Down by the Lake

by Jisa Dean

  She could've hung out with any of the more popular cliques that roamed our school, but instead, she found the English nerd and we've been friends ever since. Tracie fit in with any group though. At five-nine, blonde and beautiful, she can get by on her looks alone but she loves designing and making clothes and jewelry. She took what her parents taught her about business and turned it into a career that has her brushing elbows with the richest people in the world. Her jewelry drapes some of the most gorgeous necks in Hollywood and instead of letting it go to her head, she chooses to drag me to parties and hang out with people who can only be thought of as eccentric artists.

  The house I am standing in isn't anything to turn my nose up at. It belongs to an artist who went to school with us. He's a couple of years older than me and I don't really know him well. Not like I do Tracie, but he and Tracie go way back too. He started out on the other side of the tracks and when his art started to sell before he graduated high school, he transferred to our school. Tracie, who hung out with all the local artists had already met him so he at least knew someone when he started his life over, which is more than I can say for me. The media loves to go on and on about how the local boy made something of himself after growing up from nothing.

  It doesn't hurt that Ed Dawson is stunning to look at. He is six feet of muscle and keeps himself in shape by boxing mostly. There are whole magazine spreads about him in popular men's' magazines that had several ladies taking up the sport just to meet men like him at the local gym. He also has something boyish about him that makes women want to take care of him.

  His eyes are his best feature though, bright blue with swirls of green through them, like my favorite marble when I was a kid. They tell the world what he is thinking and feeling without him ever having to say a word. Women all over the world want to be close to the hot artist who gives them just enough bad boy to be safe and reckless. He is insanely talented too. What he can do with a brush is something I want to be able to do with a keyboard.

  Two successful people from our hometown and here I stand working at the mall and pretending I'm a writer when I have a free moment. It's more than just depressing, truthfully there are days I want to quit and find something else, but writing is the only thing I am good at. It's the one thing in my life I know how to do right.

  I am so lost in my own thoughts that I don't hear the door to the library until Ed is standing right beside me. I nearly jump out of my skin.

  "Why do you watch instead of being a part of it?" He whispers like we might be overheard by the loud crowd outside the window.

  Ed is taller than me, but most everyone is. At five foot, I am more petite than the average female and find I have to look up at everyone who's not 12. I look at his arms, covered in tattoos, and imagine every one of them must tell the story of his life like he wears his canvas on his flesh so the world can see who he is. I could never be that bold. I make the split-second decision not to tell him how I really feel.

  No matter what I do I will never be part of the crowd. I just don't fit in anywhere. It isn't like this man can understand that on the inside I am still that eight-year-old orphan who just started school for the first time.

  "I like to stand back and watch how people interact with each other. It's good practice for when I write and need to do dialogue or build a scene," not totally a lie in fact.

  "That's right, you write."

  Well, there goes my ego. I'm sure he didn't mean it like the way it comes out. At least, that is what I try to tell myself.

  "Hey, don't doubt yourself. I would love to be able to do what you do," apparently, my face gives my ego death away, "to paint with words takes real talent. Not the shit I do. All I do is slap paint on a canvas and tell some rich guy his wife needs it to make a statement in their home."

  "Really? Didn't your last painting go for millions of dollars? Seems like you do more than slap paint on a canvas if you make millions," I tell him. I can't stand any creative person putting themselves down or making less of their art.

  "Are you a fan?" he gives me a half smile that I am sure drives most girls crazy and moves closer. If I didn't know he was with someone already, someone who hangs out with me and Tracie, I would think he is flirting.

  Also, I've been around Tracie long enough to understand what kind of people most artists are. They are charismatic and charming and flirt as naturally as breathing. Not to mention I've heard Tracie talking about what a horndog he is when he isn't committed. In fact, he is something of a legend. Never staying with one woman for very long and super affectionate with the ones he is with to the point of almost being an exhibitionist. In other words, he can give Tracie a run for her money and that girl went through our high school like a zamboni at a hockey rink.

  It's no secret that we are exact opposites. I am the ice queen who doesn't have time for boys or parting, while Tracie, never misses a party or a boy. It's not that she is a whore or anything. She just loves being in love and after that initial glow fades she wants to move on so she can find it again. Some girls like wine, some like shoes, Tracie likes boys like that.

  Now here I stand with him pouring on the charm and finding that I am not charming, or even social. I don't want to say anything that makes him think he isn't talented. His art isn't just good it's fresh and unique and beautiful.

  "Tracie brags about you. I can't help but pick up a few things here and there."

  I smile hoping that it will take any of the sting out of what I just said. Some of the artists Tracie hangs out with can be temperamental and not being a fan sets them off on a tirade that lasts for hours. At the same time, I didn't want to appear to be a creeper hanging out in the guy's library and tell him how much I really do love his stuff.

  "So... not a fan of mine, just friends of friends," his smile never falters so I can't tell if he is offended or not. I can't read him.

  To be honest, I am a fan. I love how moody his art can be and sometimes when I can't find motivation I look at some of his work on tumbler, some verging on the inappropriate. But how are you going to tell the guy standing in front of you that his work moves you? Or that he smells really good up close and personal, and his library makes you horny? For me, it's not something I say but I am totally writing about this when I get home.

  "No. I do like your stuff. I just don't keep up with how much you're worth," I cannot believe that just came out of my mouth.

  He throws his head back and laughs loud and long, like he feels it with his whole being. "That's great. If you like my work so much, tell me what your favorite piece is?"

  Without hesitation, I answer, "Your version of 'death and the maiden'. It makes you rethink what innocence is and who the characters are in a motif that is done by almost everyone. I like how you make it seem like something new and fresh and sexy but classy."

  The picture I am talking about has a half-naked woman writhing around the typical image of death and doing naughty things to his scythe. What's so classy is there are no faces involved because each one hides the others face. It's intimate and revealing at the same the time. I want my writing to be like that.

  I want to capture someone's life at the moment they fall in love. Sometimes that calls for sexy but I always want intimate too. That moment is hard to capture. Especially since I am a virgin and have never actually been in love before. There is something about that whole adage about writing about what you know. I know nothing about love. Not wanting to sound like a complete idiot to the guy that I use for inspiration, I try to think of something to say that would make him talk more about his art and himself. People always love to talk about themselves.

  "Do you use models?" when his eyebrows shoot up I realize I said something that is not socially acceptable. I go back over my words in my head slowly and finally catch the implications of the question I just ask.

  "Um, not usually. Why, you asking to be one of my models? Do you want to pose for me?"

  My face heats up glowing neon red right now. Note to self, when asking
an artist about models make sure the painting in question has clothed people in it before you put yourself out there and ask.

  "Oh no, I just...um," He lets me go on for a little while before saving me any more embarrassment.

  "I find people stressful," he never loses his smirk or the mischievous gleam that comes into his eyes when I ask about models. "They never stay how I want them to or capture the right pose that I already have in my head. I find it's easier to just go with what I have up here," he taps his temple, "Then try to get people to understand. Besides I'm not sure if women and men actually bend the way I draw them in real life so..."

  I can't help but giggle a little bit. It's hard to work out the movements and motions of a living breathing individual sometimes. I can't imagine what he must go through having to make them three dimensional while I only have to write about them doing the things he draws.

  "I can't imagine having to write about it. I mean I only have to draw it. You have to use words to describe it so other people can see it in their heads."

  "Oh my God. I was thinking the same thing. I mean, the other way around. I can't imagine having to

  draw what I write about," my voice goes up and I move closer to him so that we can start talking about how we do our respective things when the door opens and his girlfriend and Tracie step in.

  I don't know her very well but Tracie seems to like her and we both hang out with her a little bit. She seems nice when we are all three together. I definitely don't want her to think I am having an intimate conversation with her boyfriend. I mean it is kinda like we have a moment but it isn't anything to be jealous about. But you never can tell with some girls, sometimes they are territorial and I couldn't say I wouldn't be territorial over him if I were her.

  "Why are you blushing?"

  I could kill Tracie right now. Before I can say anything Ed saves me.

  "She's just excited. I got her talking about writing and she was about to go into detail about how she starts a project and where her ideas come from." He winks at me when he says it like he can tell I stalk his work for ideas and motivation.

  When I get home I call my boyfriend, not out of guilt I tell myself as he goes on and on about his life at the local college. I want to go to college but first I need to find a way to keep a roof over my head and a full-time job is the only way. I try to save up every dime I can so I can start going this fall. I eat a lot of Raman noodles and my car sits waiting on repairs for weeks on end sometimes, but I think I can finally afford to go this year.

  Adam's parents paid for him to go. He's going to be a minister when he gets out of college and one of the reasons I even agreed to date him was because he didn't bring up the whole sex thing like other boys do when you date them. When we first met, Adam told me he was waiting until he got married to do anything and that suited me just fine. It's not a religious thing with me, I just want to love the person I am intimate with and I can't do that if the guy just wants to get laid and leave right after. I want someone I can cuddle with.

  "So how did the party go? Meet anyone that might take you away from me?" he says jokingly.

  I try to laugh it off, but Ed is the first face that pops up in my memory. "No, it wasn't that kind of party. It was just a bunch of creative people getting together to talk about their art and stuff."

  Sometimes Adam makes me feel guilty about the stuff I write. He would go on and on about the kind of people I hang out with being free and liberal with their bodies. He even told me he thought Tracie isn't good for me but quickly changed his mind when I told him Tracie has been with me longer than he has and if he doesn't like her HE can leave. I'm not sure how he is going to react if I ever do publish.

  "I have to go. I need to be at the store early tomorrow. I'll see you this weekend."

  "Yeah, about that. I'm not going to be able to make it down to you this weekend. I have a thing at the library for one of my classes and a bunch of us are getting together to talk about religion and the sin in our area."

  "Aren't you in a religious college?"

  "Yeah, but you should see some of the things people are reading and watching on television these days. It's filth." He says it like I should know better but I am almost 100 percent sure that some of the filth he is talking about are things I read, not to mention write about.

  Before I can say anything he says his good nights and hangs up leaving me with more than one question about why we are together. It can't just be because he's safe, can it? He won't pressure me to have sex with him and in fact, the one or two times we even tried to make out it ended with him running out the door and us not seeing each other for a couple of weeks. He certainly doesn't inspire anything like what the men I write about inspire in my heroines.

  Speaking of heroes, I open my computer to make notes about my current one. I change his eye color from a soft brown that reminds me of a dog to a turbulent blue-green color and make notes about how he smells. Who knew the way a man's scent can stay with you and make you instantly think of hot summer nights that inspire you to get naked and fuck? I didn't, until tonight.

  Available Now

  Lake House

  Also by Jisa Dean:

  The Lake Series

  Lake House

  Lakeside Daddy

  Down by the Lake

  The Librarian Series

  Booked

  The Brothers

  Blue Venus

  Coming Soon!

  Overdue (The Librarian Series: Book Two)

  Crimson Deep (The Brothers Series: Book Two)

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