Truth in Watercolors (Truth Series Book 2)

by Rose, Kimberly

  “Well, well, well.” Wes sauntered in wearing a pair of loose sweatpants and a yellowish T-shirt. I myself would never be caught dead in a pair of sweats, but holy jeezus, Wes rocked ‘em. They were just baggy enough that the waistband sat low on his hips, exposing the carved edge of his stomach, and I saw no sign of boxers or briefs. None. NONE. Crap, why did I think coming here was a good idea?

  As he approached me, my eyes danced around the gym trying to avoid the best damn pair of sweatpants to grace the male form. A cup of coffee suddenly dangled across my line of sight.

  I looked at Wes and watched him take a sip of his own cup. “You brought me coffee?” I asked rolling my eyes at the penis doodled on the side in Sharpie. “Nice touch.”

  “Skinny soy vanilla latte, no whip, and dick,” he said grinning proudly. I took it from him and sipped a cautious taste of my usual, minus the male anatomy. I’d like to keep that out of my coffee.

  “You knew I’d show,” I said smiling at him precariously.

  “I hoped.” He shrugged and walked away.

  “I sketched it all out last weekend so we can get right to work on the color,” he said from across the gym. His words echoed through the empty space. Color. Color. Color.

  “Okay,” I said taking tentative steps toward him, still unsure if this was the best idea. But I was here. “I’ll start on the waves,” I suggested. “Did you happen to pick up different shades?” I asked.

  “Yep.” He smiled pointing to three cans of paint. “Aqua, caribbean, and navy,” he said proudly.

  I nodded. “Okay. Let’s do this.” His grin spread across his face emphasizing the dimples beneath his short beard, and his eyes danced with excitement. I smiled back at his boyish grin set amidst the manly facial hair. How could I not?

  Wes had the most endearing smile of anyone I’d ever met. He hooked me with it the very first day I met him when I was eleven. He and August had a science project they were working on together over the weekend. Wes didn’t have a ride to our house so my mom went to pick him up and bring him back over. I was sitting in my room doodling a picture of a heart with an arrow through it. Above the heart, I’d written the name of our PE coach. He was so cute.

  As I was shading in a rounded curve of the heart with my pencil, my door blew open. In strode Wes shoving a hamburger into his mouth and balancing a soda and a notebook in the other hand. When he saw me and realized he’d waltzed into the wrong room, he did the opposite of what I had expected. He walked over and plopped himself on the ground next to me slurping from his cup and dripping hamburger bits all over my masterpiece.

  He’d finished eating his hamburger there while watching me shade and contour the image of the heart. Somewhere between chews and slurps, he’d introduced himself, but what I would never forget was how he complimented me on my dedication to my artwork. People had always told me how talented I was, or what a beautiful piece I was working on, but no one had ever commented on my actual dedication to it. I remembered staring at him after that compliment, unsure of why it felt so profound. That was when he grinned. His smile stretched from side to side and each dimple popped out. POW. POW. Upon his exit from my room, I erased my PE coach’s name and wrote WES above the heart.

  I was under Wes. His larger frame hovered over me and blocked out nearly all of my synthetic light. “Can you move a little to the left for a minute?” I asked.

  “Sure thing,” he said shifting over a step closer to me on the stool he stood on. I was so over using colored paint and opted to paint one of the silhouettes after lunch instead of another wave. It just so happened to be directly below the area Wes had been working on since he came in. “That okay?” he asked smirking down at me. I rolled my eyes.

  “You’re a mural hog,” I said turning to dip my brush into the black paint. I swirled it around, working the paint between each bristle.

  “There are three other dudes you could be painting. You chose the one closest to me. Not that I’m complaining. I kinda like the view of you under me,” he smirked, and I peered angrily over my shoulder. His response was to hold his brush out in a fist in front of him and crudely hump the air. The roll of my eyes was just beginning when I felt the wet plop of paint land on my shoulder.

  “Wes,” I said reaching back to grab my spare towel to wipe it off. “You got paint on me.” I wiped my shoulder when another drop landed on my hand. “Wes!” I shrieked at him. “Watch your brush.” Then another drop fell in a splat directly in my cleavage. I jerked my head up to Wes, who had his back to me and was shaking silently with laughter. “You jerk! You’re doing it on purpose?” I questioned, though clearly he was. I swore, sometimes I felt like I was with a child.

  I turned and quickly grabbed my brush from the paint dish. I whipped back around and applied a steady stroke of black paint across Wes’ bare foot. He froze and looked down toward his foot before up at me. “Oh, it’s on now,” he said jumping down from the stool.

  I took off running across the gym with my brush in my hand. I didn’t know what he had planned, but I wasn’t staying close enough to find out. “Running isn’t gonna help you.” I heard Wes behind me just before I felt a splatter of paint on my back.

  I stiffened and turned around slowly. “You’re ruining my clothes,” I seethed at him trying to hide the smile that wanted to break through.

  He shrugged his shoulders flipping the brush in his hand. “It doesn’t look like one of your good outfits so who cares.”

  “Are you telling me that I look like crap?” I asked offended that he called me out on my comfy clothes. I’d dressed in a pair of well-worn jeans and a plain white tee topped off with a pair of old converse. Not my most stylish, but I’d planned for them to be covered in paint. Just not like this.

  Wes laughed at me, “No, C. I’m not saying that at all. In fact, I think this is my favorite on you.”

  “Now you’re just teasing me,” I said squinting my eyes at him in annoyance.

  He put both arms in the air in surrender and walked toward me. “I’m not teasing you. Those jeans...” He clicked his tongue against his teeth and let his eyes slide over me. I shuddered at the way my body seemed to melt under his stare. Every inch his eyes passed warmed and softened in response.

  I ignored the flutter it gave me to have him look at me in such a feral way and seized my opportunity. With his eyes strolling their way lazily around my chest, I lifted my paintbrush and flicked it at him sending a splatter of paint in his direction.

  I imagined his eyes would have snapped to mine in surprise, or irritation maybe, had they not been covered in paint. He lifted his shirt and wiped the paint from his lashes. My mouth dropped at seeing that stomach in its perfectly rippled glory. His chuckling moved his abs in a synchronized dance for my viewing pleasure. Then, they disappeared behind their white curtain. Take a bow, abs. Take a bow.

  Wes tugged on his shirt sleeve to dab off the paint that had sprinkled across his upper arm. I didn’t even notice how successful my attack was. Being that it was black paint, it blended seamlessly with his colorless tattooed arm.

  “You have any?” Wes asked, flashing his dimpled grin with a smear of black paint that he’d missed.

  “Any what?” I asked, thinking that if I were as nice to Wes as I was to everyone else, I’d go help him wipe the paint off. Instead, I bit back a giggle when he licked his lips and his face pinched in disgust at the taste of the pigment on his tongue.

  “Tattoos,” he said wiping his forearm across his mouth, successfully removing the paint.

  “No.” I laughed. I’d never be getting a tattoo. I held no judgment whatsoever to those who had them. In fact, both my brother and Kensie had them. Tattoos just weren’t for me. I had no desire to permanently ink my body. I’d rather accessorize with the latest trends.

  “Shame,” Wes said closing the gap between us. I watched him approach and felt my eyes grow wide when he reached out toward me. “This spot right here would look really nice with something small.” I shuddered
at the feel of his finger trailing across the skin of collarbone. He was close enough that I could feel the puffs of his breath as he studied me. Each exhalation set a jittery butterfly into flight inside me one at a time.

  From an onlooker, the touch would have looked incredibly intimate, but from here, I knew it was all business. Wes had a purposeful look on his face that told me his delicate touch was nothing more than a consult between artist and customer. I wondered if he’d ever crossed that line. Most likely, he had.

  “I think even something small would hurt right there,” I said keeping our conversation casual and ignoring the rabble of butterflies now partaking in disorder and mayhem in my stomach.

  He shrugged and took a step back. “Anything on the bone hurts. You could handle it, though. A lot of the chicks I’ve worked on take it like champs.” He winked at me. God, he couldn’t even talk about my collarbone without thinking of other women.

  “C, I gave this chick a piece the other day right on her ass,” Wes said with his voice rising in excitement.

  “Cool,” I replied, ready to check out of this conversation and get back to work.

  “It was amazing; this huge lion on one entire cheek.”

  “Great,” I said walking past him toward the mural without looking at him. Normally, when he talked about his art with this enthusiastic little boy quality, I melted a little. I knew his work wasn’t just a job. He tattooed because he loved art and was lucky enough to discover his perfect medium to create. It made me almost proud of him.

  “And her ass was so tight, C, so in shape, it held the form of the lion perfectly.” His current enthusiasm was nothing short of obnoxious.

  “Awesome,” I said with my back to him, reaching my arms up to readjust my ponytail.

  “Hey! I have an idea, C,” Wes shouted eagerly.

  “What? You want to do her other ass cheek next? Her tits? Her cooch? What Wes?” I turned around, throwing my arms to my side.

  “Cooch?” His eyes were wide and smug smile leered on his face.

  “Whatever.” I turned around and ripped the paintbrush from the tray.

  “What I was going to say before you interrupted me with your dirty mouth,” he said, humor tinting his deep voice, “was that I should paint a tat on you. That way you can see what you would think of a real one.”

  “You want to paint on me?” I asked whirling around.

  “Yeah, why not? We already have paint all over ourselves. Let me turn the mistakes into something intentional, something beautiful,” he said with softness to his eyes.

  What did a girl say to that? Abso-fuckin-lutely. “Maybe another time? I have a date tonight. I need to get going.”

  Now I was the asshole who was late. Shane took me out to a seafood restaurant in Point Loma last night, and while the ambiance with a view of the ocean was amazing, the date was average. He looked good dressed in a pair of dark denim jeans and a button up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to expose his bare forearms. He was a sweet guy, and he had a gentle vocabulary. The conversation rolled smoothly as we talked about school and our interests. To be honest, I found myself bored.

  I’d bid him farewell with a brief hug in his car. He’d asked to see me again, and I’d agreed, even though I had no plans to. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, though. I’d gotten home fairly early, but I’d found myself perched on my chair at my desk with my paintbrush comfortably in hand until the early morning hours. Once I was satisfied with how the marlin tattoo on Wes’ bicep had turned out, I’d fallen into my bed and didn’t wake up until an hour after my alarm had gone off.

  I blew into the youth center like a bitch at a Bloomy’s sale. “I’m so sor—” I stopped in the middle of my apology I had rehearsed on the way over when I saw Wes with his head hung low, staring at a piece of paper.

  He was standing on the step stool again and released one hand from the paper to run it stiffly through his hair. I paused in the doorway and studied him. His broad shoulders stretched and rolled lazily with his movements. The gap of exposed skin between the waistband of his boxers and bottom of his fit, well-worn tee shifted effortlessly and fluidly when he released his hair and grabbed the floppy end of the paper again.

  I felt comfortable here watching Wes. I guess you could say admiring him from afar was one of my favorite pastimes. Some might call it stalking. I liked to call it paying attention to the Wes no one else thought to look for.

  In high school, I’d do my homework sitting up in my window and watch for when he’d show up to hang out with August. He never had a backpack, just a binder he carried in one hand and a dense cloud of tension surrounding him. I’d watch as he stood off to the side of my dad’s shed where he thought no one could see him and smoke a quick cigarette. He’d lean back and relax into the stucco. With a run of his hands through his longer hair, he’d suck in a long drag and exhale a lazy stream of smoke. I swore I could see the air crack and soften around him in those moments just before he’d come into the house. I felt like I saw a side of Wes from up in my bedroom window that no one ever got to see. It was too bad they were stolen moments. He’d never given them to me.

  I always thought he kept that time to himself intentionally, though. I’d known Wes since I was a kid, and I’d never once seen him ask anyone for anything. My parents always took care of him like he was one of their own, but he’d never asked them to. He also never asked for anything from August, especially after he’d had, and then lost, Ella. In fact, Wes was August’s biggest source of strength. My parents worried less about August knowing Wes was looking out for him in his darkest days. I know I did.

  “Hey,” I said tentatively emerging into the light of the gym.

  Wes wobbled on the stool and regained his balance. “Capri,” he said in an irritatingly regal tone. He folded the paper quickly and shoved it deep into his front pocket.

  I dropped my purse by the door and approached him with a squint. “Everything good?”

  “How was your date?” he asked, his nose high in the air as he wiped his hands with an old shop rag.

  “Ah, I see,” I said pretending to check out the mural while trying to hide my smile. “It was okay.” I shrugged.

  “Just okay? Sounds like you shouldn’t go out with him again then. Okay is boring.” Wes picked up a paintbrush and tried to act nonchalant. He tapped the handle of it on an empty paint tray, but the brush stumbled from his grip and fell crashing to the ground, filling the room with an irritated echo.

  “I agree. I won’t be seeing him again,” I said smiling over my shoulder at Wes, who had no clue I was watching when he did a silent fist pump into the air.

  “Is there anyone from the shop you could set me up with?” I crossed my arms over my chest and turned to him with a smirk.

  “What?” his voice bellowed through the gym.

  “I have a thing for tattoos lately,” I said honestly. Though, lately was a stretch. I’d always had a thing for one particular guy with tattoos.

  “No. I’m not setting you up with any guys from the shop, C. Or any dudes at all.” Wes threw his brush into the messy pile he’d created on the floor.

  “No? Why is that, Wes?” Crap, Miss Sassy was in full swing today.

  “Why?” he asked, looking off into a far corner of his brain. Then his eyes snapped back to me when it seemed he had the answer and they seemed to say so much, but I couldn’t figure out what.

  Determination?

  Concern?

  Hesitation?

  Then he blinked, and it all disappeared.

  He cast a sparkling glance at my chest. “Ladies.” He bowed and turned his back on me, walking toward the door. I looked down. Shit. I forgot a bra.

  “C’mon, C. We’ve gotta go to the hardware store for some more paint.” He shouted behind him, and just like that, the gym was silent.

  The incoming storm reflected off the dashboard of the ’57 Chevy. I now knew exactly what Wes’ car was because I’d asked him how his Mustang was holding up when he held t
he door open so I could slide in. He’d placed his hand over his heart and winced in pain at my error, quickly correcting me.

  The reflected clouds dripped themselves across the dash. Their distended curves appeared dark and withdrawn, but the outstretched edges pulled toward me over the curved fiberglass. A shiver rolled through me, and I reached over to crank up the window.

  “Hey, Wes,” I said looking toward the passing palm trees. He and I hadn’t spoken a word since leaving SYC to go to the store. The only communication we’d had was when he tossed me a zip-up sweater to put on over myself.

  “Yeah?” Wes said with a casual upward nod of his head, but the usual confidence in his voice wasn’t there.

  “What was the paper you were looking at when I came in?” I asked him curiously. If they were new ideas for the mural, I hadn’t seen them yet. I wanted to make sure to get my hands on it soon in case there were any color changes I needed to go over, but judging by his unusual silence, I doubted that was what it was. Whatever was on that paper left him somber.

  “Nothin’.” That was all he said.

  “Well, if—” I started to ask if it was anything regarding the mural, but he cut me off quickly.

  “Look, it’s a list of numbers,” he said keeping his eyes firm on the road.

  “Numbers?”

  “Yeah, for chicks. I was looking to see who I was going to call tonight when we’re done here.” Ouch, not what I was expecting, and not what I believed, but that didn’t mean I needed the reminder of his overtly friendly ways.

  “Awesome,” I said focusing on the irritation I felt rather than the jealousy masking a smidgen of pain.

  “You know how I am, C,” he said callously.

  “Yep,” I said popping the p.

  He nodded slowly, softly, and bit the corner of his full bottom lip, but he never looked at me again. Just as well, because I’d probably sneer at him and sneering didn’t look good on me.