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I step out from in front of her. As I walk around to the back of the couch, I hear Summer’s gasp. Fighting the urge to look at her expression, I keep heading toward the front door.
The cat’s out of the bag.
My feet move slowly down the steps back to the car. I pop the trunk and get her bag and the supplies we purchased from the drugstore.
Fucking relax, it’s not like it’s porn or anything. It’s art. She’s just a girl, just like the rest of them.
Then why the hell am I so worried about her reaction, I’ve never cared what anyone’s thought before?
Because it’s Summer. And you fucking LIKE her, dipshit. You don’t just want to use her; you want to make something come alive with her.
I grab the bags, slam the trunk, and stomp back up the two steps silently growling in frustration.
Might as well get this shit over with.
I take her bag to the guest bedroom, I’m probably still stalling, before I meet her back in the great room. I pause in the doorway. Summer’s attention’s focused on my artwork. I lean against the doorframe and watch her, giving her time to take it in.
I’d love to know what she’s thinking.
Finally, she turns around.
The way she looks, the expression on her face, slams over me.
Her face is flushed and there’s a look of amazement on her beautiful face.
“Show them to me, Rock, I want to see them better.”
Thank fuck.
Silently, I push off the wall and go to her. Without saying a word, I bend and take her in my arms again as she holds me around my neck, looking at me completely differently. I approach the wall and stand in front of the first piece. Both Summer and I study it.
It’s a nude of a woman, they all are, but they’re so much more.
In this one I painted her body as a river, the water moving and flowing along her curves, and the backdrop is a landscape I superimposed behind her. The next one, I painted the woman’s body as part of the chipped grey building behind her. In another I made the model a stunning serpent, but that one is a little different. I painted the tropical rainforest background, it being surreal, the woman being the only true living thing.
The women are all different. They’re not what matters, it’s the art.
With Summer, it’s going to be different.
“They’re all so beautiful,” there’s reverence in her voice and it humbles me. “They’re all alive,” I walk her slowly from one to the next not saying anything. Finally, at the last one, “I’m speechless, Rock. They’re incredible.”
Walking her back to the couch, I lay her down and sit with her.
“I’m glad you like them.” I pause and grin at her. “Because I want to do you.”
Her eyes slowly widen as a blush creeps across her pale cheeks.
“Me? Why? I’m nobody.”
“But that’s where you’re wrong,” I pull her feet onto my lap, take her shoes off and toss them to the floor then start to massage her feet. I gaze at the artwork, “All of those, the piece was the art.” I look back at her, “In yours, you are going to be the object. It has to be all about you.”
Her eyes flick back and forth on mine, they’re full of questions, she may not know what the questions are exactly but they’re there. All of them.
“What exactly do you mean?”
“You,” I reply, “you’re the art. I want you to be the focal point.”
Her nostrils flare as she takes in a deep breath. We stare at each other, her: full questions, me: wishing I could show her all that I see when I look at her.
