Page 9 of Pushed to the Peak

Country music seeps from the wall speakers, the volume turned way down, and without all the crowds laughing and sweating in here, the temperature’s dropping fast. It’s like that at night in the mountains—we go from a hot, sweaty day to a frosty night with barely any warning. My little artist has goosebumps forming on her arms, and as she sharpens her pencil she suppresses a shiver.

Floorboards rattle under my boots as I stride to Marigold’s stool from earlier in the corner. Her sweater is slung across the stool, both sleeves dangling toward the floor. It’s a soft wool knit, the color of morning mist, and it’s delicate in my hands.

I’m careful as I bring it back to the booth, cradling it like something precious.

“Here.” Marigold blushes pink when I offer it to her. “Don’t catch a chill.”

Her blonde hair gets all mussed up as she pulls the sweater on, fuzzing out of her ponytail. Fuck, I want to pet that hair. Want to feel those silky strands slipping between my fingers; want to wrap her ponytail around my fist and tug.

“Thank you.” Marigold’s shy smile is a lance in my chest.

And Christ, I don’t want her to draw me right now. Don’t want to close up the bar either. All I want is to crash to my knees, sling Marigold’s legs over my shoulders, and bury my face in her pussy. Bet she’s sweet and sticky as honey down there.

“Maybe, um. Maybe you could stand there and… lean?”

Marigold points to a thick wooden pillar near the booth that stretches up to support the ceiling beams. The wood is gnarled and notched but solid as a rock, scratched with the graffiti of hundreds of drinkers over the years.

Callie Ray loves Jimmy P

I saw the wild man

Pete Frenkel’s got crabs

“Like this?” Hooking my thumbs in my pockets, I lean one shoulder against the pillar, letting my weight rest. Feels good after a long day of heaving kegs around then stiffening up in my office chair. Feels extra good to have Marigold’s baby blues running over me from head to toe, checking out every inch of me.

“Yes.” She wets her lips, then drags her sketchbook closer. Is that a hungry glint in her eyes? “Just like that.”

After all that shyness earlier, her pencil is sure as it swoops across the page, sketching out the swell of my shoulders, the line of buttons down my shirt, the belt slung across my hips. And whereas before she could barely meet my gaze close up, now Marigold’s frowning at me like I’m a specimen under her microscope.

Shameless. Proprietary. Like she owns me.

Christ, that’s an appealing thought. Makes my skin go hot and sensitive under my clothes.

The sketch comes together quickly. Marigold’s had a lot of practice, after all, and there’s no one else here tonight to break her focus; no rowdy drinkers to talk to her or accidentally jostle her arm. It’s just her and me and the moonlight spilling through the bar windows, as the speakers throb with melancholy tunes and her pencil scratches against paper.

Up, she looks at me.

Down, at her sketchbook.

Up, down, and every time her blue eyes find me, my heart headbutts my ribs.

“Do another one,” I scrape out as the sketch slows to a halt. “Keep going.”

Even though the tiredness of a long day is making my eyes itchy, I’m not ready for this to end just yet. And Marigold must feel the same way, because she nods eagerly and flicks to a new page.

“Maybe standing behind the bar?”

“Maybe sitting on that stool?”

“Maybe, if it’s not too cold, we could frame you in the open doorway?”

On and on it goes, sketch after sketch, as the moon climbs higher and the night ticks away, a headache throbbing in my temples. A headache I ignore, because who knows when a chance like this will come again? I’ll sleep when I’m in the ground.

This is my chance to see Marigold up close, free to stare at her openly as she nibbles on that bottom lip and sketches me again and again. My chance to hear her chat quietly about her old home, her Grandma, and the first art class that got her hooked. About the commissions she draws to make a living, and what she thinks of Starlight Ridge.

“I love it,” she says, determined not to meet my eye for that answer. Her ponytail slides over her shoulder as she shades in the hollow of my throat. “I know I should move on soon, but…”

“Why?” Can’t help but interrupt, my pulse spiking. “Why should you go? What’s making you?”

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