The thrill I get out of a vibrating needle jetting ink into my flesh or a fresh piercing has always been far more of a high for me.
The last guy I considered getting serious with was based on the fact we were both art majors at Boston University and were in all the same classes. I enjoyed our shared discourse on art, though he got too pretentious for even me at times.
I should have known he was an irredeemable douche when he slighted my favorite artist, Lala Drona. Her blunt yet sharp-edged depiction of women and how we experience our bodies, how we commodify the flesh, is genius, brutal, and beautiful all at once. She boldly showcases the complex and often oppressive relationship between women, their bodies, and even each other.
Growing up in a land where the population must depend on the bodies of humans for sustenance, her messages hit meon so many levels I felt hammers drilling into my chest when confronted with her depictions.
Anyone who doesn’t recognize Lala Drona’s masterful blend of raw truth and bold beauty is an automatic red flag.
Then it turned out the guy was secretly fixated on my best friend, Goldie.
Ugh.
I wasn’t heartbroken even a little bit, just pissed off over the deceit.
Before I knew that, I gave up the cookie.
After that spectacularly mediocre sex, I remember thinking we should stick to discourse on art. My vibrator can do ten times the work he could in a quarter of the time. And I don’t have to fake it at the end with the vibrator.
I prefer the efficiency of a good sex toy to work off any tension I might have, so I can get back to other daily activities I enjoy more. Like painting, bartending, or plotting ways to catch Lucifer so I can fling him into the Atlantic Ocean for that present he left on my pillow this morning.
Yet, I have a strong suspicion it wouldn’t be that way with Prince Kaison Charming.
The sex, not the cat murder.
I would never actually hurt a cat, but I’m damned close to finding a black-market vendor of curses so I can make Lucifer believe he’s always wet even when he isn’t. Or see cucumbers that aren’t there. I heard cats hate cucumbers. Something to annoy the ever-loving shit out of the feline devil, the way he does to me.
The prince’s eyes lock on mine and the world fades into blurry watercolors around me again, like it did that first time. He has the power to make me feel like the only person in the room, the only one who matters in the entire world.
Being that important to someone makes my heart pound double-time and my palms sweat. I’m not sure if it’s because I find the prospect terrifying or thrilling.
At least he seems thrown too. His pupils are blown as he watches me with rapt attention. I pretend being the object of his focus doesn’t send excitement spiraling through me like a firework.
“Hey Isabelle.” I ignore the prince she is currently fanning with a book to top off her favorite Prosecco though the drink is barely down an inch. “How is the bookselling business?”
Belle swivels back to face me on her stool and half her mouth curves up. “Living the dream as always.”
Belle owns the romance bookstore across the street. After she closes her shop, she walks over here for a nightcap and reads a few chapters before she heads home. It’s part of her routine, something she takes very seriously.
The prince sets an arm on the counter, his white shirt buckling to reveal more of his inked pectoral. A hot shiver runs through me.
Seriously, who cranked up the thermostat in here?
“Can I get her next drink?” the prince asks me before he turns to Belle. “You sell books?”
How does the ring curving over his bottom lip make his mouth even more magnetic and inviting?
A fully expressed infectious smile spreads across Belle’s face this time. “I own the romance bookstore across the street. It’s called Chapter Three.”
He lights up with recognition. “Oh, the one with the gorgeous sign of a rose in an open book?”
Worse than being naturally magnetic and handsome, the prince can take an interest in others.
“Why is it called Chapter Three?” Kaison asks Belle, leaning in. The low lighting highlights the contours of his perfect face and dark tousled hair.
Disgusting.
A woman wearing forbidding black eyeshadow with a styled rainbow-streaked, banana-blonde mohawk walks up to the bar. My boss and the bar owner, Rapunzel aka Rap, answers for Belle. “Because her favorite chapter of her favorite romance book is chapter three where the female protagonist realizes the man she's lusting after is actually a prince.”
