Fearsome

by S. A. Wolfe

  I begin to drizzle watercolors down parts of the drawing, painting in the girl with vibrant colors to offset against the black and white grimness of the man. I’ve been doing these types of paintings for a few years and I enjoy them so much that I obsess about future ideas while I’m doing my day job or hanging out with friends. My mind is always thinking of new images I want to explore.

  My roommates and colleagues at 5 Alpha call my paintings grunge art because I combine so many images of pop culture and world news, blending the humor of society with the grimness of reality. Some people seem to really like it, but others have told me it’s kind of scary.

  When I gave a couple of pieces as gifts to my boss, he got me hooked up with a friend of his who owns a gallery in Chelsea. I didn’t think much of it, yet the art dealer, Tom, was persistent. He came to my ramshackle apartment and insisted on taking ten of my paintings to hang in his gallery. When I didn’t initially jump at the chance, Tom reminded me that having a dealer asking to represent you was like winning the lottery and no artist can afford to be self-deprecating. That shut me up. I handed over all of my paintings with gratitude.

  There are starving artists everywhere wanting to get noticed. I realized that, however, he didn’t seem to understand that I never started out with the intention of selling my paintings. I did it because the images hounded me until I put them down on paper. I did it to escape from the daily grind of work as well as to escape the numbers that plague my brain. It’s true.

  Sometimes, my brain feels like it’s an automated system running code on its own and I’m forced to visualize the numbers as they scroll through my mind. I can be eating lunch and some random number will pop in my mind and I’ll whisper out loud, “Seventy million.” Seventy million what? The numbers change and they generally come to me during stressful times when my brain is deliberating over a predicament. I’m really not sure what it is; if it’s an affliction, a form of anxiety, a part of obsessive-compulsive disorder, but I manage with it while, at the same time, I find that it compels me to draw and paint more.

  Once I finish a piece, I feel an incredible release and sense of freedom. Katie says it’s an artgasm because I haven’t gotten laid. She’s blunt like that. It’s what makes her a good roommate. Besides, maybe she’s right. I’ve dated enough and done plenty of things over and under the clothes, but even with the guys I think I could fall in love with, I reach a point where I realize I don’t want to have sex with them.

  I never wanted to be a twenty-year-old virgin, yet for some reason, I’m holding back. The last guy I dated was a pretty good catch, enough so that one night I was naked in his bed and doing just about everything. We were both eagerly horny and sweaty; however, when he climbed on top of me, I immediately pushed him aside and struggled away. The desire had deflated in a flash.

  “Nope, this isn’t going to work,” I said to him. I wasn’t angry, scared or weepy; I just realized I didn’t want that with him. He was pissed. Watching him trying to put his pants on with an erection and then wrapping his hoodie around his waist so he could escape my apartment, left me wondering if I was a lesbian and just didn’t know it. Sharing a tiny bathroom with two other women tells me, no, I definitely love the male body. I also love having crushes and the idea of falling in love with a man.

  Yep, when I saw Dylan, that rush of lust and desire hit me like a bug on a windshield. Splat! Could I fall in love with Dylan? I don’t know about that, especially since I keep thinking about his rude older brother. If I want a summer fling, Dylan seems like a sure thing. He’s sending all the right signals, but I’m very good at making things not work out. I’m very good at taking the hard road, which is probably why I’m attracted to Carson.

  I laugh to myself and then, without thinking, I whisper, “Fifty million.”

  “You still do that?” A deep voice startles me, a voice that I like very much.

  I turn around and find Carson standing at the open door to the studio. He is incredibly handsome with his chiseled, serious face and his broad shoulders that veer down into a muscular torso. A leather tool belt is slung low on his narrow hips and it simply makes him sexier.

  “What?” I ask.

  “That whispering thing. You used to whisper numbers to yourself all the time.”

  “I did? You actually remember that?”

  He nods and then enters the room as if he was waiting for a safe time to pass between us. He walks around the studio and studies each painting I stuck on the wall. He is quiet as he takes his time with each piece. It’s almost more difficult than if he saw me naked. After a few minutes, he turns back to me and his expression has all the earlier tension and crankiness washed from it.

  “These are good. Provocative,” he comments.

  I pause and then stammer, completely surprised by his compliment.

  “Thank you. I didn’t think you’d like them.”

  “Why?” He stares at me as if it’s a standoff.

  “Because you always thought I was a pest. At least, that’s what it sounds like even though I don’t recall it being that way when I was a kid.”

  Carson laughs lightly and comes closer to me. “You’re talented. I knew that then and I see that now. You’ve grown into something that is your own. Not many people get to be so fortunate.”

  I savor the praise coming from his deep, alluring voice and I feel lucky to see him smile. Is that a rarity for him? I suspect so.

  “You weren’t a pest,” he says, now close enough that I can see the pulse in his neck and his bicep, strangled by the snug, short sleeve of his T-shirt. He didn’t shave this morning, and there are a few spots of sawdust caught in his stubble and across the hairs on his arm. He is filthy from work and normally I wouldn’t let someone like that walk into my clean space, but on Carson, it’s so appealing.

  “Wow,” Dylan says as he walks right to the wall of paintings. “Cute girl with a grenade and a bear holding a peace sign. Weird stuff.”

  Carson gives me a sympathetic shrug. It’s the first time I feel that he is on my side. Maybe I’ve done something to win him over.

  “Ginnie did some pretty neat abstracts, but these are really out there,” Dylan continues.

  “Do you like them, though?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” Dylan says. “They make a bold statement without being pretentious.”

  “All right, that’s enough of that.” Carson rakes his hand through his dark, unruly hair. “Back to work.” He looks at me a moment and I am captivated by his blue eyes and long eyelashes. I think I just got caught staring with a little too much interest on my part so I turn away quickly.

  Carson leaves, but Dylan stays. He fills the spot that Carson has just been occupying and I catch myself breathing in all the maleness that surrounds me. I have never welcomed so much testosterone at one time. The men at 5 Alpha are colleagues that I’ve never been attracted to; however, Dylan and Carson have my insides fluttering like a butterfly on high-octane. I don’t know what to do with my hands or my gaze without appearing to be swooning. I grab a fistful of paintbrushes and a bottle of gel ink to keep my hands busy. Dylan follows and is right behind me, closing in on all the empty air I was planning on using to breathe.

  “Hey,” he says softly. “Would you go out with me for dinner?”

  “Um.” I fidget and think of all the possible reasons why this would be a bad idea, but then the obvious one hits me in the face. My first dates never turn into second dates and if things are going to go sour with Dylan, how does that affect me being in the same town with him? Even if I sell this house, he’s doing all the repair and renovation work. “I don’t know if I can.”

  “Tomorrow night. I’ll take you to this nice little restaurant in Woodstock. I’d like to get to know you without everyone else hovering around us.”

  “I’m calling my office today and I may have to head back to the city tomorrow and then finish up here next weekend.”

  “You don’t have to leave tomorrow, Jess. Call your boss. He’ll te
ll you to take your time.”

  “How do you know? My company believes in working around the clock. You know what people do during their time off? Work! That’s what they do.”

  Dylan smiles at me and then swoops in for a kiss. It is a long, lingering kiss that excites me and leaves me wanting more before I finally push away.

  “Dinner tomorrow night,” he says, looking just as heated as I feel. “I have to work in the shop tomorrow. We have a lot of orders so I won’t be here during the day.”

  “What shop?” My voice is weak. I really want to kiss him again.

  “Carson’s workshop. We make furniture.”

  “I didn’t know that,” I say, thinking they were handymen. Archie had mentioned something about furniture, but I must have forgotten that they have actual jobs other than working on Aunt Virginia’s house.

  “I’ll take you there sometime and introduce you to the crew. They’re more fun than Carson.”

  “I need to make some calls now, but I’ll let you know about tomorrow night,” I tell him, thinking that I’ll have to turn him down.

  “Oh, we’re going. That’s not an issue.” Dylan heads back down the hall to the library where Carson has been hammering away.

  First I call my boss, Nathan. I sit on the front stoop of the house with my phone, catching the afternoon rays.

  It’s a Sunday, but it’s not unusual for people in our office to call each other on weekends or vacations if there’s a computer glitch that has to be fixed immediately. I’ve probably spent more time talking to Nathan on my cell phone than I have in person.

  Surprisingly, Nathan is very accommodating. He is amazed that I have inherited a country home and suggests that I stay longer to figure out what I’m going to do with the property. He also says he’ll send out a computer and other equipment with some of the guys from IT and then I can work from the house.

  “I’m not letting you resign, Jessica,” he says to me. “We have too many good projects cooking with you. I may even come out and visit my little country mouse.”

  Nathan’s plan is surprisingly good. It never occurred to me to work from here, at least for a while. Plus, the IT guys will do all the set-up; they’ll bring in a few nice, big 27-inch monitors and a printer along with whatever else I need here. Nathan is even going to wire the house for Internet service since Aunt Virginia didn’t even use a computer. Apparently, she counted on her cell phone for access to the Internet and she only got that when she left her home.

  Next I call my roommates. Marissa picks up and then Kate gets on the other cordless phone. “Oh. My. God!” they say in unison.

  “Who gets a whole house when someone dies?” Kate asks.

  “Um, a lot of people inherit property,” I answer.

  “Yes, but who do we know that gets a house you can vacation in? This is unbelievable!” Kate says excitedly, as if she won a prize.

  “Sorry, for your loss,” Marissa says, trying to get Kate to tone down her jubilation over my ill-gotten gains.

  The conversation is short and ends with me reminding them to deposit my check and pay our landlord on time, since I’m the one that usually handles all the bill paying. I beg them to tape a large note about the bill due dates on the fridge. Before saying goodbye, Kate inquires about a pool or local amenities in case she and Marissa want to visit for a weekend. I explain that it’s an old house without modern day conveniences, but the luxury it offers is scenic solitude. That doesn’t seem to deter Kate, not after hearing that my workmen are attractive, hunky young men.

  “Shit,” I say after ending the call. Bert is leaning against my back and does a partial roll into me so his stubby legs are in the air and I’m pushed farther off the step. “Honey, if this is how you’re going to spend your day, we’ve got a problem,” I tell him.

  A small car comes up the driveway, leaving a trail of dust in its path. I abruptly stand up to see who it is and Bert rolls off the top step, crashing into my feet. He gets up with a grunt and shakes himself off before moving back into the shade of the porch. “Come on, Hangover, it’s time to get up already.”

  “What did you call him?” Lauren asks as she and Imogene get out of the little car with beach towels and tote bags.

  “Hangover, that’s funny,” Imogene comments.

  “We’re here to sunbathe. Figure you could use some company and we have the afternoon off to work on our tans,” Lauren says.

  “I’m not much of a sunbather. I’m as pale as they come,” I say. “But I sure could use some company. This pooch doesn’t talk much.”

  “Bert is sweet, but he’s lazy. You’ll never see him playing catch or anything like that. We always lie out over there.” Imogene points to the west side of the house to the open sunny grass under the library window.

  “Okay, that sounds good.” I help them carry a grocery bag of chips and water out to the designated spot.

  They’ve brought a beach towel for me, too. I spread out the towels as they peel off their tank tops and shorts to reveal very skimpy bikinis underneath. Lauren is a very tan, willowy, blond with the perfect figure you see in catalogues and magazines. She piles her lengthy, blond hair on top of her head like me, showing off her long, graceful neck.

  Imogene, on the other hand, is a full-figured gal with a large bosom. She isn’t shy about wearing a bikini which offers no support for her heavy breasts and ample waist, though. She has fairer skin than Lauren, so I’ll probably have to nag her about sun exposure and skin cancer. Being a fair-skinned redhead, I’m big on SPF and hats, even though I have allowed myself to get a hint of a tan and sprinkle of tiny freckles across my nose so I can show some skin in the summer.

  “I didn’t bring a suit,” I say. “I had no idea I’d be relaxing in the sun when I planned this trip.”

  “We know that, dummy. I brought you one of my suits.” Lauren pulls a red one-piece out of her tote bag and hands it to me. “Don’t worry; it’s clean, practically brand new.”

  “All right,” I say hesitantly. “Let me go change upstairs. Did you bring sunscreen?”

  Imogene holds up two bottles. “Of course.”

  I stand in front of the dresser mirror, turning to get a good view of my rear. The swimsuit is a very bright red, but I have to admit, it’s flattering in a 1940’s pin-up girl sort of way. I don’t have a big chest, yet the halter makes me look fuller on top and the ruching on the sides with the high-cut leg openings makes my legs look very long and slender.

  Since I don’t have the instant power to give myself bigger boobs or longer legs, I decide that I’m pleased with how I look. I grab one of Aunt Virginia’s large, sombrero-style sun hats and head back downstairs.

  As I pass the second floor, I hear “What the—” from Carson as he sees the flash of red dashing down the stairs.

  Lauren and Imogene have brought out a serving tray from the kitchen and have it loaded with beverages, bowls of chips, and pretzels.

  “You can’t wear that hat! You won’t get any sun,” Lauren exclaims. “It looks like you have an umbrella on your head.”

  “That’s the point,” Imogene remarks. “She doesn’t want to burn. Wow, Jess, you look fabulous in that suit. Very sexy for a one-piece.”

  “Very,” Lauren adds.

  “I like it, too,” I agree. “Thanks for bringing it.”

  I plop down on one of the towels and lean back on my hands. The view is majestic. Rolling green hills, blue sky, and it’s my view.

  “This is heaven,” I say.

  “Hmm.” Lauren is on her back, arms raised above her head for even tanning. It makes me giggle.

  “Don’t laugh,” Imogene says. “She’s a pro at perfecting the killer tan. Too bad that someday it may kill her.”

  “Leave me alone,” Lauren says without opening her eyes.

  “I wouldn’t mind a little more color for my date, so I don’t look like death,” I say before kicking myself. I may have resigned myself to the idea of Dylan’s dinner invitation, but I didn’t want a
nyone else to know that I was going out with him. At least not yet, not on the heels of my aunt’s death; the part about me being new to town and looking like a cheap hussy bothers me.

  “Date?” Imogene shouts. “With who?” She and Lauren both prop themselves up on their elbows, waiting for me to respond.

  “Dylan is taking me out for dinner tomorrow night.”

  “Dylan. Of course. He’s been all over you,” Imogene notes.

  “That’s fast even for Dylan,” Lauren says. “He’s a great guy and so cute, he gets the women, but we only see him hanging out with them at bars or parties. He never dates one person, Jess.”

  “Yeah, he gets his pick of women, that’s for sure,” Imogene adds. “I’ve seen him rolling down the street at dawn, coming back from a one night-stand, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen him on a real date. He’s one of those guys that goes out with a group of people and ends up sleeping with different women every time.”

  “Ugh. Well, then maybe I shouldn’t go. I mean, I’m not looking to date someone. I assumed this was just a friendly dinner invitation, but now it sounds like a bad idea.”

  “No, you should go,” Imogene insists. “He’s sexy hot and he obviously likes you a lot. I would go in a heartbeat if a guy like him asked me out, but not Dylan. He’s a like a brother to us.”

  “Yeah.” Lauren makes a little face to Imogene who shakes her off. They’re hiding something from me. “We can’t date Dylan. Not that he’d ask us. He is too much like a brother. I am a little jealous, though. I’ve lived here my whole life and I’ve had some crappy boyfriends and, no matter what I do, I can’t get that idiot Leo to even notice me. You’re here two days and you have a stud hot on your tail.”