to use art as his release. It worked for him, and I thought I’d let you give it a try. Talk about it with yourself if you don’t want to talk about it with anyone else.”

“I wish you would’ve given me this option a long time ago,” I said, my voice muffled.

He straightened the sheet down on the floor and got back up on his feet. He grabbed the easel nestled in the corner and placed it over the sheet, situating a blank canvas onto it. His deep-set, unrelenting eyes impaled mine when he turned around to give me directions.

“Show me everything you have,” he ground out. “Reveal how you feel from the inside out. Give me what eats at you, what is seeping through your heart and your veins, and I promise I will do everything in my power to make it better.”

My words caught in the back of my throat, struggling at the base, and refused to make their way up. I wanted to flee, but my legs were frozen in place. In the back of my mind, I knew I was lying to myself. I wanted to stay there and let Weston fix me. Just like the painting, I was stuck in between two worlds, and it was time I made the decision on whether to keep hiding or set myself free.
 

The sound of another can being opened echoed through the mute air. My eyes set on a paintbrush being dipped into a can and then drug across the canvas to create a black streak. He leveled his eyes on me. “Show me the darkness inside of you,” he said. “Show me the light shining.” He added a yellow streak over the black, and then popped another can open, a red line joining the mix. “Show me the entirety of you.”

I took a calming breath while I stepped his way. Fear flooded through me when I stopped dead in front of him. “What about you?” I asked, grabbing the brush from him. “Why don’t you do the same for me? Bare yourself, let me see
your
darkness and what terrifies you,” I said, challenging.

He shook his head, looking away from me to his art, as his small Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. I stumbled backwards when his shoulder bumped into mine while he tried to maneuver around me. I snatched his arm, gripping his wrist forcefully to stop him.

“Your stories for mine,” I said, holding up the brush.

I gasped when he jerked forward, my arm being drug forward and he pulled me into him. Our chests aligned, our mouths barely inches apart, and I could feel the heat of our bodies colliding into one another’s.
 

“What terrifies you?” I asked.

“You,” he said, rasping it out. My heart plundered against my rib cage. What the hell was that supposed to mean? “You,” he repeated, as if that one word was supposed to explain everything.

“What?” I chocked out.

“You are what terrifies me.” His confession seemed to shock the both of us.

“I’m what terrifies you?”

And it dawned on me. I was wrecking him. He wanted me, the only man I’d ever wanted to want me did, but we couldn’t do anything about it. His want for me tortured him. I was his weakness. I was the sinner lying next to him at night tempting him with forbidden desire.
That made me feel
like shit.
 

I took a step back, slowly finding the strength in my body to move, but it was his turn to stop me. He didn’t say anything. He only stood there, keeping his hold on me, while we both internally fought with ourselves. We were starving, ravenous, but too terrified to take that first bite, scared it would turn us into gluttons for each other and we’d never stop.

“Let me finish,” he demanded.

“You don’t have to finish,” I said. My eyes fell to the floor. “I’m sorry.”

He caught my chin between his thumb and forefinger and stroked my skin. “Don’t be sorry, and please don’t leave,” he said. His caress relaxed me. He slowly lifted my chin higher before grabbing me around the waist and walking backwards with me in his hold.

We settled next to the pain cans and he dipped a finger a bucket, playing with the liquid in his fingers. “You’re my work,” he said, tracing my bottom lip with color while I stared up at him transfixed. “You’re the one person I’m not supposed to want, to crave. It’s forbidden for me to want you as bad as I do. I have to resist taking you right here, right now, no matter how bad I want to because it’s wrong. I shouldn’t want you like this, but I can’t fucking help it.”

His hand returned to the paint pot as I struggled to keep breathing. He covered his entire palm with red paint and placed it across my cheek. “I lose all of my sanity, my rationality, my principles, when I’m with you. I forget to think. I’m reckless. Every rule in my head is broken and replaced with my feelings for you.”

I held onto him, feeling the cold liquid drip down my cheek and onto the sheet, as I let his words sink in. “Out of everything in this crazy world,” I said, tasting the paint on my lips. “I’m what scares you?” He nodded. “I’m your forbidden fruit.”

He nodded, his hand stroking my cheek, and then descending down my neck. “You are,” he said. “And I’d drink all of that poison as long as it tasted like you.”