Love Abstract (The Art of Falling Book 2) (19 page)

IT’S BEEN A LONG DAY.

Most of it has been spent catering to Brock’s every whim, and while it’s really interrupting my productivity, it’s at least keeping my mind off of the fact that things don’t feel entirely normal between us.

It
’
s too cold.

It
’
s not cold enough.

There
’
s a fly in here and it
’
s pissing me off.

The stain on the floor isn
’
t dark enough to complement the stands that some of my pieces sit on.

I can
’
t concentrate over the sound of your gum chewing.
Never mind the fact I wasn’t chewing gum at all.

I’m in the back office working on some vendor invoices for a few special events during the course of the show when Brock walks in and seats himself on the corner of the desk, perched upon the stack of papers I was sorting through.
Of course.
He crosses his legs at the knee, folds his hands and his lap theatrically and purses his lips.

“You’ve been off since you got back from Chicago. I know you insisted that everything was fine yesterday, but I’m sensing that things aren’t as kosher as you claim. Is everything okay, Sugar Lips?”

“
Ugh
. Don’t call me that.” That name reminds me of a one night stand I had with Dalton my sophomore year of college the weekend before spring semester began. He brought me back to his apartment after a long night of drinking at Great Dane. He tried a little too hard at being kinky and pulled out a strawberry frosting flavored lube that was supposed to heighten
my
senses. He applied so much that I went numb and he wouldn’t stop referring to my nether regions as “Sugar Lips” since they apparently tasted so good. The only reason this particular one night stand is burned into my brain for all of eternity is because the following week I walked into my anthropology class to find Dalton as my T.A. He proceeded to call me Sugar for the entire semester. My skin still crawls at the memory.

I spin my chair around and pull the catering purchase order off of the printer, mentally noting that I need to get these out before the end of the week.

He snaps his fingers twice at me and raises an eyebrow. “Hellooooo. Over here, Ivy! Don’t avoid the question.”

This guy is seriously relentless. I am
not
going to spill my guts to Brock. I need to keep this relationship as professional as possible. So I dig into my old bag of tricks and pull out one of my personal favorites: denial.

“Everything’s fine, Brock. Really.” I plaster the fake plastic smile I perfected through all of those fake plastic years I spent in my parent’s house, trying my best to convince him to drop the subject. “You’ll have all of your pieces moved in by the fifteenth, right?”

“Nuh-uh.” He shakes his head with a little more attitude than is necessary.

“Brock! We open the sixteenth!”

“I mean yes. Yes, everything will be moved in, but no changing the subject on me.”

I sigh and Brock hops down off of the desk and sits down on my lap, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. He brings his cheek next to mine and hugs me tenderly. “So what did lover boy do wrong?”

“Nothing,” I snap, a little too quickly.

He grinds his teeth and leans back to look me square in the eyes. “You don’t have to lie to me, Baby Cakes.” He takes a loose piece of hair that fell from my ponytail and sweeps it from my face. “Boys are stupid. And that snickerdoodle of yours is no exception, Dirty Girl Scout.”

I wouldn’t call Phoenix stupid. Sure, he made a dumbass choice when he elected
not
to tell me about Hailey. And then there’s the million-dollar question about whether or not he
actually
remembers hanging out with my sister that fateful drunken night. But he’s been nothing but sweet and supportive through all of my crazy, fucked up antics.

I didn’t know how to breathe until Phoenix walked into my life. He keeps me grounded and sane. And in spite of our current disconnect, he is the glue to my everything.

“Really, Brock, it’s nothing. We’re just … a little out of sync right now.” I keep my voice light, trying to downplay everything,
but it
’
s not far from the truth
.

“I’m sorry.” He reaches out and touches my cheek.

The gesture makes me uncomfortable. I hate that our professional relationship is morphing into one where he deems it necessary to impart his sage wisdom upon me whenever he sees fit. If I wanted, or hell, even
needed
his two cents, I certainly would ask.

“Don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault.” I hate empty apologies out of sympathy. Or empathy. Or apathy.

Brock sighs and shrugs. I try to push him out from my lap, but the dude is a fucking brick. He may look a bit on the lean side, but he is heavy.

“But,” he raises his index finger into the air grandly, “I know how you can get yourself
back
in sync.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

“We’ll be fine, Brock. Let it go,” I deadpan. I don’t need this right now. And I certainly don’t need this from
him
of all people. There is shit to do. I try to push him again, but he just laughs.

“You just need to use your power of …
persuasion
.” He folds his arms across his chest and winks at me. “And, honey, you’ll win. You have all of the power. Don’t you know that the vagina
always
wins?”

I snort softly under my breath. “How do you figure?”

Brock rolls his eyes, shocked that this is news to me.

“It’s a scientific fact. That little clit of yours has more than eight thousand nerve endings bundled tightly together. The penis? It only has four thousand. Clearly, your hoo-ha wins. That glorious golden ticket that Grandpa Joe broke out in a musical number over in the Willy Wonka movie? He was singing about your vagina. And Buzz and Woody in Toy Story? Think about it! With names like that they are
all
about your vaj. That tunnel of love is superior, baby!”

I roll my eyes and laugh as I push him off of my lap.

“What? It’s true. You’ve got the ultimate finger food between those thighs.” He waves his finger in the general vicinity of my crotch with a wicked smile. “That vagina of yours is a magical thing. If I had one, you bet your cute little ass I’d be out flaunting it more often than not. You are seriously underestimating the powers that your vagina possesses.”

“Brock! Can we
please
stop talking about my vagina?”

“Oh shush. You know I’m just jealous.” He winks. “All I’m saying is that for better or worse, your vagina is the key to setting things straight again. Why not use it for good?”

My eyes grow wide at his comment, and my mouth hangs open, words failing to express my disgust and amusement. Is he really implying that I should be putting out to get back on the same page with Phoenix? I mean it’s not necessarily a
bad
idea. It feels very much like something that the old Ivy would do, but I guess every now and then she had a
halfway
good idea. I, however, don’t want to receive advice from my gay artist in residence who I’m desperately trying to keep at arms length purely for professional reasons.

“I’ll think about it.” I roll my eyes, humoring him.

“All I’m saying is give it a try when you get home tonight. Sometimes you just need to shut up, turn off your damn brain and let your body do all the talking to make things right again. Trust me, I bet you’ll see just how extraordinary that snatch patch of yours can be.”

“Go home, Brock.” I shake my head incredulously.

“You, too. Go home. Get laid. Come back tomorrow in a better mood, please. Your negativity is crushing my mojo.”

I want to tell him where he can put that mojo, but I bite my tongue, knowing that the comment would end up the butt of yet another inappropriate sexual joke. So I simply shake my head in disbelief. Brock blows me a kiss as he leaves and I sit in silence, mulling over his suggestion.

I throw myself back into work and when I finally come up for air, I notice just how late it actually is. Midnight.

Fuck.

I am certainly not earning any brownie points these days. I quickly wrap things up and head home with the resolve to at the very least make a subtle insinuation with Phoenix.

After all, an apologetic blow job couldn’t hurt, could it?

A BELL CHIMES GENTLY AGAINST the door when I walk into the laundromat later that evening. Phoenix looks up from his chair, surprised.

“What are you doing here so late?” He closes the book he’s reading and stands. His arms open wide to welcome me, and I quickly close the space between us.

“I could ask the same of you.” I smile and let him wrap me in his arms.

“Well, the laundry room flooded, and you were running dangerously low on underwear, so I thought I’d help out since you’ve been so busy with work lately. I’d hate to be the guy whose girlfriend simply doesn’t wear panties because all of hers are too dirty. Not that I’d complain in our own home … but … you know.” He blushes at the admission.

Oh, Phoenix. You are ever the overprotective, borderline jealous boyfriend. And I love you for it.

“Thank you,” I say sheepishly. “Listen … I know I’ve been really wrapped up with the gallery and Brock’s show and with traveling back to Chicago, and I haven’t had much time to spend with you. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’m guilty of working late, too.” He kisses my forehead and leads me over to the plastic chairs in the back corner. “How’d you know I was here?”

“When I got home tonight, I was bummed you weren’t home. I was looking forward to curling up with you in bed.” I playfully walk my index and middle finger up his shirt with a shy smile. “I heard music next door and stopped by Thom’s, thinking you were over there having a drink with him. He mentioned he saw you leave with a few baskets of laundry, and I figured the only open laundromat in a ten-block radius was a smart starting point. Looks like I was right.”

“You didn’t have to come down all this way, you know. You could have just called.”

“I did. But
someone
left his cell phone on the coffee table.” I smile and hand him his phone, secretly proud I didn’t go snooping through it when he wasn’t looking. Learning to trust is a tough thing. “Besides, I’ve missed you. Lots.”

“I’ve missed you, too. I’ve missed us.” His lips meet mine hungrily. “I hate that we haven’t made time for each other lately. We live in the same freaking apartment, yet we rarely get to be together.”

Sadness and relief wash over me. I'm thankful that he misses me just as much as I’ve missed him, but I hate that this is what our life is right now. We both know that this craziness is only temporary. But I want nothing more than to curl into him and never let go, even when the sun rises.

“Come here,” he says, pulling me to his body tight. “It’ll be all right. We’re both giving one hundred and ten percent to prove ourselves to the proverbial man. But we’ve got each other. And really, that’s what matters.”

“I know. I just don’t want our professional success to come at the cost of our relationship. I hate that.”

“Me too, Ivy. Me too.”

I think about how we've gotten away from our weekly date nights to explore the city and it hits me just how much I miss him. It’s hard not to feel like a lovestruck, smitten pathetic schoolgirl when I get in my head like this.

I look at my adoring boyfriend and give him a sad smile. Sensing my need for his touch, Phoenix leans down and kisses me feverishly again. His tongue slips into my mouth and blissfully dances around mine. He tastes so fucking good and smells like he stepped out of the shower. He reaches up to take my face in his hands, and electric tingles shoot straight through my legs.

I can’t get Brock’s suggestion out of my mind.

He pulls away, cutting our kiss short. A small whimper escapes my lips, and I fight the urge to pull his mouth right back to mine. He takes a loose piece of hair in his hand and lets it fall through his fingers.

“But look, you're here now. And the clothes have at another forty minutes in the dryer. So let’s make the most of our time together.” He beams, happy with my presence. “Unless you’re tired? I could meet you back at home.”

“Nope! Not tired,” I say a little too eagerly.

Phoenix sits down in the plastic chair and picks up the book he was reading before I arrived. I instantly recognize the cover and raise an eyebrow at him.

“
Pride and Prejudice
?”

“Hey, don’t judge. I've never read it before and I know it’s one of your favorites. I wanted to see what it was about.”

My heart bursts as I lie across the plastic chairs, putting my head in his lap. He brushes my hair delicately as he begins to read Austen's words aloud, describing Elizabeth's visit with her Aunt and Uncle in Pemberley. She is standing at a window, detailing the estate before her, but really she is describing Darcy and her change of heart.

The humming of the dryer paired with Phoenix's voice and Austen's words soothe my body. It’s difficult to not get lost in the romanticism of it all. My fingers instinctively stroke the soft khaki fabric of his shorts. There is nowhere else I'd rather be. No one else I'd rather be with. I am his and he is mine.

When Phoenix reaches the end of chapter forty-three, he closes the book and shifts his weight underneath me. I sit up and watch him blush as he adjusts his growing erection.

“Sorry,” he whispers.

I smile inwardly and look at the clock on the wall. It's nearly one fifteen, and there's no one else around. And I highly doubt anyone else will be coming at this hour.

“Don't be.” I like that I can do that to him. I reach over and lightly tease the bulge in his pants, giving a shy invitation with my eyes.

Phoenix shudders in consent, just like I knew he would. He closes his eyes and rolls his head back. “Ivy ... What are you doing?”

Exactly what your body wants me to do. Exactly what
my
body wants me to do.

“Making up for lost time.” Slowly, I tug on his fly zipper and graze my fingertips over his hardness. I smile as his breath hitches. I slip my hand inside his boxers and grip him firmly in my fist, pumping twice before asking, “Should I stop?”