Page 5 of Red Flag Bull

Her throat strains under my fingers, and she moves her lips, like she wants to talk but can’t. I step closer, pinning her in place so she has no chance to slip away when I loosen my grip on her neck.

“It’s for art” — she gasps for breath — “not vandalism. And I’m not angry.”

“Yes you are,” I counter with authority in my tone. “I know anger when I see it. I also know sadness, in case you thought I was only giving you one diagnosis. You’re a sad, angry girl, who doesn’t love herself, and if you were mine, I’d spank your ass for behaving the way you do.”

She lifts her chin in defiance, but her eyes are glassy with tears.

The truth hurt. And from the way her body responds to my threat, she likes the pain.

Bad attention is still attention, and she seems desperate for anything she can get. She presses into my touch everywhere she can, but not in any attempt to break free. Her curves taunt me, and our shapes slot together, though I doubt she even realizes the way she automatically shifts to receive my thigh between her legs.

I firm my hand around her throat, and her eyes flash at me, as her nipples harden enough to be felt through her thin cropped T-shirt.

“You’d spank me?” she utters in a hoarse whisper.

God, she fucking wants it.

Someone should have cared enough to enforce some boundaries with her a long time ago, but it’s obvious that wasn’t the case. Nobody gave a damn.

“What kind of art?” I ask, ignoring her interest in discipline. I move closer, but ease the tension in my grip again, so she can speak. “What do you like to paint, Princess?”

She looks confused by the question. Am I the first to ask it?

“I don’t paint,” she whispers. “Not yet.”

“What made you want to start tonight, with bright colors?” I demand to know, more curious than ever.

“I…” She turns her gaze skyward, and then down the street she came from. “Mom doesn’t allow paint inside. Only Pencil. Plain pencil, because color pencil doesn’t erase to her satisfaction. But the piece I’m working on… Pencil isn’t enough. It doesn’t feel right.” Her eyes sparkle as she explains, and it’s the most natural and authentic I’ve seen her. Whatever she’s working on, she’s invested in it. She moves her body against mine, like the pressure might sway me to feel the same need for color as she does.

I want to take whatever paint I can find and pour it through her mom’s house, to spite the woman for forbidding such passion instead of encouraging it. The only thing that deters me, is the idea of Mandi being blamed for the mess I’d make.

“Why is pencil not enough?” I ask. “What did you draw? Clown cats? Fruit-covered hats? Lovers on acid? Our lake under rainbow skies?”

“Children playing,” she says with a gulp I feel against my palm. “Their happiness shouldn’t be so gray.”

I want to ask if she knows what happiness even looks like, but she’s no doubt seen it all around and is painting it as a way to feel or understand the foreign concept.

“Bright colors sound appropriate for that,” I murmur as the wind whips her dark hair across her face. I capture the long strands between my fingers and stroke their silkiness before sweeping them back behind her ear. “What will Mommy say if she finds you painting in her house?”

“She won’t find out,” Mandi says with conviction. “She barely looks my way, and I’ll be careful. Besides, the picture I drew is on the wall inside my closet, where she can’t see it.”

“In the closet? Hidden, like it’s something shameful? While you flaunt other things she’d disapprove of so publicly?” I run my thumb along her smooth jaw.

Why doesn’t she want her mother to see the art she loves? Does she fear scorn and judgment? Is it preservation? She thinks her passion could be taken away from her?

“Do you always draw in secret?” I ask, watching the subtle shift of her parted lips with each of her short, panted breaths.

“I only draw in secret.”

When I shift my gaze to her eyes, I find her watching my mouth just as closely. Whether she knows she’s doing it or not, she’s rocking her crotch against my leg.

I release her neck and step back. “You’d better get your paint and go home, Princess. I’ve got work to do.”

“Stealing?” she asks, all superior.

“We’re both thieves tonight, Mandi. You need color, and I need cash. Not everyone had the good fortune to be born rich, you know.”

“Yeah, well, being rich isn’t everything.” She looks around at the beautiful lake and all the big houses of those who can afford to live on its shores. “Money doesn’t buy happiness.”

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