Proving Paul's Promise(38)

“Someone is always here, or on their way here, or thinking about coming here.”

She’s right, so I close the door. She has transfer sheets spread all over her bed. They’re arranged in a weird pattern, and I can’t quite make out what it is. “What are you going to be?” I ask.

She smiles and shakes her head. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

“What am I painting you with?” I ask, as she pulls her shirt over her head. My mouth falls open, but she just clutches her shirt to her chest and turns her back to me. She pulls her hair to the side.

“It’s that really thick latex paint. It’ll be like plastic when it’s dry.” She points to a sheet on the bed. “Let’s start transferring.”

This part I know how to do. She used the same transfer sheets we use for tattoos. So, I lay them on her body at her instruction, and then move on to the next one. I do her rib cage while she holds tightly to the shirt.

“Turn around,” she says, making a rolling motion with her finger pointed down.

“Do I have to?” I pretend to sulk.

“Turn,” she says again, more forcefully this time. I turn away from her and look toward her dresser. But she doesn’t realize that I’m facing the mirror. She drops the shirt and lays the transfers over her breasts.

My mouth goes dry. I know I shouldn’t watch her, but I can’t f*cking help it. She’s perfect. Her breasts are big for her small frame but firm. Her nipples are hard and pointing directly out in front of her. Her areolas are as big as silver dollars and round and I want so badly to go to her and take one in my mouth. I want to hear her cry out.

She looks up, and I jerk my eyes from the mirror. “You can turn around now,” she says. She lifts the shirt back to her chest. Such a shame. I swallow hard and try to push down the lust that’s clouding my brain. She needs for me to paint her, not to f*ck her.

Her brow furrows. “Are you okay?” she asks.

“Fine,” I choke out. I clear my throat because my voice sounds gravelly. “Fine,” I say again.

She shakes her head and turns her back to me. “All the spaces with a one in the center will be this fiery orange.” She holds a tray of paint in her hand until she sets it on a stool right beside us. “Are you sure you have time for this? It’s going to take a really long time.”

“I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be.” Friday is almost naked with me in her bedroom. I could stay here for days. I dip the brush and get it close to her back. It’s almost a shame to cover up the phoenix tattoo. It’s purple and gray and rising from the ashes. “Did you draw this tattoo?” I ask, as I start to swipe.

“Yes.”

I keep painting. At least doing this, I get to explore all of her art. “It’s pretty. And moving.”

“It’s me right after I met you,” she says. Her voice is soft and curvy, just like her body. “Having a job and a family, even one that wasn’t mine, made me stronger. I felt like I could finally carry on.”

I explore the rest of her back as I paint all the ones. Then I move on to the two’s, and they’re purple. She smiles at me over her shoulder.

“You’re doing great,” she says.

“What’s this one?” I ask. I point to a deck of cards with a clown on the front. There’s a full house showing on the card faces.

“Life’s a gamble.”

“And this one?” I start to paint over her sailboat.

“Someday,” she says quietly, “I’ll sail into the sunset.”

“There are wedding rings on the sail?”

“Yes.”

“You want to be married.”

“Yes.”

My heart kicks in my chest.

“My back is my hopes and dreams. My front is my reality as I saw it at the time. Because I can face anything, as long as I let what happened to me push me forward.”

Damn. I don’t even know how to respond.

When her back is all covered, I scoot my chair to the side and she lifts her arm. “Just do the side. I can do the front.”

I don’t respond, because I’m not stopping.

She has a crashed sailboat on the front side of her belly. And right beside her pierced belly button is a deck of cards with a full house showing on the card faces. She had words like faith, hope and charity written on her back. And on her front, she has words like loss and a big F like you would see on a school paper. I don’t comment on those because she’s starting to squirm and I’m afraid she’ll make me stop.

I hover over an empty bassinette. I look up at her and see that she has closed her eyes, so I paint over it.

“I can’t figure out what we’re drawing.”

She grins. “I know. Isn’t it great?”

I chuckle. “If you say so.”

I paint up the side of her neck, where there’s a turtle and skulls and other crazy shit that is so Friday.

When there’s nothing left but her boobs, which are still covered by her shirt, she says, “My legs are going to be black.”

“You’re not walking out on the stage naked,” I say. No way in hell.

“No, I’m wearing black bathing suit bottoms.” She picks up a roller.

“Good.” I’d hate to have to tie her to the bedpost. Well, actually, I’d love to tie her to the bedpost.