The Law of Moses(23)

To say I was rattled and confused would be putting it mildly. When I showed up in a pair of worn Wranglers and a tank top that had withstood a thousand washes and offered to help him, he took one look at me and started down a list of do’s and don’ts that were a little extreme, considering we were only painting a barn. After the exhaustive list of instructions and parameters, I sighed loudly and picked up my brush, only to have him watch me critically for a few minutes then take the brush from my hand and go back over what I’d just done.

When I protested, he interrupted.

“My job site, my rules.”

“So those are your rules. Your laws?”

“Yeah. The Law of Moses.” He smirked.

“I thought the Law of Moses was the Ten Commandments.”

“I don’t know if I have that many.”

“Well, this is the state of Georgia, and in Georgia we have a different set of laws. So when you’re in the state of Georgia—”

“When I’m in the state of Georgia?” he asked, so softly I almost missed it.

I blushed, realizing that there were sexual connotations to what I’d said. But never one to back down, I blustered on. “Ha. You wish.” I tried to resume painting, but he pushed me away from the paint can.

“You’re just hanging around me because you love breaking the rules—and don’t think I don’t know your parents have some rules when it comes to us. You being with me makes them crazy. Especially your mom. She’s afraid of me.”

Well, that was true. And he wasn’t stupid. It was definitely part of the attraction. But when he lost himself, painting like a demon, painting incredible things that came from somewhere behind those amber-green eyes, I couldn’t get close enough. And I wanted him to paint me. I wanted to stand in front of him and let him cover me in color, let me be one of his creations. I wanted to be part of his world. I wanted to fit in. It was ironic, for the first time in my life, if blending in meant being absorbed into his thoughts, sucked into his head, then I wanted to blend in. Maybe it was being seventeen, maybe it was first love, or first lust. Maybe it was just hot. But I wanted him with a desperation that consumed me. I had never wanted anything so much in my life. And I couldn’t imagine wanting something so much ever again.

“Why do you like me, Moses?” I huffed, hands on my hips. I was tired of being pushed and pulled, never knowing what he really wanted.

“Who says I do?” he answered softly. But he turned his eyes on me. And his eyes kept me hopeful when his words would have crushed me. His eyes said he did.

“Is that one of your laws? Thou shall not like Georgia?

“Nah. It’s thou shall not get strung up.”

His words made me sick. “Strung up? Like lynched? That’s just sick Moses. We may sound like hicks. I may say seen when I should say saw. I may say was when I should say were. We may be small town people with small town ways. But you being black, or whatever color you are, doesn’t matter to anyone here. This isn’t the sixties, and it sure as hell ain’t the Deep South.”

“But it’s Georgia,” he answered softly, playing games with my name the way I had done. “And you’re a sweet Georgia peach with fuzzy pink skin, and I’m not biting.”

I shrugged. But he was biting . . . and that was the problem. His words made me want to lean over and sink my teeth into his well-muscled left shoulder, and bite him too. I wanted to bite him hard enough to express my frustration, yet sweetly enough that he’d let me do it again.

“So what else? What are your other laws?”

“Thou shall paint.”

“All right. Looks like you’re obeying that one. What else?”

“Thou shall stay away from blondes.”

He was always trying to sting me. Always trying to get under my skin. “Not just Georgia, but all blondes? Why?”

“I don’t like blondes. My mother was a blonde.”

“And your dad was black?”

“That’s the assumption. Most blondes can’t throw black babies all by themselves.”I rolled my eyes. “And you think we’re prejudiced.”

“Oh, I’m definitely prejudiced. But I have my reasons. I never met a blonde I liked.”

“Well, then. I’ll go red.”

Moses’s mouth split into a grin so wide I thought his face would split in two. It surprised me and it sure as hell surprised him, because he leaned over and braced his hands against his knees, laughing like he’d never laughed before. I grabbed the brush he’d taken from me and made a long red streak down the length of my braid. He wheezed, laughing even harder, but he shook his head no. Reaching out his hand, he demanded the brush.

“Don’t do that, Georgia,” he sputtered, laughing so hard he had tears in the corners of his eyes.

But I kept painting, and he lunged for me, trying to take the brush, but I spun, turning my body so that my back was pushing against him, creating a barrier between him and the brush in my hand. I held the brush as far out in front of me as I could, but Moses was taller, longer, and his arms easily wrapped me up and yanked the brush from my fingers. Now there was paint on my palms, and I turned and wiped them down his face, making him look like an Apache warrior. He yelped and immediately used the brush in his hand to repeat the motion down the side of my face. I leaned over and found the paint can, dipping my fingers in the silky red liquid. And I turned on him with a smirk.