by Lauren Runow
Connor walks off the stage and up to my girl. He’s asking her a question in her ear. Her eyes immediately dart up to me.
I just smile as she shrugs back at me and takes Connor’s hands to dance.
The best part of watching her dance with another man?
She can’t keep her eyes off me.
I lose myself in the song. Playing to the beat. Playing with my heart and my head and become entranced in the music.
And, while I’m having a blast, I can’t help but feel jealous of Connor as he dips Harper. I want my dancing partner back.
The song ends, and I’m a sweaty mess. I shake hands with the band and then whisper a request in the maestro’s ear before coming back down. When I’m face-to-face with Harper, our eyes lock, and I barely register Connor patting me on the back as he leaves. All I know is, Harper’s hands wrap around my neck as I pull her into me.
The soft melody of Billie Holiday’s “The Man I Love” plays.
I grip her waist. I want to take her in as tight as I can until she’s flush with my body, but then I won’t be able to look into her eyes to see the light flecks of silver that shine under the light or the way her long lashes flutter against her cheeks when I let my fingers tickle her waist as I move them up the curve of her silhouette.
We slow-dance in a room full of people, yet I swear, we’re the only two people on earth. My thumbs run up the sides of her rib cage and skim dangerously close to her breasts.
Her breath hitches.
Our feet glide to the sweet tune, and I move a hand back down her back, resting it just above her ass.
Her tongue skims her pouty bottom lip as she looks back at me. She lowers a hand and rests it on my chest. Her fingers splay across me, feeling every ridge and muscle, coming to rest over my heart. It’s pounding through my flesh, and she looks up, surprised.
I don’t know if I’m nervous or excited or absolutely terrified. This woman has captivated me, and damn if I don’t want to own her in the worst way.
I rest a hand on her neck before cradling her face. Her pulse is resting against my thumb, pounding just as fast as my own.
She feels the same way.
Her mouth parts.
I pull her close.
Her fingers grip on to me.
I kiss her.
She moans into my mouth, and I breathe in her desire.
We’re still dancing, but it’s a different kind of tune.
Now, it’s our lips that perform the movements.
We’re not fast or hurried.
No. We’re savoring the melody with every lick and swipe and delicious taste of one another.
My cock twitches. This is not the place to have a raging hard-on. She rubs up against me, and now, it’s my turn to groan.
My kisses move to her jaw and neck and then rest below her ear.
“I’m not behaving like a gentleman,” I whisper.
She lightly bites me on the jaw. “I thought you weren’t a gentleman.”
That does nothing for my intense need for her.
I groan again. “I need to bring you home.”
Her hand moves down my chest and rests over my abs. Her exploring is going to be the death of me.
“What if I said I’m not ready for the night to end?”
Yes, this woman is going to kill me.
“Then, I say, let’s get out of here.”
5
HARPER
We hit the streets with a hurried excitement.
In the span of an hour, Tanner went from being an annoying guy hitting on me in a bar to the sexiest man I’ve ever met. And I can’t get enough of him.
Yes, the stranger who is an amazing kisser is a member of a secret speakeasy and can swing dance. He knows how to play the piano and completely wooed me in an hour.
With my hand in his, we walk toward Second Avenue where the noise of passing cars and a nearby pub and restaurant is a stark contrast to the quiet side street we were just on.
Tanner stops at the corner. “Where would you like to go?”
“Dealer’s choice.”
He grins. “Are you always this spontaneous?”
I shake my head. “I’m a teacher. I need to schedule everything. Since I don’t have a plan in front of me, I’m finding an odd sense of comfort in letting you take the lead.”
I turn back toward the street and the secret club we just came from. I’d love to know what other secrets Tanner keeps. I look up into his piercing gaze that sparkles under the fluorescent street lamps. “Take me where you go when you want to run away from the world.”
His brow rises as if a particular place has come to mind. “What makes you think I have a secret lair?”
“I have a feeling there’s a side to you no one knows about, Tanner Sexton.”
His head tilts slightly. He stares at me with those mysterious blues, searching my soul, bearing down on me as he seems to be deciding if he should take me to the place he has on his mind.
His lips part, and with a steady inhale, he steps back.
My head falls, and I stare at the pavement. He’s decided he’s not going to take me there. I don’t know why I’m upset or for what exactly. There was just something in his expression that made me feel like he was holding back.
His hand palms my chin and raises it.
“Sweet, Harper,” he says, grazing the side of my cheek with his thumb. “For a woman who didn’t want anything to do with me a short time ago, you’re now willing to follow me to the darkest alleys.”
My shoulders sag at his accurate description. Something awakened in me in that club. I’m riding on a buzz that’s the opposite of anything I’ve ever felt in my life.
“Maybe I just want to forget reality tonight. I want to live in your dream.”
There’s a mischievous twinkle in his eye. His other hand rises to my hair, and he looks down upon my face with a sense of awe. “My muse,” he whispers.
My eyes flutter closed, and he places a soft kiss on my cheek. His lips move down to my jaw where he nips the skin below my ear and then trails his tongue down my neck. We’re on a street corner in New York City, and yet I feel like we’re the only two people on the planet.
Tanner takes my hand and pulls me toward the curb where he hails a cab. We hop in as he tells the driver, “One hundred twenty-seventh and Malcolm X.”
I’m surprised we’re headed up to Harlem, but I don’t say anything. I’m not nervous as we ride uptown.
“What’s your favorite color?” he asks.
“Purple?”
He laughs. “Are you asking me if that’s your favorite color?”
“Purple,” I say more surely this time. “Dark purple. Aubergine, to be exact. What about you?”
“Before tonight, it was red.”
“What is it now?”
“Blue,” he says as he looks right into my eyes. “A cool, icy blue.”
I’m pretty sure I just whimpered. Or quivered. Whatever the sound I just made from my mouth was a direct reaction to the verbal sexiness of those words as they poured out of his mouth.
We pull up to the corner, and Tanner hands the driver cash. Then, he climbs out of the car and offers me his hand.
I follow him onto the sidewalk and notice the glowing red lights from a bar across the street. The Den. It’s a good name for a bar, something I’m using as a distraction as Tanner takes his keys out of his pocket and lets us into an unassuming gray building.
There’s no fancy lobby or doorman. The walls are a lighter gray, and other than the mailboxes tucked off to the side, there’s only one potted plant and a single elevator bank.
We take the elevator to the top floor. My stomach flutters a little. It’s that uneasiness I got just before we walked into the club. It’s my brain’s way of reminding my body that Tanner is a stranger.
I keep trying to tell my body to tell my brain that I got the message loud and clear, and I don’t care. As much of a rebel as I’m pretending to be tonight, I’m
still the rule-seeker.
The elevator door opens to a small hallway with four doors. He walks to the one on the left and unlocks it. He steps in first and flicks the lights on. They’re not very bright, just an amber hue to soothingly accent the space.
I follow him in, and he closes the door behind me, putting his keys on a nearby table.
There’s a kitchen to my right with metal cabinet doors and an island in the front. It’s not fancy, but it’s much bigger than most kitchens I’ve seen in the city.
The ceilings are high, maybe ten feet, and there are prewar moldings on the casements and doorways. The windows are large with thick black panes and no curtains.
While this looks like an apartment, it’s anything but. The normal dining room table and living room set are pushed off to the side, as if they are nowhere near as important as the canvases everywhere. Some are large; most are small. A few are the size of me. Most are painted, and there’s a stack of white ones in a corner, waiting to be created upon.
Paints, charcoals, pencils, and brushes are perfectly lined up on a long wooden table in the middle of the room. A pottery machine is in one corner, and there’s a giant sheet pinned to the wall with a spotlight pointed at it.
If I’m seeing things properly, I think there’s a bed behind a curtain that hangs from the ceiling, but I’m not quite sure.
Tanner said he liked to paint, but I would never have imagined this. Here lies a nirvana, an artist’s paradise.
An easel sits in the corner closest to a window. I walk over and take a look at the image of a woman sitting by a desk, staring off into the distance.
“Who is she?” I ask him.
He steps close behind me. “I don’t know her name, but I see her every day.” He points to the building across the street. His eyes strongly focus on that spot, as if recalling a memory. “That window, across the way. Last week, she just sat there, looking out into nothing. She seemed so sad … like she’d lost someone. Tears fell down her cheeks, and my chest tightened. I could feel her pain. It was a sad hum buzzing under my skin. I couldn’t make the feeling go away, so I did the only thing I knew to do. I grabbed the brush, and I immortalized her.”
The drawing is done in charcoal. The lines are hurried, yet I can see every worry line in the woman’s face from her frown to the pinch of her chin. Around her is an angry shading, as if he couldn’t make the page dark enough. While he was capturing the woman’s pain, it feels like he was expressing his own as well.
As dramatic as the image is, it’s absolutely stunning.
I walk over to the rows of canvases and peek through them. He likes to paint people. His talent for capturing features is impressive. Many have bright colors, bold and vibrant. Others are more soothing in blues and browns.
“Do you sell them?” I ask.
“I gift them.”
“To whom?”
“Whom?” he teases.
I lightly push him on the shoulder. “Proper grammar is kinda my thing.”
“Kinda?” He steps back to avoid getting pushed again.
I smirk as I step toward another canvas that features a man in a suit, screaming out. He has black hair and equally dark eyes. His strong jaw shows he’s young and ruggedly handsome. While everything about him is dark, his voice is portrayed in bright yellow. The stream starts in his heart, beneath the tie he wears tight around his neck, and grows thicker as it climbs up his throat.
There’s another of a woman clinging to her child, as if she is being pulled away and doesn’t want to leave. It’s heartbreaking.
Not all of his art is sad. Some images are uplifting. There’s a series of canvases on the floor, facing up. Each bears a couple in a different stage of embrace. They’re utterly romantic and mildly erotic.
Another set is a child blowing bubbles. It’s humorous and sweet.
Of all, the one that speaks to me the most is of an older woman dancing in the park. She has shades of pink and gold all around her, and the emerald trees look to be cheering her on. It makes me smile.
“I wish I could paint like this,” I say, glancing up at him.
“Have you ever tried?”
I laugh out loud. “Um, no. I have problems with stick figures. I actually hate art.”
“You hate art?” he asks, slightly stepping back.
I shake my head. “No, sorry. I love looking at art. I hate making art. I never feel like I can create what I see in my mind.”
“What do you see in your mind?”
“Have you seen those little graffiti-like paintings popping up around some of the run-down buildings? I’d love to create something like that but bigger. Remember that tenement I was telling you about? The one I see outside my classroom. Sometimes, I look up and wish there were a huge mural there. I want my students to see beauty where others see destruction.” I glance over at him and then feel embarrassed. “It’s silly—”
“It’s beautiful,” he states.
I tug a stray hair behind my ear. “Not everyone thinks so. My ex-boyfriend thought it was a stupid idea. He hates that I work there. He hates this neighborhood. He hates that I stay late to tutor for free and that I buy supplies for students whose parents don’t bring them in. Aaron always thought I should be teaching at a private school. He said I was too weak to be working in an inner city school. Apparently, there’s such a thing as caring too much.”
“Fuck him.” Tanner crosses his arms, his toned forearms on display.
“Yeah. Fuck him,” I say sarcastically.
“You curse like a ten-year-old.”
“I don’t curse often.”
“I can tell,” he says with a smirk.
I place a hand on my hip in defiance.
“You’re cute as hell.”
As if to make the matter worse, I roll my eyes. Yes, I curse like a ten-year-old and roll my eyes like a teenager. Maybe I do spend too much time with my students. “How is one supposed to curse?”
He unfolds his arms and saunters over to me. Each step is determined, and as he draws near, I think he might kiss me. Instead, he stops—close. Oh-so close to the point that his chest is touching mine. The sensation sends prickles up my spine.
I look up and watch as his lips part, and his teeth skim his plump lower lip.
His hand snakes behind me toward a table. When it reappears, he has a brush in it. “This is how you tell the world to go to hell.”
I raise a brow. He leans back toward the table and grabs a small can of red paint.
With a nod toward the sheet pinned to the wall, he asks, “What do you say?”
I’m not an artistic person. The most creative thing I’ve ever done was decorate my classroom door for a holiday competition, and even then, my students helped me. It’s why I chose the fifth grade; there’s barely any in-class arts and crafts involved. It’s math and science and social studies and—
Why is Tanner opening the can of paint?
With the can now open, I stare at the brilliant, crimson color. It’s rich like blood, and it makes my own feel like it’s swimming wildly through my veins.
I take the brush from his hand and make my disclaimer. “I’m not any good.”
“Do you think Jackson Pollock was any good?”
I glance at him. “Who?”
He laughs, so I step past him and walk up to the large sheet. I have no clue what to do.
Tanner pulls a stool up beside me and places the red can on top. Sensing my hesitation about this experience, he takes my hand that’s holding the brush and lifts it up to dip it down in the can. When he raises my hand back up, the brush is coated in red.
“It’s dripping—” I start to say when he grabs my elbow with his other hand and forces my arm to flick forward with good force.
The paint flies in the air. Some lands on the floor, but mostly, it goes on the sheet in front of us.
Did I mention I hate to make a mess?
My focus is trained on the floor that is now decorated with red splatters. I e
ven got a little on my brand-new dress. I go to put the brush down when rock music starts playing a deep guitar riff that plays two chords and then pauses before strumming again.
The lyrics start about it being “one of those days” and how everybody sucks. Tanner raises the volume.
My heart starts to race.
He raises the audio until it’s deafening. The ground feels like it’s thumping through the soles of my feet.
This is hate music in the best way possible, and every part of me—from my toes and up my spine, straight to my brain—starts to zing with excitement.
Looking back at the sheet, I kick my shoes off. I squeeze the brush handle, dipping it in the can before holding it back up, letting the paint drip down my hand.
Fuck him.
The last few years of my life replay in my mind as the paint trickles onto my arm. Aaron smiling at me as he asked if he could buy me a drink that first night we met. His laugh as we spent our first lazy Saturday in bed. That happy twinkle in his eye when I said we should move in together—into my apartment.
Those images are overshadowed by the look of calmness when I walked into my apartment to surprise him by coming home from my parents’ house early and seeing Nicole making breakfast in my kitchen while wearing my robe. He was wearing the Knicks T-shirt I’d bought him for his birthday.
I don’t know why I remember what the two of them were wearing so vividly. It’s probably my heart’s way of protecting itself from the things I don’t want to remember—the clothes strewed across the living room floor, the tangled sheets on the bed, or the fact that Aaron wasn’t wearing any fucking pants.
This is how you say fuck you.
When my arm flies through the air, splattering paint all over the cloth in front of me, I scream in elation.
Fuck you, Aaron, and your tears when I barged out the door and ran down the hallway.
Fuck you, Nicole, for your cries of how it’s not as bad as it looks.
Hatred for him, hatred for everyone I called my friends, and hatred for myself for not seeing it. The paint flies off the brush with a violent thrust.
