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Hot. As. Fuck. She doesn’t give a shit about me, and it quite literally makes me fucking giddy inside. That sounds like a really fucked-up mommy/daddy issue type of statement, but it’s the truth. We’ve been talking about music and what she likes and doesn’t like, and she brought up Reckless Desires all on her own. I think she just likes making me squirm.
She also has no idea how much I enjoy her not falling all over me.
“I forgot. You’d rather play your Lana Del Rey and shoot me with little daggers from your eyes,” I jab at her, hoping she takes the bait.
With a protest on her lips, Isla scrunches her nose and narrows her eyes. Instead, she stands. “Yep. That’s about right.” Pulling a bottle of Tito’s from her messenger bag, she raises it in my direction. “Care to take a load off?”
I smile at her inquisitively. This is something I didn’t expect. “Sure. I’ve got nowhere to be.”
Cocking her head to the side and squinting, she gives me her usual look as she tries to figure out what’s going on in my head—or at least, that’s what it looks like she’s doing.
“Relax, I’m not a closet alcoholic. I don’t normally carry large bottles of liquor with me. My sister threw it in here when she left it sitting on the kitchen counter and my dad was coming in. My bag was the closest thing in sight, and my dad isn’t really a fan of drinking.”
“Smart man,” I tell her, wishing my dad wasn’t really a fan of drinking, either. I decide to change the subject because I don’t want to think about that. “Tell me more about this painting. It’s clear you’re a crazy talented artist.” I admire the painting she’s working on. When I first walked in and noticed her painting, all she told me was that’s it’s not finished yet. She’s been staring at it like it’s going to come out and tell her what to do next since I walked in here.
“I guess we have that in common, don’t we?” She glancing at me before averting her eyes back to the canvas. She dips a skinny brush into a lilac-colored goop of paint and then paints in short, even strokes. “Sometimes art can really just make everything else melt away, you know?” Her voice is quiet, with less of her usual, snarky bite to it, and more of a cool, even tone.
My initial thought is to ask who hurt her, because all artists have some kind of deep, guttural pain they’re trying to tame. But I don’t think we’re quite at the point of sharing our deepest, darkest secrets yet.
“I do know,” I tell her, admiring the way she zeroes in on the canvas in front of her. “I thought you were studying music, though.”
She nods, setting her paintbrush back down. “I am. I just have a deep appreciation for painting, too. I wanted to learn more about it because it’s something I enjoy.”
“What word are you thinking about right now?” I ask her, needing to know. I’ve thought about it since she first said ‘nepenthe’ the other day in the shop. It’s such a strange, quirky thing—and I love it.
At first, she whips her head toward me, a flash of something in her eye, but recognition crosses her face. She turns back toward her painting, taking in a deep breath as she looks at it and then back to me.
“Scintilla,” she pauses, but doesn’t make me wait long before giving me the definition, “a tiny, brilliant, flash or spark.”
She turns back toward her painting again, but my eyes fall on the corner of her mouth from her side profile. It’s upturned. She shakes her head so slightly that had I not been studying her in this way, I would have missed it. She dips her brush into the water, picks a different color, and carries on painting—getting lost in the canvas as I sit in silence with her.
* * *
I squint through glassy eyes at my phone screen that reads almost one in the morning. Somehow, I’ve managed to get Isla to hang out with me for nearly three hours without rolling her eyes and walking off. The catch…? She's letting me watch her paint as long as I don’t talk to her. I might love this girl—if only I were capable of it. Her feistiness is hot and intriguing and sucks me in, always leaving me wanting more.
“Can I ask you a question?” I ask her, my eyes running over the now half-empty vodka bottle that rests between us.
She turns to me with a sour expression that I find quite endearing. “I thought we agreed, Bordeaux. If you’re going to be in my space, infringing on my creativity, then the least you can do is keep quiet.” She holds her paintbrush out toward me and flicks it before turning back to her painting with a smile. I’m hit with a spackle of gray paint, but I don’t care. Her painting has gone from what I viewed as random splatters and strokes to a fucking masterpiece in front of my eyes. The purples, grays, and light greens all form this incredibly abstract piece of perfection. It looks like it’s straight out of the gallery at the Art Institute downtown.
I shouldn’t ask her what I’m about to ask, but I’ve never been one to listen when my gut tells me to stop. “Why don’t you care that I am who I am?”
She looks up at me, snapping her attention solely on my face. It’s the first time her eyes have strayed from the canvas for longer than seconds in hours. “Should I?” Her lips remain slightly parted, the deep red lip color she wore earlier all but gone from her lips.
“Everyone else does. They fall all over me.” It’s true. I don’t get a private moment unless I’m in my penthouse. And even then, the minute I step outside, it’s fair game again. I’m being followed, screamed at, cameras are flashing inches from my face. I know they only want me because that’s what the media tells them. I have abs. I’m a good-looking guy. The media has labeled me as some fucking Rock N’ Roll Jesus, a sex god—both terms they’ve given me, not ones I chose. No one gave a shit before I signed my name on the thick black line and sold my soul to the devil that is Hellfire Records.
Isla gently lays down her brush and paint, resting her chin in the palm of her hand. She looks tired, her eyes sleepy, yet somehow, they’re even prettier than earlier. “I don’t do what everyone else does, Bordeaux. I don’t like what they like. I don’t follow crowds; I don’t worship who the mainstream media tells people to worship.” It’s like she pulled the thoughts directly from my mind.
She stands, closing the space between us, and pushes her palms onto the table, hopping up to rest her ass on the worn wood tabletop. I can’t help but realize that her fucking vagina is almost at eye-level, inches in front of me as she leans back on her palms into an unbelievably fuckable position. “Did you think I wasn’t aware of who you were when I walked into the shop for my interview?” she asks. “Of course, I knew who you were. You’re Bordeaux Daniels, overnight sensation from the backyards of Chicago. Zero to hero… isn’t that what one of the headlines said?” She leans farther back, resting on her elbows now, practically begging me to grab her by the hips and bring her toward me. I want to. I want to so fucking badly. She’s playing with fire and thinking she won’t get burned, tempting me in this way. “I know you usually have women throwing themselves at you, begging for your rockstar dick inside of them.” She pauses and bites down on her full, plump bottom lip. “But I’m not one of those women, Bordeaux. I know it’s hard to believe that women like me exist but…” she pauses, breathing in a deep sigh, “we do.”
And with that, she hops off the table, grabs her car keys, and flips the lights off. “And maybe it’s you who should be falling all over me. Did you ever think of that?” she asks, walking out of the classroom, leaving me rock fucking hard in the dark.
* * *
I’m still reeling when Isla walks into work for her next shift—and it’s been days. I tried to think of reasons to text the woman. I didn’t; thankfully, I reeled myself in. But who the fuck am I?
It’s Saturday and there’s a line of screaming fans waiting to get into Frankie’s record shop, and not to buy anything. Instead, they just want stand around and watch me. My security team and Frankie are all outside trying to decipher the people who actually want to shop from the fans who just want to get a picture or an autograph. I told security to figure out who wants autographs, and I’d come out around lunchtime to sign some shit.
“Bordeaux.” Isla nods in my direction and gives me a small smile as she strides past me to the backroom, presumably to leave her purse and write down her start time. I nod at her, smiling awkwardly with a small wave, and then get annoyed at myself for looking like an idiot.
