Sky's the Limit

by Elle Aycart

  “Okay,” he grumped.

  Before he could even blink, she left her cup on the table and ran upstairs. Arnie, of course, tried to follow, and she had to come back for him.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “Getting what I need for the makeover,” she shouted from her room.

  “No makeover! I only agreed to a trim!” And he was already regretting it.

  “I know, I know,” she said, returning with a toiletry bag in her mouth and Arnie in her arms. She put dog and bag down and declared, “Cleaning up that beard will make a world of difference.”

  He cocked his brow. “You saying I look bad, Butterfly?”

  “Excuse me? Were you in the room when I jumped you? I find you extremely attractive, obviously. What I’m saying is that you’re a fashion disaster. Why do you insist on calling me Butterfly?”

  “I like it. You… flit around. And you’re flashy. It suits you.”

  “It doesn’t,” she replied, rolling her eyes, chagrined. “It makes me sound like a bubble brain. It’s bad enough that everybody in town calls me Patient Zero.”

  He pondered for a second. “I guess I can always call you Brazilian Ass. Would that be better?”

  If the slap on his chest was anything to go by, then no, it wouldn’t. “So you know, I’ve heard several people refer to you as Patient One,” she added.

  Clever. And it sounded less embarrassing than Alchemist.

  She glanced at her surroundings, then frowned. “We better do this in the bathroom.” Her frown turned into a grimace at the sight of Arnie. “Forget about it. I don’t want to carry him upstairs again. Let’s do this in the kitchen.”

  She spread some newspapers on the floor, placed a chair in the middle, handed him a dishtowel to put on bib-style, and ordered him to take a seat.

  Letting out a deep breath, he obeyed, but she didn’t seem happy with this arrangement. “You’re too low. I’m going to need you to stand.”

  Really? Because she was on the short side. Her arms would tire in a second, not to mention the neck ache she’d get from looking up.

  She must have figured that part out for herself, because after pushing the newspapers to the area by the cabinets, she hopped up to sit on the counter. “This will work better.” She motioned for him to step onto the newspaper as she unzipped the toiletry bag, the side of which read, Beauty is my duty.

  “Beauty is my duty?” he asked.

  “Damn right.” Widening her legs, she pulled him between them, scissors in hand. “Now don’t move. We don’t want to cut off a chunk of hair by mistake and be forced to shave the whole beard, do we?”

  No, we definitely did not. He placed his hands on her thighs and remained still while she trimmed. “Why are appearances so important to you?”

  She snorted. “Why are they so unimportant to you?”

  So like Sky to deflect a question with a snarky one of her own. “I asked first.”

  “It’s not only about the way others perceive you, it’s the way you perceive yourself that’s important. No matter how shitty your life is or how down you’re feeling, if you get up in the morning, dress nicely, and do your makeup, the day brightens, and your disposition with it. There’s no excuse for letting yourself go. You won’t get less depressed by walking around in pajamas all day long, hair a mess and your face too.”

  “It sounds like you’ve thought about this a lot. But I was really asking about you, not a manifesto for the great unwashed. Why are appearances so important to you?”

  Harrumphing, she continued trimming, visibly not happy about being put on the spot. “My mother died from it.”

  He didn’t like how serious she looked, so he went for humorous. “From lack of makeup?”

  It paid off, because she smiled. “No, you dork. From MDD. Major depressive disorder with melancholic traits.”

  “Sorry.”

  She shrugged. “It sounds fancy, but it was basically good old severe depression, the kind where you let yourself die.”

  “Did she kill herself?” he asked cautiously.

  “As a matter of fact, she did. Not actively, though. Passively. She stopped caring for herself and about the world around her, anesthetizing herself with food, pills, and sleep, until her body eventually gave up and she stopped breathing.”

  “Not to come across as an insensitive bastard, but I doubt makeup would have helped.”

  She paused and looked him in the eye. “I know depression is hard. It hijacks your mind and turns it against you. That said, letting yourself wallow in misery ain’t gonna help matters. You pull up your big-girl panties and keep at it, day after day, until facing the world comes naturally to you.”

  He frowned. “You’re talking like it’s all about personal responsibility, but mentally ill people aren’t to blame for being sick. It’s not up to them.”

  “Of course not. But how they deal with their disease is. Everyone has to find coping mechanisms that work for them. Dressing the part is what works for—a lot of people.”

  “Fake it until you make it,” he said.

  “Exactly. Done,” she said, putting her scissors down and handing him a mirror. “You like it? Less Unabomberish, more Robert Downey Junior.”

  In spite of all his prior reservations, he had to admit she’d done a great job. He liked how she’d brought out his jawline and cheekbones. Project Runway it wasn’t, but she did know what she was doing. “Thank you.”

  “It’s shorter than those oh-so-carefully-groomed hipster beards, but for that we’d need special products to keep the hair straight and not frizzy. We’d have to blow-dry too. I doubt you’re ready to go to that much effort, so I recommend trimming more often.”

  “I’ll take it into consideration, Butterfly.”

  “Your lips are chapped,” she said, brushing her thumb over them. “They look painful. And angry red.”

  As if her sweet pussy against the zipper of his jeans wasn’t bad enough, now he had her caressing his mouth. “This damn flu.”

  “I have something for that,” she said, reaching into her miracle bag and taking out a lip balm container.

  “Is that the same one you use? The one that smells all girly?”

  “You mean my marshmallow-strawberry lip balm.”

  He grimaced. “You don’t have normal, unflavored Chapstick?”

  Sky rolled her eyes. “Normal, unflavored Chapstick. Can you say ‘bo-ring’? Please. Who do you think you’re talking to? I only buy those to chop up so I can make my own.”

  “Don’t you have something more… macho than strawberry and marshmallow?”

  “Lucky for you, lip balm is a seasonal product. Try this.” She pulled out another container and dabbed some balm on his lips.

  “Wow, this smells like—”

  “Pumpkin spice. For autumn,” she explained.

  “Did you make this yourself?”

  She nodded, looking damn pleased with herself. “The base is oil and beeswax. Chapstick, if you don’t have access to beeswax. You heat the two ingredients, add whatever you want for taste, and let it cool. The pumpkin spice lip balm has almond oil, honey, Chapstick, and pumpkin spice. You haven’t gotten a real Halloween kiss until you’ve kissed me.”

  “How do you taste for Christmas?”

  “Mulled cider and cinnamon.”

  “Summer?”

  “Oh, summer is the bomb. Piña colada! Crushed pineapple candy, rum extract, and coconut oil make the best combination.”

  “I bet,” he said, laughing.

  “Laugh all you want, but flavored lip balms go for top dollar in high-end stores. Mine are better. They’re safe to eat, no problem,” she said as he licked the corner of his mouth, “although you should really avoid licking your lips as much as possible.”

  All the things he wanted to do to her included his lips. Having flu sucked on so many levels. If this lasted much longer, his cock was going to fall off.

  “You should teach the women in town how to prepare
edible lip balms in your crash course. Preppers are big on multipurpose products.”

  Sky snorted. “No shit. Pam will force me to create a bacon-and-eggs lip balm. Breakfast on the go.”

  Probably.

  “Your nose is chapped too,” she said, cupping his face.

  “Let me guess. You’ve also got something for that.”

  She laughed. “Bingo. Actually, any of the lip balms would work.”

  “Isn’t there anything simpler?”

  “Sure. What do you prefer, coconut oil or honey?”

  He thought about it. “Honey.”

  “Honey it is.”

  He reached for the honey jar in the cabinet and handed it to her. “I’m going to end up smelling like a four-course meal,” he grumbled as she applied a bit of honey around his nostrils.

  She totally ignored his words. “Now we wait half an hour, and we dab it dry with a damp cloth. In no time your nose will be as good as new. You know, hipsters use coconut oil to shape their mustaches and beards.”

  “You are not smearing my beard with coconut oil,” he warned.

  “Spoilsport.”

  “Where did you learn all this, Butterfly?”

  “I told you,” she said, putting her beauty gear back in her toiletry bag. “YouTube and Instagram are the patron saints of broke girls. Store-bought products are bullshit. You can sink tons of money into them and get no results. Expensive doesn’t always mean better. Well, in clothes it does.”

  “So you don’t sew your own dresses?”

  “My grandmother was a seamstress. She sewed all my clothes, bras included, until I got old enough to buy them myself. I’ve had enough of that for a lifetime.” She caressed his forehead, then his cheeks, and gave him a stern look. “Your skin is very dry. You’re in dire need of a facial. I could throw in a scalp massage as incentive.”

  Ha. He placed his palms on the counter, bracketing her with his arms, and studied her for a long second. “Landing strip?”

  “What?” she asked, confused.

  “Down there,” he said, holding her gaze. “Trimmed into a landing strip?”

  She giggled. “You still stuck on that?”

  Totally. “Shaved with a spot of hair at the top?”

  She came close, brushing her lips against his. “Not telling. When you get better, you’ll find out. What about your manscaping? Any pejazzling?”

  “Is that from penis and bedazzle?” he asked, furrowing his brows.

  She nodded. “You into shaving your balls, Alchemist?”

  “What do you think?”

  Now it was her turn to study him. “You probably have tresses down there.”

  He barked out a laugh. “No. My balls are self-polishing.”

  "You mean you have friction burns from all those hand jobs?”

  He eyed her. “Very funny, lady.”

  “Latino girls are hairy. Our hair does not give up. Not even when self-polishing is involved.”

  “Curled and dyed?” he continued, nuzzling her neck. She smelled so fucking good. And he wanted her so badly.

  “You are impossible.”

  “Pussy piercings?”

  “Nope. That’s a gravity issue. Nothing escapes gravity. We all grow old. Things sag. No need for extra weight making matters worse. I don’t want to be dragging my vagina along the floor when I hit eighty.”

  He chuckled. “Maybe by then Saint Instagram will have a solution.”

  “Oh, he already does. It’s called labia reconstruction. Can’t afford it.”

  Man, she was hilarious. And hot and sexy and so damn beautiful. “You know, I don’t have a fever.”

  She looked at him, one brow lifted.

  “Much,” he added grudgingly.

  “A stuffy nose and crazy-monkey sex don’t go together well. I’d kiss you and you’d accidentally suffocate. You can’t perform under those conditions. Although we could always not kiss,” she suggested, cupping his junk.

  Oh, fuck. He breathed in deep, praying for calmness. He raised her hand to his mouth and teased her knuckles with his lips. “As tempting as you sound right now, I must decline. I like kissing you.”

  “It’s the strawberry lip balm, isn’t it?” she asked with a smirk.

  “Let me guess: coconut oil, Chapstick, and strawberry candy?”

  “Almost. A red gummy bear and a mini marshmallow. I’ll make a metrosexual out of you yet.”

  He had pumpkin pie on his mouth, honey on his nose, and he was sure she was going to try to sneak coconut oil onto his beard. And still he was smiling like a fool. Bring the metrosexual on; it couldn’t be worse than this.

  Chapter 9

  “Do not give me any sass, mister. I used my last bomb on you.”

  Logan entered the house and followed the voices. The voice, actually. And the huffs. He made it to the bathroom and pushed the door a little further ajar.

  Cerberus was sitting in the bathtub, his front paws on the rim. He was surrounded by bubbles, a long-suffering expression on his face. Sky, her hair in a crazy bun, was sprawled on a chair, her back to Logan. Her cute little feet were propped next to Cerberus’s paws. Some orange, spongy shit separated her toes, the nails bright blue. Like the nails on her hands, which she was blowing on.

  “So this is what you meant when you asked about using my bathroom for extracurricular activities,” Logan said, leaning against the doorjamb. He should have asked for specifics before he agreed.

  She turned around, her face covered with pink goo. “Hi, you. Spa night. It’s been too long since Arnie had a spa session. He was missing it.”

  Arnie put his muzzle between his paws and huffed loudly.

  “I’m not sure about that.”

  “Oh, you’ll be totally convinced when I rinse and dry him. That’s the part he doesn’t like.”

  Logan couldn’t wait to see that.

  He motioned at Arnie’s paws. “You painting his nails blue too?”

  “Nah. I put some cream on them to help with cracked pads. He’s not used to walking on frozen rocks and dirt. Sidewalks and grass are more his speed.”

  Sure, because Cerberus here—with that scar across the left side of his muzzle and the missing right eye and the cut ears and tail—was far too dainty to step on dirt. Logan didn’t say it, though. As far as Sky was concerned, Arnie was gold.

  He noticed a small camera was mounted on the sink. “I see you’ve been making videos.”

  “YouTube tutorials.” She lifted her hands, palms down, and wiggled her fingers at him. “Nail salvage operation 101.”

  “Aren’t your followers going to wonder about the goo on your face?”

  “Nah. They’re used to seeing me multitasking.”

  “It’s a pity videos don’t capture smell. This place is like a botanical garden.”

  “Cleopatra bath bomb,” she said, as if that should be explanation enough.

  “Your doing?”

  “Nope. That was the last mega-expensive one I got from my former boss. I’ve tried to replicate it, but no dice. I was going to enjoy it in Paris, gazing upon the Eiffel Tower through my bathroom window, a glass of chardonnay in my hand, getting ready for the Paris Fashion Week. To which I had tickets, I might add. After recent events, I figured this was a better use of the bomb.”

  “Have you heard from your school?” She just snorted, so he continued, “Okay, I guess it’s safe to assume your request for a transfer didn’t work?”

  “The semester starts in February here, so there’s no one to talk to locally yet. But I managed to reach the secretary of the study-abroad program at my school in New York. She laughed at me. She said Paris, Minnesota, is the closest I’m getting to any Paris. I asked her to put me on the waiting list for openings anywhere in the US, as long as the city in question has at least one building taller than ten stories.”

  “What are the chances?” he asked, sitting on the rim of the tub.

  “Let’s put it this way: if I reduce my threshold to five stories,
I might have a shot.”

  “Well, worst-case scenario, you spend the spring in Paris, Minnesota. That’s not so bad, right? You could be stuck in prepper town, surrounded by dirty diapers and dubious mushrooms.”

  Her chuckle was husky and so damn sexy. “When you put it like that…”

  “What’s the plan after Paris, whichever Paris it is? You going back home?”

  Sky started shampooing Arnie. “I don’t know. I was so sure I was going to get the job in France, I didn’t think much farther than that. I even sublet my apartment in Brooklyn until the end of my lease. But I’ll manage. I always do. What about you? What’s your plan for the future? Recycle diapers until…”

  “Until I’m ready to be recycled myself?”

  Her laughter was now wholehearted. “Your words, not mine.”

  “Probably. In spite of the craziness, I like it here. I fit, believe it or not.”

  “Hold Arnie,” she commanded, grabbing the showerhead.

  Being hosed down didn’t seem to work for the beast. As soon as Sky turned the spray on him, Arnie began fighting to get out of the tub, splashing water all over the place. Keeping a seventy-pound slippery hellhound in place was something of an impossibility.

  “Arnie, chill. Just a second,” Sky pleaded, trying to dodge the suds flying left and right, rather unsuccessfully, while pink goo ran down her face. Logan wasn’t faring much better. By the time Cerberus was rinsed, half the bathwater was on the floor, and Sky and Logan were soaked and covered in foam.

  “Stay, Arnie,” she said, reaching for a towel. “Logan, keep him there.”

  Ha. Easier said than done.

  The second Arnie saw the towel, he jumped out of the tub and onto them. Logan lost his footing and took Sky down with him, fortunately breaking her fall. “Shit, you okay?” he asked.

  Before she could answer, the beast decided he was not going through the aggravation of a towel and a blow-dryer. He shook himself.

  Sky turned her face away, hiding it in the crook of Logan’s neck, laughing her sweet ass off. “Damn, Arnie. A blow-dryer is more fun.”

  Somehow Logan didn’t see Arnie agreeing. “Sure you’re okay?”

  She nodded, brushing the wet hair away from her face.