Page 26 of Broken Pieces
She places her container next to her and raises her hands in defeat. “You know what I mean. You’re always so put together, in suits, eating at expensive restaurants.”
I shrug. “I enjoy the simple things. Don’t always believe what you see on social media.” My thoughts are raging at me, wanting nothing more than to tell her the truth.
Don’t believe what you see for a second. It’s all a mask. It’s not real. This is the real me. You make me want to be myself around you and it’s fucking confusing.
She looks at me, nodding. “Right…”
She keeps eating in silence as I try my best to not stare and admire the sight of her. My stomach fills with a thousand butterflies, ones I can’t seem to keep at bay. Only she could make me feel such nervousness and a tingling sensation all over my body. She's more relaxed now, and I love how she can still be so beautiful by simply sitting on a sidewalk eating street food.
As she's eating, a bit of sauce lingers on the side of her mouth, and without a second's thought, I gently wipe it away with my thumb. She pauses for a moment, our gazes locking with the movement.
My surroundings get dull for an instant, blocking any distractions and noises. I can only seeher—beautiful curly hair, red lips, and those big hazel eyes that invite me to get lost in them. Her eyes are like an autumn forest, a kaleidoscope of green and brown, with a hint of gold. Every time she looks at me, I’m the luckiest man in the world. There’s only one thought floating through my head right now, looming in the back, nudging me to do it.
To find out what her lips taste like. To kiss her until we need to catch our breath, get our lips swollen from all the licking, nipping, and sucking.
Iwonder if she tastes sweet. Like strawberries, or maybe caramel.
Fuck, what I would do for one single kiss.
What the hell am I thinking? This is the last thing I need. Ican’tdo this. Wecan’tdo this. Crossing that line will have terrible consequences I’m not willing to face.
Standing up abruptly, I say, “Are you done? Let's go. I'll take you home.” My tone comes out more gruff than I intended, but this relationship needs to remain professional. The line keeps blurring, but I can’t cross it, and I’ll keep drawing it until it’s engraved in my brain.
She stands up, surprise lacing her face at my tone. “Uh, yeah. I'm done,” she rasps.
Nodding, I walk to the car without waiting for her. She quickly falls a step behind, and we get in.
The rest of the car ride is cold and uncomfortable. She just gives me directions to her home, and I drive in silence. As time ticks, her demeanor changes. She's pissed.Good.I need her to put that distance between us, because I don’t think I’m strong enough to do it by myself. The last thing we need is to get involved with each other. That's simply a recipe for disaster. Too much is riding for me to risk it. The gallery; my empire; the promise I made to myself all those years ago to become someone my father never expected me to be. My mask needs to go back in its place and treat her like I would any other. Keep my distance. The line is blurring, and I don’t know where it ends or where iteven begins now. I’m losing control. The control I’ve so carefully crafted my whole life.
Arriving at her place, she mutters a quick thanks, takes off my jacket, leaves it on the passenger seat, and walks away without saying goodbye.
I don't leave until I see her safely pass the lobby and enter the elevators, ensuring she's safe. Leaning back against the headrest, I let out a deep sigh. I can’t think straight when I'm near her. I just punched a guy because of her. I tell myself it's because I wanted her to be safe, and to some extent, it's true. But deep down, I come to the realization that I do know what that unfamiliar, raging, primal sensation was.
Jealousy.
Looking at the painted canvas in front of me, I let out a satisfactory sigh.
Finally.
After being uninspired for so long and beating myself up about it every chance I got, I finally had the chance to play around with my paints and brushes all weekend. Granted, I’ve barely had time to think about this since the gallery has been taking all my time and space. Not that I mind; after all, it keeps me busy. Keeps at bay those dark thoughts that seem to loom over me constantly.
The sense of feeling trapped, unworthy, just an overall fucking mess. Then, feeling bad and ungrateful about how I’m feeling, because despite everything, I have a good career. So what if I’m not a professional artist for a living?I still get to be around art. That should count for something.
The endless cycle just fucking continues.
After arriving home Friday night, my emotions were in high gear—so angry and confused. Frustrated at Damian; at the situation. All I wanted to do was blow off some steam. So I did—the only way I knew how.
My blissful weekend is coming to an end now, currently finishing touches of the painting. This one portrays a man and a woman in mute tones—white, black, and different shades of gray. The man has his hands behind the woman’s neck, their bodies pushed together, leaving little to no space while their lips hover so close they’re practically kissing. It portrays so much longing; desire;temptation.
It expresses exactly how I feel after that passing moment between us—tempted. I know he wanted to kiss me. The air crackled with wild electricity. You could cut the tension with a knife. For a moment, it felt like it was just us, and there was only one thing I wanted: his lips on mine. I wonder how his soft lips would dance with mine, how his hand would grab me by my hair possessively, giving us the chance to deepen the kiss. The idea of kissing him feels so right, yet so fucking wrong.
It’s impossible to get him out of my head. Every time I close my eyes, all I see is his silhouette at the club after saving me. His gentle touch around my face, making sureI was alright. His green eyes piercing mine, giving me that involuntary tingling sensation all over my body.
Cleaning the sweat off my forehead with my forearm, I take one last look at the painting, my cheeks hurting from the huge smile that’s plastered all over my face. The root of this painting comes from feelings that I can’t understand yet, feelings I want nothing more than to push down and forget about, but it doesn’t stop me from feeling a sense of pride.
I like my job, but today the feeling of dread consumes me. It's been two days since my weird encounter with Damian at the club, and all I want to do is hide seven feet under the earth and never come out. There’s one question that’s been stuck in my head ever since.
Why was he there?
