Survival of the Fiercest

by Chloe Blaque

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know yet, but I have to show my face at this opening now.” I rub my eyes and go limp in my chair.

  * * * *

  The entrance to the gallery is in the middle of a dark, dank alley. Very Warhol. After I flash my invitation, the lone bouncer waves me in and points me down a long, dim hallway. The black-gloss walls are like mirrors, and I check my dress. It’s the one Randy calls “the hotness”— a red one-shoulder with an asymmetrical hem that hits high on the right thigh and cuts a little past the left knee. I slow down and check that my dress isn’t too tight on my booty. It is, but if I don’t walk too fast, sit, or breathe, it will be okay.

  My dark curls are dramatically pulled up at the sides to cascade down my back. My dangling gold earrings are sparkling, and my nude lips are shining. I tell myself I didn’t dress for Evan, but the shimmer lotion I put on my legs busts that out of the water.

  Truth is I love when he calls me beautiful, and I’m feeling a bit like a teenager trying to get the attention of a boy. More truth is that our kiss kept me up all night, and I was kicking myself for not letting him come to my room. I masturbated twice before finally falling asleep.

  On the way here, I made a deal with myself—look but don’t touch.

  The hallway leads to an enormous white industrial space with concrete floors, skylights, and a temperature of about sixty-five degrees. My skin tightens into goose bumps. Low track lighting throws a romantic veil on the crowd, and each piece is highlighted by spotlights from the floor. I have to swivel my head to take in the large, stone sections of salvaged wall mounted throughout the room. Each slab, of varying materials, is covered in incredible graffiti.

  Minglers silently peruse the art with flutes of champagne and little tapas in hand. I don’t see Evan, but I see a few of the girls from Viper PR. I nod and smile, knowing they will report back to Khan, and turn the other way. I make my way to the bar in the corner and grab a flute, then walk a path to each work of art. Following along the wall, I study each angst-filled landscape. They are cracked and chipped, making them look like 3-D puzzle pieces glued back together, leaving them with a gritty, almost ghetto feeling. I continue into another large room—a gray open space with more huge stone chunks carved and painted. I’m wondering at the time and effort it takes to create something this amazing when I hear a deep voice behind me.

  “I knew you’d change your mind.”

  Instantly, I’m brought back to the first night we met. I rein in my wide smile and will my heart to slow down. “You say that to all the girls,” I throw over my shoulder before turning to face him. He is edible in a white button-down shirt, a black tuxedo blazer, jeans, and mirror high-tops.

  Dayum.

  He smiles, and I watch his gaze roam appreciatively over my dress. “You are stunning,” he says. “I’m glad you came.”

  “Well, I received an invitation, so why not. Looks like a good turnout.”

  “Yeah. We’ve sold some of the big pieces already. Have you been here long?”

  “No, not long.”

  “Good,” he says, leaning closer. “I can give you a personal tour. Each instillation has a story.”

  “Tell me about these,” I say, turning back to the wall.

  “These were on a few buildings down the street that were being demolished, so we had to go in and fish out the pieces to put it back together. Some we could actually cut out; others were a hunt-and-gather process.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like this.” My voice trails off as I follow the depictions of life, happiness, pain, and death along the wall. “Feel the art”—my fine arts professor’s words fill my head. Finally I know what those words mean.

  Evan leads me through the labyrinth of rooms, and I wander from piece to piece, the echo of his slow footsteps never far behind. Stopping at a canvas painting, I glance at Evan and find him studying a black-and-white photograph. His long legs are slightly apart, his arms are crossed over his chest, and his brow is furrowed. My lingering gaze rests on his mouth, and I recall our kiss at the hotel.

  Lost for a moment, I watch his lips curve into a small smile. I slide my gaze up to meet his. Mortified, I turn and slip around a floor-to-ceiling installation. Suddenly I am alone in the back of the room, staring at a monochromatic billboard-sized painting of a man and woman making love.

  Taking a few steps back, I follow the swirls and strokes on the canvas, which depicts an arching African female silhouette molded into the triangular body of a white masculine figure. By her open mouth and bold arrangement over the man, it seems that the woman in the picture is frozen in ecstasy.

  Everything else falls away.

  “What do you think?” Evan’s breath warms my ear. My nipples strain against my bra.

  “That is beautiful.”

  “Look at her. Back arched. All that hair, those curves… She looks familiar.” My panties are drenched. I bite the inside of my cheek.

  “Ex-girlfriend?” I ask, feeling testy at his teasing.

  “She’s a goddess,” he says, bending to my ear again. “It’s Isis.”

  I snap my head around to look over my shoulder. “How do you know?”

  “I know the kid who painted it.”

  “A kid?” This is interesting. I turn around and am met by the wall of Evan’s chest. “What kid?”

  “His name is Anthony, goes by Tone. See?” He points to the small, painted name at the corner of the mural. “Long story short, he dropped out of school at fifteen, went into the system, ran away to a shelter, and has been selling drugs and tagging up this place for years.” Evan smooths an errant curl that has wound its way around my neck. “I met him at a charity event for one of the youth shelters in the city, and he was wowing everyone with portraits he was selling for five bucks.”

  “Oh wow. Where is he now?” I search for the hair at my throat, my fingers inadvertently tangling with Evan’s. I snatch my hand away as if burned.

  “I helped him get his GED and hooked him up with a graphic design internship at a friend’s clothing company. They helped him pay for school. He’s now a freelance graphic artist with a small apartment downtown. He’s a good kid. He just needed a chance.”

  That same vulnerability I saw yesterday passes over his face, making me want to throw my arms around him.

  “Well, you certainly helped him.” His expression is warm, and his face is very close to mine. “How did you get this piece?”

  “He sold it to me.” I watch his mouth as he answers.

  Before I know what I am doing, I am inching toward him, pulled by that voracious need that has been growing since I met him.

  All I have to do is give in, lean a little closer.

  He is very still, watching me with those jewel-blue eyes. Unable to stop myself, I take a deep breath and began to tilt toward him. Then I think of Fierce and Josie Pink.

  I jerk back.

  “What just happened?” asks Evan. His chest rises and falls with agitated breaths.

  “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “Bullshit. You were about to kiss me.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  Before I turn around, Evan grabs my arm and brings my face to his. “You know, when you forget to check yourself, your emotions show all over your face. Your eyes get dark and a little unfocused, like you need something and you are trying to figure out how to get it. Makes me want to throw you over my shoulder, take you to bed, and give it to you.”

  I swallow hard and imagine us “giving it” to each other; I can feel it so sharply, as if my brain is operating in HD. Closing my eyes, I try to steady my dancing pulse, but the attempt is futile as his strong arms snake around my waist. My body tips forward, and I grip his shoulders for balance. Evan’s lips trail a warm path up my throat, stopping at my ear.

  “Tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll stop.” Without waiting for an answer, he bends down and nips my bottom lip. I’m speechless. V
iolent tremors of desire rack my senses. My mind shuts down. My body takes over.

  Twisting my hands in his hair, I guide his face to mine and capture his mouth. I want him, and I don’t care if it’s crazy, wrong, or stupid. My blood is pumping through my body, creating a firestorm between my legs. My pelvis grinds against the bulge in his jeans, dragging a breathy whimper from his chest. He cups the back of my head and pulls me near.

  My clothes feel too small. My thoughts are nothing short of slutty, but I don’t care. I’m a grown woman, and I don’t answer to anyone.

  Evan’s hands are sliding down my back when someone clears their throat next to us. Startled, I break away and see a tall black kid in a baseball cap and a leather motorcycle jacket. His fist is at his mouth, hiding a lopsided grin.

  “You made it,” Evan exclaims. They clasp hands and bump shoulders. Evan gives me a private look when he turns to me. “Lex, this is Tone. I was just telling her about your painting,” Evan says, pulling me into his side.

  “Yeah, right,” says Tone from behind his fist again.

  “You are so talented,” I say to Tone, blushing as we shake hands. With a shy nod, he whispers a thank-you, and I can see the boy who had to become a man so quickly. “Do you paint often?”

  “Some. I have a job now,” he says. “So it’s hard, but I get to work on stuff when I teach at the school.”

  “Oh? Where do you teach?” I ask. Evan excuses himself to greet another friend, and I turn back to Tone, who repeatedly shuffles his feet and stares at the floor. I wonder about his parents and assume that he is unused to this much attention from a woman.

  “At the after-school program that Evan set up though our kids’ organization,” Tone says.

  “What? You and Evan have a kids’ program? Tell me more.” I’m getting that tingly feeling when I find a story that I want to tell—the type of story that should be featured on Fierce.

  “We run a nonprofit called Paint the Town,” he begins. “It benefits the inner-city schools that had to cut art programs or just need to provide a place for the kids to go after school. So we do it for free.”

  “So you provide art supplies and everything?”

  “Yeah. We use the schoolrooms, but we bring the canvases, paint, brushes—the works. Evan’s crazy ass went out and bought iPads for all of them too, so they could play with the paint application at home. Then they bring it in and try to replicate it on canvas. The iPads came out of his pocket,” he says. “We don’t have the funds for that.”

  “Is it just you teaching?”

  “No. My friends teach too. Some of their work is hanging around in here. They’re good.” He nods. “Gets ’em off the street too,” he says, looking away.

  I glance at Evan talking with a couple who is smiling and pointing at one of the instillations. He is full of surprises, and it just makes him sexier. I don’t want to hurt him or his friends. I can’t write that gossip piece, but maybe I can substitute it for something with heart. Something meaningful.

  “I’d love to see a class,” I say, turning back to Tone. “I’m not sure if Evan mentioned this, but I’m a writer, and I’d love to do an article about your organization. Would you mind if I came to one?”

  “You write? That’s cool.” He pulls out a business card. “Here, let me know when you want to come.” We shake hands before he walks away, and I turn back to Isis. A shiver from the temperature zooms up my spine. Warm hands smooth down my arms, and a hard chest rests against my back.

  “You’re cold,” Evan says into my hair.

  “It’s chilly.”

  “I’ll warm you up.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Evan leads me through a short passage to the club from inside the gallery. We burst into the kitchen, dodging the busy staff that is preparing for dinner, and then continue out onto the main room. Weaving through the thick crowd, we make our way to the middle of the dance floor.

  Darkness peppered with multicolored laser lights cloaks us as we stand surrounded by undulating bodies—all of whom are in their own world. Evan spins me around in front of him and presses himself to my back. I lean into him, feeling the bass enter my chest.

  We start a slow two-step, our bodies moving in unison, his hands exploring my waist. I feel light kisses on my neck and respond by rocking into his growing erection. His hands slide lower, his fingers teasing my exposed thigh. Our hips are rolling together when one of my favorite songs comes on, and I hit full stripper mode. Bending forward, I reverse my ass up against him, pumping and grinding as we move in perfect timing. Randy would be proud.

  Whipping around, I crush my breasts to his chest and revel in the way his hands explore my sides. Grabbing the nape of his neck, I pull his head down and fuse my lips with his, thrusting my tongue into his mouth. A groan vibrates from his throat into mine, and we become one, pressed together from thigh to chest in the middle of the dance floor.

  The darkness and the crowd pack around us. The beat is inside me, elevating my arousal to a fever pitch, and I can’t control my impulses. Lifting on my toes, I grab one of his hands, quickly shoving it under my dress, placing it in between my thighs. His grunt ends in a plea when he finds me hot and damp.

  Snaking an arm around my back, he starts a discreet exploration under my panties, and my body starts trembling from the circular glide of his fingers on my clit. Needing more, I shift and shove into him as we continue to move with the crowd. Evan gets bolder, teasing my entrance, slipping in and out. Clasping his shirt, I bury my face in his shoulder and revel in sensation.

  His nose nuzzles my hair, and his breath is hot in my ear when he whispers, “You’re mine right now. I’m going to make you come in front of all these people. Can you feel how much I want you?” His erection is like a lead pipe in his pants. “I want to be so deep inside you.”

  I moan when he slips two digits inside me. He works me in an increasing rhythm that has my hands clenching at his shoulders and my muscles tense. I swivel my hips, searching for release.

  My orgasm hits me hard and fast, dragging ragged groans from my lips. My legs tremble as shockwaves take over my body. Evan’s arms lock around me, and I slump into him, resting my chin on the nape of his neck as he places kisses into my hair.

  It takes me a minute, but I gather my breath and am suddenly self-conscious from our…dancing. I’m no prude, but I have never done anything like that in public. Shoving a man’s hand up my skirt on a crowded dance floor is a first. My cheeks flame, and I look around to see if anyone noticed, but the crowd seems oblivious to anything but themselves and the music.

  Through the changing lights, I can see Evan studying me—his breathing labored, his body aroused, and his eyes hungry. In response, I touch my lips to the bared skin at his chest.

  He shivers when I run my hands down his torso and trail a finger up the front of his jeans. On tiptoes, I raise my mouth to his ear. “You feel ready for me.”

  “Upstairs. Now,” he growls.

  Clutching my hand, he leads me up the stairs, and we burst into his office. Evan locks the door and stalks toward me. He cradles my head, and I’m pulled into an urgent kiss. Our hearts are beating out of our chests, and our hands hurriedly search for exposed skin.

  He lifts me into his arms and plants me on the edge of the black leather couch. With gentle hands, he positions me on my back and posts himself on his knees between my spread thighs. He’s silent, looking at me under heavy lids like he will devour me. “I think you are ready for me too,” he says. I smile in agreement. His hand trails down my calf to unstrap one shoe, then the other. “Your skin is so soft,” he says. I vow to buy more shimmer lotion.

  Evan settles over me, and I grab his face. Sliding my mouth over his cheek and jaw, I rub my lips over the rough stubble there. He shivers as I nip and lick down his throat, inhaling the faded aftershave. His shirt is blocking my access to his chest, and I tug it open. A sexy sound drags from his throat when I flick my tongue over his nipple.

  Evan gli
des his fingers over my hips and up to graze my stomach. I bow into him as he cups my full breasts, kneading and testing their weight. His thumbs graze back and forth over the small bumps of my nipples under the restraining fabric. I shudder, and he kisses me urgently.

  My dress scrunches as I wrap my legs around his waist to draw him closer. He grips my thighs and pulls me in. He’s incredibly hard, the length of him flush against me; his denim, and my silk panties causing a delicious friction. I circle my hips, and a sexy whimper escapes his throat. He’s on top, but I’m feeling very in control of him, and I like it.

  Evan’s palms travel up the backs of my legs, and he pulls back to tug my panties over my thighs. I lift one leg, then the other to help him. His eyes lock on my sex and the small strip of hair decorating my mound. His breathing is ragged. His hands smooth over my thighs, spreading them, and his fingers dig into my ass cheeks.

  “Your ass is perfect,” he says, reverence lacing his voice. “Spread your legs wider.”

  I do. I’m completely bare below the waist, wet and ready. His warm hand glides up my neck and over my chin. He presses a thumb in between my lips. I latch on, sucking hard, wanting to be filled by him everywhere. My pussy is wet and swollen, and his thumb lightly strokes under the smooth folds.

  “Just relax,” he orders, watching me from under his lids. He slips a finger inside me and begins a delicious massaging. My muscles clench at the welcome intrusion, and I suck a little harder on his thumb.

  “Christ, you’re hot.” He slides his thumb from my lips and trails it down my torso. “Just feel, baby. I want you to feel this.”

  Oh, I feel it. I close my eyes and let myself go. Another of Evan’s fingers joins the first, and I’m opening, loosening for more. It’s good. Too good. I’m swimming in sensation when Evan flicks my clitoris with his tongue. “Oh!” I arch my back for more. His other hand stays me, soothes me with a caress as he lowers his head and circles my swollen clit. My breath leaves my chest, and I revel at his soft, expert touch.

  “You taste so sweet,” he says, his voice thick with need.