Page 14 of Bottle Rocket
“Yeah.” He laughed nervously. “He’s my ex.”
“Oh. Damn. He’s hot.”
“He is. He’s the only person I’ve ever loved besides you. You’re also hot, by the way. I have good taste.”
“What happened between you?” she asked. “Wait, is the story sad? You don’t have to tell me sad stories.”
“No. It’s not sad, exactly. Mal and I were together through two of his deployments. It worked for us because I live on the road, but once he left the military, my schedule wore on us. He started to fall in love with someone else, and I stepped aside to let him figure it out for himself.”
Anger rushed through her, fast and hot and totally due to her own issues. “That’s awful.”
“It really wasn’t.” He rubbed a thumb over her cheek. They were standing close. She smelled the lemon scent of his body wash. “He didn’t cheat on me. He was open with me about his feelings and fears. He still loved me, but I cared about him enough to see that this other person was right for him. More right than me. I loved him enough to let him go, but not enough to fight to keep him.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re a martyr, Leo Whittaker.”
“I’m not.” He lifted his hands in surrender. “I’m trying to make myself look good. He was lost and struggling after leaving the Air Force, and I wasn’t able to be there for him consistently with all my travel. I have a lot of guilt about that, but we’ve remained close. I care about him.”
“You don’t need to make yourself look good for me,” she said, infusing her voice with a touch of playfulness, trying to lighten the mood. “I saw you naked. You’re doing okay.”
That seemed to shock a laugh out of him, which made her oddly proud. Maybe Summer of Rosie: Take #7 could be Comedy. CapitalCto show that she was serious about it.
“The first page is Mal and his partner,” Leo said.
Rosie flipped the book open quickly to discover another shower painting, this one of Mal and a bear of a man, both naked and kissing.
“Did they pose for you?”
Leo nodded, his jaw tight. “Sometimes I draw or paint from photos, sometimes I do quick sketches and fill in detail later. I used photos with them before I went back with the pastels.”
Ah, pastels. Not watercolors. She studied the print, and Leo fidgeted, bouncing from one foot to the next. He ran a hand through his messy hair.
“What’s wrong?” Rosie asked, worried by his discomfort. She felt like she was discovering all these new facets of him—of the adult Leo—and she was greedy for it. She wanted to know everything.
“I’m just nervous about what you’ll think.” He grimaced. “I couldn’t care less what a random person on Twitter says about my art, but it’s hard when it’s someone I know.”
“Well, I think it’s one of the most amazing things I’ve ever seen.” She flipped to the next page. It was a print of Leo on his knees with a Black woman standing behind him, her hand wrapped around his throat, tipping his head back. The way Leo had painted himself was almost chaotic and vague, but she was clear and smooth. “This is beautiful.”
“Yeah?” He sounded so hesitant.
A lump caught in Rosie’s throat. “Yes. Who is this?” she asked.
“Her name is Sunday. She and her husband are camp hosts at a campground in Washington that I frequent. Deepak’s on the next page.”
Rosie plopped down on one of the bench seats and turned the page, revealing a painting of Leo, Sunday, and a gorgeous man on a bed with pale pink sheets. Both men were pleasuring Sunday—Deepak at her breast and Leo between her legs. She appeared languid and in total control. One of Leo’s hands gripped the back of Deepak’s thigh.
Both Leo and Deepak were sexy, but Rosie couldn’t stop staring at Sunday. At the way she commanded the page. The way she commandedthe men. They were serving her.
Leo had rendered every part of her body in exquisite detail. Every curve, every shadow, every inch of smooth flesh.
Summer of Rosie: Take #8. Art enthusiast.
“God, I wish …” Rosie cut off her words at the knees. She wished she could bethatin control. That she could demand pleasure.
“What do you wish, Rosie?” Leo sat down across from her, his eyes no longer uncertain but full of intensity and promise.
She shook her head and turned the page. The next painting was of Dean, the figure-drawing instructor. Her breath left her in a whoosh. Dean was sitting on a chair, wearing zero pants and an open pale denim shirt, his legs relaxed and spread, his hand on a gorgeously large cock, his head thrown back against the dandelion-yellow wall behind him.
Holy shit, was this why Leo owed him a favor? Her whole body flamed in a second flat. She was on fire, and it was good and scary and overwhelming.
