Page 26 of The Delivery

His naked chest against my back. His exhale on my neck so very close to my ear. The length of his arm against my arm, his hand wrapped around mine, holding my finger on the tiny nozzle of the can. I can smell his sweat with its distinct undertone of cedar. And his breath, slightly chemically from his tokes on the inhaler. His heart beats so close to mine, and I want nothing more than his arms to wrap around me, his warmth to shield me and at the same time seep all the way into me.

I stand rigid and hold my breath, praying he’ll walk away and in the same heartbeat praying he’ll never leave me. Then I feel his rock hard erection press into my butt cheek. He’s big. He’s hot. I want to touch his cock. This is so not okay. My mind snaps to my job and my professional duties.

I jerk away from him and grab the can and throw it in the empty fireplace. I turn to him to scold him for pushing the boundaries. But his back is already turned to me, and he’s rummaging like a madman though his backpack. He looks at me ripping the cap off a red can then he shakes it so hard, I can see his arm muscles ripple. He shakes the hell out of the can all the while staring at me, then he charges toward the wall brushing me back with his arm.

“Stand back,” he says and takes his can to paint.

His arm whizzes fast enough to blur and his lines are superb. He’s got that easily recognizable cholo street style that adorns so many bridges and storm drains all across LA. It’s beautiful what he does, and he’s only writing words with a single color. I already know the man can work small miracles with a canvas.

He takes a step back, surveying his work, his arms crossed in front of him, his chest heaving, and his dark eyes burning.

It’s difficult for me to decipher as it’s highly stylized, but I squint and see my name and then make out “This is Lana’s home she grew up hear!”

My eyes swell with tears that spill over the rim. I’m crying again in front of him, and I want to tell him that I never cry. That I’m the strongest girl he could ever, ever meet. In junior high school, I fell during a track meet and dislocated my knee. I broke two of my fingers when I tried to break the fall. How many tears did I cry that day? Not one. Not one single person witnessed a teardrop fall from my face. I held it all in like a champion. For fifteen proud minutes, I was the school hero, the star of the track meet.

I nod my head and sniffle, and he smiles at my reaction. His smile starts me laughing, and soon I’m doubled over, laughing so hard it’s giving me a side ache.

“What’s so funny?” Mozey asks, looking at me like I’ve lost it and concern washes over his momentary enjoyment of my initial reaction.

“I love it so much, Mozey. I love it—” but now I’m snorting and choking.

“What the fuck, Lana?”

“You spelled ‘here’ wrong,” I get out, and I can hardly stand up straight. It’s too much emotion, and I’m too vulnerable. I’m not used to so much feeling. “You spelled hear,” I say and cup my hand to my ear, but I’m choking on laughter and tears, and I can barely speak.

“Fuck!” Mozey laments and then steps to the wall in anger. “Well, English isn’t my first language,” he says, putting a hand on his hip and shaking the can really hard.

“It so is, you liar.” I’m still doubled over, roaring with laughter like I’ve completely lost my mind.

He squeezes in an “in” after the up and then adds a quick coma. He writes a “ya” in and the finished product reads, “This is Lana’s home she grew up in, ya hear!” He’s a quick study, I’ll at least give him that much.

I nod my head again and smile while tears slide down my face with so much emotion. This is quite possibly the sweetest and simplest gesture that’s ever been given to me. This beats the prickly pear and maybe even showing up in Michigan unannounced to help me and my parents. He’s giving a voice to my feelings, laying bare the personal injustice.

I don’t know if I’ve ever felt so understood or so completely accepted before. I look at him; eyes wide open with equal parts fear and devotion. I’m naked in front of him, I’ve NEVER shown anyone this much of myself.

He steps to me and grabs my waist and then plants his mouth quickly over mine. Mozey’s movement is so fluid and graceful, I didn’t see it coming. It’s an instant of perfection, of utter and complete bliss. His mouth is heaven and his kiss is filled with sweet longing and so many promises. My whole body is supercharged with desire for this man. I’ve ached for these warm lips since he stepped foot in my office, but it’s all so wrong and it hurts me to admit it. I shove him in the chest and step back from him with anger.

“Don’t kiss me!” I yell at him. “I’m supposed to protect you from people like me!”

He glares at me and then looks down at the floor. I’ve crushed his feeling and his ego, and now anger is quickly setting up store.

“Don’t kid yourself, Lana. Don’t pretend you don’t need me or want me! I can see right through your act. I can feel you. I want to know you. Just, please let me in.”

“I was doing fine on my own. In fact, I was doing much better before you showed up. Why don’t you just go back to LA?”

I put my hands on my hips and his find their way across his chest.

“How dare you put me in a position where I could lose my job. You know now more than anyone just how much is riding on this!”

“You want me to go?” he yells, stepping over toward me with so much energy I pray he’s not violent. Could he be capable of hurting me? Reason one why you should never, ever mess around with clients.

He lifts the can and at close range, releases a spray of red paint right to my chest. He creates a red circle with the steady stream of paint, then he quickly releases, and we both watch as the drips run down my white shirt. We’re overcome with emotion and both of us are breathing hard. Our two chests heaving in syncopation like fireplace bellows on a mission to entice the flames to lick high— and even higher.

“Lana,” he says with all seriousness, pointing to the spot. “Right there, Doc, that’s where your heart should go.”

I’m furious even though I know through the heated flash of my anger he’s right. I march to the fireplace and retrieve my spray can. Without a moment’s pause, I move in and go for his chest. He’s not wearing a shirt, but it doesn’t deter me. I brandish him with a black “X” across his entire chest.

“Yeah, well you’re off limits,” I say. “In fact, give me that!” I grab a red tag and stick it on his shoulder. “That’s the garbage tag, Mozey. Why don’t you take yourself out!”

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