The Lion's Den(29)
I stood in front of a life-size portrait of a naked woman, flowers blooming from her orifices. Eyes, nose, mouth, ears, nipples, vagina all obscured by blooms. She was in black-and-white, and the flowers were in color, giving the work a three-dimensional effect.
“What do you think?” said a deep voice next to me.
My eyes landed on the owner of the voice, and my heart skipped a beat. He was blindingly beautiful, like staring into the sun. Tall and tan with sea-green eyes and a thick head of wavy blond hair pulled back in a messy man bun. He was dressed in ripped black jeans and a T-shirt, tattoos creeping down his arm, and he was looking at me like he could see straight to my soul. Damn.
I caught my breath and glanced back at the image. “I was just wondering if she had flowers coming out of her ass, too.”
He laughed so hard he almost spilled his champagne. I hoped my grin didn’t give away how inordinately delighted I was he found me funny. “What about this one?” He gestured to a half woman, half tiger, her head tossed back, fangs exposed.
I momentarily blanked as I gazed at the photo, wanting to keep him laughing. “She’s pissed. Can’t fuck men, can’t fuck tigers; it’s a lonely life when you’re the only one of your kind.”
“Is that how you feel?” he asked, a twinkle in his eye.
A zing went up my spine as I realized I hadn’t sounded like a complete ass. “Yes. I lament my inability to fuck tigers every day.”
Too far? No. He laughed and lightly steered me to the next work, a lion being devoured by a gazelle. I wanted to turn the questions back to him but couldn’t think of what to say, and anyway, I was on a roll now. I studied the picture in front of me. “The victim becomes the victor. Though that’s not how a gazelle would kill a lion.”
He raised a single eyebrow. “Oh?”
“No,” I returned. “Victor and victim are determined only by who wins the race. If the gazelle manages always to stay a step ahead of the lion, eventually she leaves him too malnourished and exhausted to hunt, thereby terminating him through starvation.”
He laughed. “Remind me never to chase you.”
Buoyed by how easily the conversation flowed between us, I floated along the wall beside him trading witticisms until two pretty girls approached, primed for flirting. “Hiiiii!” they said in unison, then giggled.
I stood by awkwardly sipping my champagne as they took turns giving him hugs, their hands lingering on his chest and biceps as they whispered intimacies in his ear. I slipped away when his back was to me, threading my way to the other side of the gallery. While I had enjoyed our little flirtation, that one was trouble. Too good-looking to date, too charming for a dalliance. Nope. I checked my phone. Summer:
On way now! Sorry!
“Champagne?” I looked up to see him again, offering a fresh glass of champagne.
I told myself not to be so pleased as I took it. “Thanks.”
He tapped his glass to mine. “Waiting for someone?”
I nodded. “My friend. She’s always late.”
“I’m going up to the roof,” he said. “Come.”
And with that, he disappeared around the corner, into the building. I considered not following, but my feet were already moving in the direction he’d gone. No harm in hanging out with him until Summer arrived, anyway.
I found him down a short hallway, holding open the door of the smallest elevator I’d ever seen. I hesitated.
“Claustrophobic?” he asked.
I nodded, embarrassed. “A little.”
“I can help.” He gestured for me to get in.
Against my better judgment, I stepped inside, and the door closed. I was so close to him I could feel the warmth of his body. He shifted to stand behind me and placed his hands over my eyes with a “May I?” His chest grazed my back. He smelled of wood spice and detergent. “It’s not so bad if you can’t see the walls,” he whispered, though claustrophobia was no longer what I was feeling.
As the elevator climbed slowly upward, I fought a losing battle against the raw desire burning in my veins, hardly breathing. I reminded myself that he had this effect on every girl, including the pretty ones that came in pairs, scattered throughout the gallery below.
“Your shampoo smells good,” he said, his voice husky.
Ding! The elevator doors opened, and he released me. A gust of warm wind whipped my hair into my face as I stepped onto the roof. We were about ten stories up in a rooftop garden with sweeping views of downtown. Golden rays from the setting sun flared through the buildings, reflecting in the windows and turning the clouds orange and pink.
I followed him to the edge of the roof, where we stood in silence, listening to the sounds of the city below. Two birds dipped and glided together among the buildings.
“How’d you know to come up here?” I asked.
“I live here.” He lit a joint and hopped up on a low wall that ran along the lip of the roof as he blew a line of smoke out at the city.
“Oh, cool. I didn’t know there were apartments in this building.” Realizing that might sound stupid, I added, “Not that I would have a reason to know whether there are apartments in this building or anything. I’ve never actually been here before, but…I love the view,” I finished lamely.
“Me too,” he said, oblivious to my self-consciousness. “I try to come up here every night.” I held my breath, watching him walk along the wall. He noticed my apprehension and jumped down. “It’s okay. There’s a balcony a floor down.”