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He’s right; I should. But I don’t plan on going back.
The car inches closer to the entrance, and a light illuminates the anger in his clenched jaw. “Or better yet, I'll tell him to fuck off.”
The coldness in his stare tells me he’d have no problem doing that. “Now you tell me something,” I urge, not really expecting anything in return.
“I found my father,” he shocks the hell out of me by saying.
“And?” I whisper, fighting the urge to reach out and touch him.
“And nothing,” he says. “It’s a high that crashed as soon as I met him.”
“Trade ya?” I offer, softly, as we finally make it to our drop off.
He smirks, and for a beat, when the door is opened, I see a spark of warmth in his eyes.
Curiosity about why he’d bring me here rattles in my brain as we approach the entrance. He's clearly giving the finger to my father by flaunting me in public, and although I don't understand his thinking, it works to my benefit. I'm not going to be the docile doormat anymore.
With Xavier’s large hand on the small of my back, we glide past two security guards, who wave us through, and head straight into a party filled with no individuality. Clone after clone of women in designer gowns and men with three-piece suits.
With powerful strides, he slices through the small crowd, leading me over to a lanky man with a dark hunk of hair combed into a mohawk.
“This is Jean-Pierre, the artist,” Xavier introduces us.
“Call me JP,” he tells me.
I shake his soft hand, admiring the unconventional art. “It’s all so… interesting.”
Rabbits, in various poses, line the concrete walls of the gallery. His brushstrokes are genius, but I’m not much into rabbits getting it on… And then, like I've been plowed down by gunfire, it hits me. I realize why I'm here. This isn't just about shoving a giant fuck you down my father’s throat until he chokes—it’s about me.Forme.
How could I not recognize him? This guy, JP, is pretty much responsible for my leap into the arts thanks to his instructional tutorials on his website. Wanting to keep my hobby secret, I scoured the Internet, looking for how-to’s. One day, I stumbled across a wacky guy, obsessed with furry animals. But he was so thorough and so knowledgeable, I devoured every piece of wisdom he fed me. Xavier used to tease me relentlessly about it, saying that one day he was going to find this guy for me. It's why he gave me the stuffed rabbit so long ago.
Jean-Pierre launches into a long soliloquy of how his pictures of rabbits screwing in the woods inspire tranquility or something asinine while I lock eyes with Xavier.
This is so thoughtful and so very confusing. Why would he do all this if he doesn't care about my future? I smile, unsure how to handle the emotions rolling through me. “You were a big inspiration to me,” I tell Jean-Pierre. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to hop over to the restroom.”
That earns me an unexpected chuckle from Xavier. And the sound, deep and husky, nearly erases my desire to free myself.
I spot the restroom sign and the far entrance to the streets of LA in the distance. The unguarded entrance.
“Ok, fur real, I have to go to the restroom.” This time, JP catches on to my silly puns with a smile. “Nice meeting you. If you want to talk later, I'm all ears.”
“I’d like that.”
We say our goodbyes to JP, and before we reach the bathroom, I quickly pull Xavier into an alcove.
“What is wrong with you?” he asks with a furrowed brow.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
There's no way I could bust out of here without thanking him.
And then I do something I can't resist, something my arms need. I step closer and wrap them around his trim waist and hug. Tight. His lean body stiffens for a second, and then his dark head dips and he inhales.
“Your hair always smelled so nice,” he whispers, sending a shiver through me. “What is that, peach?”
“Yeah.”
His hand eases down my back, and I hear the thump thump thump of his heart beating faster when I rest my cheek against his chest. I don't ever want to let him go. But we don't always get what we want.
