Working Girl (17 page)

MY WORDS WITH CHRISSY
earlier in the evening bother me more than I thought they would. Something about the tone of her voice sticks with me. Obviously meaning business, she avoids me for the rest of the evening, and I know she meant what she said. At the time she was pissed, but most of all she was right. I have to do something before it’s too late, so after my shift I make my way to the college campus before I lose my nerve.

Me: Are you awake?

It’s 3 a.m. and I’m standing outside of his dorm—well, across the street—looking like a crazy person. What am I doing here? Looking down at my phone, I know that this is a bad idea. His lack of response is the universe trying to tell me that I’ve fucked up in a major way. I’m just about to give up and head home when I feel my phone vibrate and illuminate the otherwise dark night.

Emerson: I am now. What’s up?

My fingers fumble across the screen and it takes me a few attempts just to type two words because nerves have infiltrated my entire body. This is not the sort of thing Presley Adams does. Presley Adams is quiet, focused. Presley Adams does not stand outside college dorm rooms—the old Presley Adams wouldn’t, anyway. Hovering over the send button, I consider acting like none of this happened and just heading home. But deep down I know I can’t. I owe it to myself to do this and I hit the button, letting my reply find him.

Me: I’m downstairs.

The seconds that pass feel like years and I hold my breath, waiting for him to reply.

Emerson: Be right down.

The air is chilly and I tighten my arms around my chest in a vain attempt to keep warm. The dorm door opens and an adorable half asleep Emerson steps out. He’s wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt and it makes him look even younger than he is—a vast change from his normally impeccable wardrobe. Obviously sensing the chill of the Las Vegas night, he crosses his arms before he sees me. “Presley?” he asks, closing the distance between us. “Is everything okay?”

Not trusting my voice not to shake, I nod and start in his direction, crossing the street to get to him. I practically jump into his arms, wrapping my own around his neck and pulling him close to me. He leans down, allowing me to bury my nose into his neck and I breathe the scent of him in. He even smells too good to be true. We stand there hugging each other for a few quiet moments before he pulls back and looks down at me. “You’re scaring me.”

I look through my eyelashes up at him and smile. “Well, I’m not scared anymore, so you shouldn’t be.”

“What do you mean?”

My hands run up his neck allowing my fingers to intertwine with his hair. “I’m done fighting it, Emerson,” I whisper before pulling his lips down to mine. Crashing our mouths together sends shivers down my spine and I’m thankful that his arms are around my waist because I’m pretty sure I would be on the floor otherwise. Our mouths dance together briefly before breaking apart, allowing me to see the smile painted on his face.

“I’ve got to show you something,” is all he says as he grabs me by the hand, leading me away from the dorm building and deeper into the cold Las Vegas night.

“Don’t you want to grab a jacket or something?” I ask, my feet moving at double the pace trying to keep up with him as we make our way down the sidewalk.

“Nope. I’ve got something I’ve been waiting to show you and there’s no time like the present.”

We walk block after block. Buildings pass us by, and I find myself wondering what on earth he could have to show me at three in the morning. Eventually we approach a dark building and Emerson slows down, fumbling in his pockets and pulling out a set of keys.

“Do you own this place?” I ask. The question may seem silly to him, but to me it seems perfectly reasonable. He looks like he could afford to have his own place.

“No.” He laughs before popping open the door. “My parents rent it for me.”

He gestures for me to go in ahead of him and I oblige, crossing over the threshold and waiting for there to be light. The complete silence, the absence of any noise other than my own labored breathing makes the moments that I stand in the darkness feel much longer than I know they are, and when I still cannot see where he has brought me, I ask, “What is it?”

“Hang on,” he says, his voice echoing through the space as I feel his body move away from me into the dark.

Despite the darkness permeating throughout the room, I find myself looking around in hopes of catching a glimpse of something. Anything. The smell of paint fills my nose and I can’t help but wonder if I’ve made a mistake by coming here. I’ve trusted him completely. Maybe coming into a dark, seemingly abandoned building wasn’t such a good idea. My heart flutters in excitement as I hear the lights snap on. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust to the sudden light, but once it does my eyes take in all the canvases slapped with bright colors.

“Wow,” I manage to say, my voice breathy and husky in equal measures. Every one of my senses is on overload and I take a moment to compose myself before walking in the direction of the paintings that line the walls. My head cocks to the side as I continue to look at them. Some of them are abstract. Some are paintings of people. Others real life places brought to life with nothing but brush strokes. Curious, my heart thunders in my chest. Who is this boy? And why has he brought me here?

“You like?” he asks, rejoining me.

I nod, and continue admiring the works. “Did you do these?” I ask, slightly breathless.

He nods before I continue to assess the space before me. I eye the mattress on the floor in the corner of the room and the television that sits next to it. Curious, I raise my brow and look at him.

“It’s not what you think,” he says, his voice full of laughter. “Sometimes I get so wrapped up in what I’m doing that I forget the time and when I eventually finish, exhaustion hits me. I like having all the amenities of home because then it allows me to crash here and not have to pay attention to a stupid clock on the wall.”

“So why don’t you just paint at home? Or in your dorm room?” It seems like a simple enough answer, but part of me doesn’t want to believe it. Even though I know I’m falling for him, part of me still thinks that Emerson could be a dog just looking to hump me and mark his territory.

“My parents never thought painting would be a viable career choice for me. After all, unless you hit the big time, the money is sporadic and unreliable. However, my mother recognizes the value of art and was able to convince my father that I should be able to practice my passion. So when I turned eighteen they rented this space for me to paint in. It was shortly after Sebastian died. I come here when I need to think. Come to think of it, I’ve been coming here a lot the past few months.”

I look to him and he smirks. Before I can stop myself, I lift my hands up to the piece in front of me. My fingers hover just above the canvas and I cast a sideways glance at Emerson. “May I?”

He nods once and my fingers run across the surface of the painting. I can’t help but reach out and touch them with the pads of my fingertips; I’m surprised when I can feel the actual brush strokes moving beneath my skin. Like it’s not just a painting, but something alive instead. “You’ve got real talent.”

“Thanks, but I just do it because it feels good.” He laughs. “That sounds bad. It’s like a cheap form of therapy. The painting always reflects the mood.” He takes my hand and pulls me toward his easel. “Take this for example.”

I look at the abstract painting that, to my untrained eye, really has no rhyme or reason. The colors are confusing, the brush strokes never really seeming to find a rhythm. “It’s a mess,” I say.

“Exactly. This is the piece I’ve been working on since I met you. It’s confusing, giving me whiplash almost. At times I really like it, other times I hate it. I can never decide.” He removes the canvas and sets it down on the floor before grabbing a new blank canvas from nearby and putting it in its place. “But that painting is done. Complete. Just like that stage of my life. Now I’m ready to begin the next one.”

“Oh yeah?” I ask. “What’s that one going to be?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“Yes. My next painting, the next stage of my life . . . all of the above. It’s going to be you.”

Wow.

WE’VE BEEN HOLED UP
in the loft together for days: Emerson painting, me sitting. With it being so close to the holidays we’ve had a few days off from Winter Term classwork, so instead of relaxing, we’ve taken the opportunity to shack up together.

But it’s not sexual at all. Just long, comfortable hours of me sitting, him looking at me, painting while we pretend that the rest of the world doesn’t exist. It’s nice to escape from reality and to be honest, being away from the brothel makes me feel human.

Emerson looks sexier than I ever imagined, standing in front of me with his jeans slung low on his hips and his white T-shirt spattered with paint. I could get used to seeing him like this, all grungy and dressed down. One of the things I quickly came to understand about Emerson when he is painting is that he is entirely focused on what’s in front of him. Even as I watch him now he has a pensive look on his face as he makes quick brush strokes, his eyes shifting from me to the canvas and back every second or two as he works. A smile forms at my lips and I can feel the heat rising to my cheeks.

“What’s got you blushing?” he asks, peeking around the canvas in front of him.

“Nothing,” I lie.

He drops his palette and paintbrush and stalks towards me. He looks serious, but I know he’s coming to torture the truth out of me. It’s his favorite game; tickling me until I’m honest with him. I act like it annoys me but it doesn’t. His touch, no matter how small, awakens me. It makes me feel happy.

I put my hands up in surrender. “I’m serious. I’m not thinking about anything.”

He leans down so he’s on one knee, and raises his eyebrow. “The blush on your cheeks tells me otherwise.”

I shake my head, sticking my tongue out at him in one final rebuttal, but before I can move his hands are on my sides, tickling me relentlessly. I squeal and try to escape but it does nothing but increase the intensity of his tickles. “Okay, okay!” I breathe. “I was just thinking about how hot you look in your painting clothes!”

His hands immediately stop their attack and a grin replaces his frown. “There, was that so hard?” he asks, kissing me on the forehead.

“It was torture,” I joke, watching him walk back toward the canvas he’s been perched in front of for hours. Picking up his brush and palette he goes back to work, looking seriously gorgeous. He said he wanted to paint a picture of me, and when we woke up next to each other this morning there was a glint in his eye. Without so much as a word, he pulled me from the mattress into the cold morning air and deposited me on a battered chair in the center of the loft. From here I can see everything and so I’ve spent the last few hours looking at each of his pieces in detail. They really are quite remarkable. Reminding me that it must be about lunchtime, my stomach growls its protest.

“I’m hungry,” I say to him.

Emerson looks up at me and gives me the ‘one more minute’ gesture before going back to the canvas. He hasn’t let me see what he’s been doing and to say I’m curious would be an understatement.

“Let’s talk,” he says, maintaining his focus on the canvas. “Tell me all your hopes and dreams.” He continues moving paint across the canvas.

“All of them?”

He ponders my question for a moment before answering. “No, just the big one.”

I roll over on the beanbag so that I’m facing him and let out a sigh. “Well, I read about this bridge in Paris once. Pont something—”

“Pont Des Arts.”

Excitement runs through me. “Yeah. That’s the one. You know about it?” It shouldn’t surprise me; Emerson knows about everything. He’s grown up with the world at his fingertips and his knowledge knows no bounds.

“Sure I do. Couples who fall in love travel there to attach a padlock engraved with their name to the bridge, throwing the key in the River Seine. It’s an iconic romantic gesture.” He smiles.

I roll onto my back. “Yeah,” I look down at my chipped nail polish. “I don’t even care about putting a padlock up, I just want to see all the locks. To stand in a place surrounded by so much hope, so much love. But I’ve never even left Las Vegas . . . and I probably never will.” Sighing, I pick at my thumbnail.

He stops painting, carefully setting down his materials, rubbing his hands on his shirt before he comes to lie next to me and silently reaches over to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “I like you, Presley. I like you a lot.”