Page 92 of For a Goode Time Call…
“I’m glad you did.” He glanced over my hip at the nearest painting—a photorealistic version of one of my photos, me in nothing but underwear. Instead of holding a phone and taking a selfie, though, he’d made it so I was just gazing at him, one hand gathering my hair at the back of my head, the other at my side. Sensual, sultry. I felt sexy, in that painting. Looked like…a strong, powerful, lithe warrior goddess. Fearless, bold.
I swallowed hard. “You’re so talented, Ink. You could put these in a gallery.”
He hummed. “Some of them are pretty intimate and personal.”
I laughed. “I mean, maybe not the fully nude ones.” I frowned, my fingers dancing over his temple, through his beard. “I don’t know. I’m not an exhibitionist, but I…they’re incredible paintings, Ink. Truly remarkable.”
He shifted to sit up, facing me. “I couldn’t display you like that.” He got up, pulled one out from the middle of a stack—I was kneeling on a bed, upright on my knees.
Naked. My weight was on one side, as if I was in the act of sliding off the bed. My hair was down and loose, and I wasn’t looking at the viewer, but off-screen so to speak, laughing at something. Joy suffused me. It was an intimate moment, private. It had the air of us, Ink and me, post-sex. I was clearly climbing off the bed to clean up, to pee, wash my hands, whatever. Laughing at Ink. It was just…private.
But there was something that just drew you in. It wasn’t sexual, and even my nudity wasn’t the focus. It was the moment that was being captured—it was a beautiful, private, delicate, joyful moment.
I wondered how I would feel letting strangers see it. See me, like that.
Oddly, it was okay. It was art, and I was confident in myself.
Even with the fact that he’d lovingly and, in exquisitely personal detail rendered the scars on my leg.
“Sell them,” I said, abruptly. “They deserve to be seen.”
He blinked, shocked. “What?”
“Unless you don’t want to.”
He shook his head. “I did them for me. To express…I don’t know. How I feel. How I see you.”
“But they’re too amazing to just…sit up here collecting dust.” I sighed. “I don’t mean that as anything about me—it’s you. It’s your art. It deserves to be seen.” I met his eyes. “I’m okay with it. I want you to show them.”
He rubbed his jaw. “Wow. I wasn’t expecting that. I thought you’d be creeped out by how many different times and ways I painted you.”
I shook my head. “I’m not.”
“It was… Ihadto. I saw those photos you took, and I just…had to paint you.”
I stood up, faced him. Took his hands. “Thank you, Ink.”
He tilted his head to one side. “For what?”
“Giving me time.”
He just shrugged. “I should’ve…I don’t know. Not been so harsh with you. I’m sorry.”
I stepped closer. “No, don’t apologize. I was angry for a while, yes. But I realized it was what I needed. I had to be pushed. And then I needed to be left alone to deal with myself. To figure my shit out.” I dragged my fingers through his tangled beard. “So, thank you, Ink. For giving me what I needed when I didn’t even know I needed it.”
He gazed down at me, and his hands captured my hips. “So, did you?”
“Figure myself out?” I nodded. “Yes, I did.”
“And?”
I stepped back, out of his hands. Crouched, leaped, landed in a plié, straightened and did a series of turns, spotting on him.
“You’re dancing again.” His grin was contagious.
I bit my lip, feeling overcome by emotion. “Yeah. Not all the way back, but mostly.”
“And what are you going to do?” He was happy for me, overjoyed, proud. “Go back to Paris?”
