Diego starts down a narrow staircase, saying over his shoulder, “This is what I wanted to show you.”
I grip my new key to this small corner of heaven and make my way after him, fingers sliding down the iron banister, footsteps echoing on the metal steps. He goes to the center of the room and stands there, looking at me with a hidden smile in his eyes.
"My art studio," he says, motioning around him. “Do you like it?”
I have no idea what he’s asking. Is he kidding? This floor is even larger than upstairs, and instead of the open space there’s interior glass walls, marking off what looks like a bedroom and a bathroom. There’s a section in the far left corner that’s set up for sculpting, containers full of carving tools and a metal table with plastic-covered chunks of clay arranged on the shelving above. The rest of the wall is lined with shelves stacked with books, metal boxes, paints, paint brushes, pencils, markers, drawing paper, and stacks of canvases in a dozen different sizes. You name the art supply, it’s here. Canvas tarps are laid out like rugs on the floor. And at the far end, right beside the exterior glass wall, is an easel.
With my painting on it.
I stare at my show piece with the Pacific Ocean as a backdrop and my chest constricts.
It’s lovely. Even I can see that. The shape of the two bodies entwined, growing from the earth, growing from each other, their faces restful but still full of desperation. Like they can’t hold tight enough. And out of them grows changing life, leaves turned crimson, gold, and auburn, barely hanging on to their purchase.
“I'm blown away by the beauty of what you created, Verity,” he says, breaking through my awe. “It's your heart, I see that. Your truth.”
I can only nod.
Still watching me intently, he asks, “Do you like my studio? You're welcome to use it any time you want. I want you here.”
“It’s amazing. It's just . . . everything's happening so fast. I’m not sure how to process it all.”
“I understand.” He comes to stand in front of me. “This thing between us, it’s strange. It’s an unknown. But . . . I want it to be real. Because I . . .” He swallows hard and I can feel his nerves, his trepidation echoing mine. “I really care about you.”
My throat clenches.
Then he adds, “And somewhere along the way, I’ve fallen in love with you.”
The words hit me like a wave I wasn’t ready for.
He steps closer, like he's worried he's scaring me. “I’m sorry. But now that I’ve finally admitted it to myself, I can’t seem to stop the tide inside of me. I want you in my life, however I can get you. I want as much of you as you’re willing to give. But mostly I want to make up for all the years I lied to you, all the moments I lied to myself. I don’t want another day to pass where you’re doubting how much I need you.”
It’s suddenly difficult to breathe, to hold everything inside. The words, the truth in his eyes as he speaks to me, the way it all fills me, it’s overwhelming.
“Diego,” I whisper. “My god, Diego.”
Pain fills his features as he studies me. “I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed.”
“Hell yes, you should.”
He blinks.
“I fucking love you, you fake gay freak.” My voice cracks and tears spring to my eyes.
Surprised laughter bursts from his chest and the pain on his face shifts to gratefulness, relief. It’s like seeing a side of him that's been shadowed for years, and it's the most beautiful thing I've ever laid eyes on.
I don’t bother to hide my tears as they run down my cheeks. “I’ve loved you for—hell, I don’t even know how long.” I sniff and close the space between us. “It’s about time you caught up.”
His eyes glisten as he looks down on me and reaches out to wipe a tear from my cheek. “I’m a little dense,” he whispers. He lowers his head and our breath mingles.
“Yes, very,” I say as I rise to meet him, touching my lips to his.
The kiss begins like a hesitant dance, as if he’s trying to hold himself in check, trying to make it last, but all I want is satisfaction, all I can think of is that sweet oblivion he gives me. I want him to feel that too.
“God, you drive me crazy,” he says against my skin. “Tell me to stop. Please.”
“Stop saying that.”
He groans. “I warned you,” and he presses me hard against him, deepening the kiss, before he picks me up and carries me into the bedroom.
As he settles me on the bed the strangest feeling fills my skin. Not fear, not unease. Instead, a sense of rightness settles in, the moment imprinting, as if things were suddenly set aright. Meant to be.
Just like this.
He stretches out beside me, matching his body with mine, until we’re kissing, touching, loving. We whisper promises to each other as my heartbeat thunders, matching his. As our breath mingles. Skin pressing into skin.
And only me, Diego, and the sea are witness to the world changing forever.
TWENTY-SIX
The hours blur together into one long discovery of each other. Day becomes night and we barely sleep, we barely leave the bed except for moments of necessity and a shower now and then.
My body begins to rebel early Friday morning, needing food and rest. Diego seems to be as focused as he was when we began, his thirst insatiable. Like he was a man in a desert and now he’s found water. He’s traced every line of my body a hundred times, focused and intent, like he’s trying to memorize me inside and out, learning to decipher my sounds and movements. We’ve dozed off here and there, sometimes just me, while he was content to continue his touches and kisses. And I’ve been reveling in his need for me, his curiosity. It feeds something in me I never knew was there.
“It’s time to enter the world again,” I say, stretching like a cat in the sunlight as he plays with my hair. “We have a lot to do to get ready for tonight.”
He gives me a lazy smile and leans over to kiss the curve of my breast. He becomes fascinated with the soft skin there and begins touching and turning my body back into a bowl of mush.
“No, no,” I say, moving to get up even though I want to give in. I have a feeling my body wouldn’t make it out alive if I do, though. “You’ve had your fill for the day. Hell, you've had your fill for the week.”
“You know nothing, woman.” He rises, looming over me, gripping my wrists before I can escape, pinning me to the mattress. “You can’t tease me with that body and get away with it.”
I release a laugh. “Believe me, I haven’t gotten away with anything. You’ve sucked me dry.”
“Who’s an old man again?”
“Well, you are obviously, Mr. Santiago.”
“Oh, that was a mistake,” he says, settling on top of me.
It’s another half hour before I’ve finally convinced him I won’t be walking if he keeps it up. “You’ll have to carry me out of this lovely place if you don’t settle down and let me clean up and eat.”
“Party pooper,” he relents.
When I come back from showering he’s sound asleep, his body laid out on the comforter like a Roman god. I’m never going to get used to being able to touch that whenever I want.
I put my underwear back on and slip his cozy sweater over my head before I make my way upstairs to find sustenance in his immaculate kitchen. I grab my phone first, texting Fin for an update on Emma, then I go to gather a few choice items—peanut butter, celery, and sparkling water. I grab a magazine from the rack in the entry hall and settle myself into one of the cushy chairs on the deck to watch the ocean churn.
I could definitely get used to this place. The smell of salt and brine, the pastel colors of sand and sea, the sound of violent water and chattering gulls. I flip through the fashion magazine, not really reading it, just enjoying the colors and faces as I crunch on my snack.
Fin texts back after a few minutes, saying Emma’s feeling a lot better and I breathe a sigh of relief. Hopefully Jade won’t be too upset that I didn
’t call or text her, letting her know how sick her sister was. Emma’s a grown woman, though. It’s a sucky situation, however you slice it.
After a good hour of sitting in the morning sun, I decide I better get Diego up if he’s going have things perfect for the show tonight. I’m checking out his amazing art studio—Michael Bowan's studio—when he comes out of the bathroom, drying his hair with a towel. I just had two days with the mysterious Michael Bowan. My boss is now my lover. And I'm not worried about any of it. What planet am I on?
He’s dressed in his jeans again and he’s looking for his shirt. “I like you in my sweater,” he says, giving me a knowing look.
The way his eyes send that electric current through me is never going to get old. “You destroyed my shirt, remember.” I pick my torn tank-top up and show it to him.
“Oh. Sorry.” He turns a little pink at his ears and it’s adorable. He’s embarrassed. After what happened between us over the last forty-eight hours I don’t see how I could be embarrassed with him ever again.
“I’d hate to see what you’d do to an uncooperative bra.”
He comes closer, giving me a cautious look. “I don’t like when things get in the way of what I want.”
And he wants me. The idea is still unbelievable and thrilling and I hope I never stop feeling the things it does to my insides. “I’ll remember that.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
We pull up to my apartment and both of us stay sitting, staring down Chatsworth Street. I'm exhausted and spent. And all I want is a very long nap. Of course, now that we’re parting ways, I’m only seeing the last forty-eight hours, playing and replaying over and over in my head and across my skin. I feel him now, in my heart, my soul, like a brand.
I reach over and take his hand, curling my fingers into his.
“Don’t worry about anything,” he says. “I’ll finish up getting the last-minute things ready for the show. You just rest and get ready to enjoy your debut.” His eyes are soft and genuine.
“I'll miss you.” I lean over to kiss him on the cheek, but he grips my jaw, holding me so he can take my mouth with his.
It’s a lovely kiss, soft and urgent all at the same time, his lips are gentle, and I sink into it, feeling like I could spend years just doing this. Who needs food or water? Who needs sleep? I have Diego.
Then a voice breaks through my dreamy state, gasping, “Holy shit!”
Diego pulls from me and we look through the windshield to find Willow standing in front of the car, dropping her overnight bag and gaping at us. I groan, realizing I’m going to have a lot of explaining to do. And I really don’t have the brain in my head right now to do the whole girl-pow-wow thing. I’m so tired I could sleep standing up.
I sigh. “Looks like I better go.”
He kisses my shoulder and starts the car again. “Good luck.”
“You’re hilarious.” I get out of the Mercedes and wave goodbye to him before I turn to Willow. I hold my hands up in surrender.
She’s pointing at Diego’s car as it pulls away and yelling, “Holy shit, holy shit, holy SHIT!”
“Calm down, crazy woman.”
But she aims her pointer at me instead. “That’s his sweater, isn’t it?! You’re kissing Diego and wearing his clothes! How long have I been gone?!”
I roll my eyes and let her follow me into the building while she rants, “What the hell, Verity? That’s Diego! Your boss! Your gay boss!” and up the stairs, “Oh my god, he is so hot! This is insane! He’s, like, old,” and into the apartment, “You totally did it, didn’t you? Like, he screwed you. Holy shit, you screwed your boss,” and into my room, “How was he? Was he good? Holy hell, I bet he was amazing. That body—that ass! There has to be a million things that guy can—”
I turn to her and put my hand over her mouth, stopping her. I sigh, taking in the lovely silence. “Diego isn’t gay. Yes, he’s my boss. Yes, we had sex. And yes, he is really amazing. Now drop it.”
Her eyes grow, like I just asked her to swallow a tiger.
“Drop it, Willow. For now, let me sleep. I’m exhausted.”
If it’s possible her eyes grow more.
I take my hand from her mouth and collapse on the bed. She stands there, hovering but she’s quiet. Well, she’s squeaking a little, but it’s an improvement. After about a minute she walks out of the room and slams my door behind her. On the other side I hear, “Holy shit!” one more time before I drift off to sleep.
I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT to wear. This is horrible. How could I have not thought about this sooner? This isn’t a club night or a coffee shop mixer, it’s actual adult stuff, with press and Europeans. And if my closet is any indication, I’m going to either look like a goth hippie or a depressed hipster.
I have no choice, I need help. I go to find Willow. She’s on the couch typing on her laptop, and she spins when she hears the door. She glares at me. But she’s silent.
“I need you to dress me,” I say, trying to look repentant.
She smirks at me. “One tip for every answer.”
“Fine.”
She sets aside her computer and I follow her to her room.
“Where’s Emma?” I ask.
“Who?” She gives me a sideways brow arch.
“Jade’s sister, Emma. Sheesh, Willow, she’s been sleeping in your room.” And vomiting. But I leave that part out.
“Oh, shit. I forgot. Looks like she’ll be moving into Jade’s room now. But I have no clue where she is.”
I make a mental note to text Fin and make sure she’s okay. She was wrecked, so I don’t think she could’ve gone far. “Well, I hope you had fun in Pismo.”
Willow shrugs, looking distracted. “Whatever. Do you want to go LA chic or shy princess?”
“Most definitely chic. But I need to look like an adult.”
“Now that you’re having sex with Grandpa Diego.”
“Oh, gross. He’s only twenty-nine.”
“I still can’t believe you screwed him.”
“Willow! Can you please focus?”
“I’m sorry, but I tried to snag him a year ago and he shot me down. It’s tough on a girl’s pride. Especially when she realizes he’s not playing for the team she thought. Which means it was me he was rejecting, not my vagina.” She looks lost at the idea. She’s really not used to being rejected. Might be a first for her, come to think of it.
“When was this?”
“His studio party on Fourth of July.” I must be giving her a look because she waves her hands at me, like she’s defending herself. “Hey, you weren’t calling dibs and I thought he was into the dudes. His date that night was a guy, for crap’s sake. But I’d just found out my mom had slept with John before I did, and I was a little ill in the head. Plus, I was a glass of wine and two shots in.”
I’d totally forgotten about that. It might be possible that Willow’s mom is an even a bigger slut than her. Not that Willow’s a slut, I shouldn’t say that, it sounds mean. But she kinda is. Well, in any case, she’s my slut and I’ll defend her to the death.
“What did you do?” I ask, totally intrigued now.
“He was in the back, getting more champagne and I kinda snuck up on him and grabbed his ass.”
“Oh my gosh, Willow. You’re crazy.”
“I thought it would be funny. He actually looked pissed, though. So, I kissed him.”
“You kissed him. Even though you knew he was pissed at you.”
“It was hot as hell.”
I laugh and shake my head, totally picturing it. Pissed is not a bad look for him. And Willow’s like a dog with a bone when it comes to men.
“But he turned you down?” I ask, trying not to sound jealous that she jumped him. Because strangely enough, I’m not.
“Yes, and then he gave me a bit of a lecture about valuing myself or something. He sounded like my Uncle who’s a pastor. All, you’re worth more, and guys won’t respect you, blah, blah, blah.”
“It’s true, you know.”
“Whatever, Mom. Let’s drop it and dress you into adulthood.”
We end up with a three-foot pile on her bed before we settle on a form-fitting, silk violet-blue dress with off-the-shoulder straps and an empire waist. She insists it’ll highlight my blue eyes and go perfect with my hair up, wrapped in chop sticks. Plus, the purple Jimmy Choo shoes my mom bought me for Lance’s birthday party. She also pulls out a silver pashmina that she won in a card game last week. “You’re gonna rock it tonight, you artist whore.”
“Thanks,” I laugh.
I do love the dress on me, and by the time I get showered again, fix my hair, and slide into my Choo’s I’m feeling fairly confident. Jade comes home at some point and her and Willow are both oohing-and-awing at me, pointing out reasons why I’m about to rock it.
I pull Jade aside after a few minutes and ask her if she’s heard from her sister. She says Emma was supposed to be on her way back from a doctor’s appointment and then she was going to help Jade get ready.
A knock sounds on the door and I’m the only one ready, so I answer it. The guy gaping at me on the other side is not who I was expecting. But when I see him, his casual stance, the way his green eyes look me over, I find myself shaking with nerves again. I’ll always see him now as the guy who sat with a sick girl all night so she wasn’t alone.
“Fin!” I say, trying not to sound surprised that he’s here. “You’re wearing a suit!” It fits him just right and still lets the musician in him shine. A grey pinstripe with a crisp white shirt. And you can see his tattoos peeking out of his neckline. Very nice.
I feel like I’m not supposed to notice things like that now, though, so I don’t say he looks good like I want to.
“I can’t wear denim to your special night,” he says, sounding distracted. “You look stunning.” His gaze matches his words, looking at me in that way that all girls recognize as an eye-compliment.
Twisted In You (a Twisted Romance Book 1) Page 18
