Page 24 of I Still Love You

It’s starting to look like Luke won’t have a bruise on his body.

10

Luke

The deal I gave Layla is foolproof. I can’t live a normal life with her here. Jesus, it’s hard enough coming into work knowing she’s in the building next to me. That all it would take is a short walk to see her beautiful face and pretty pink lips. As long as we both abide by the terms, I’ll be able to get back to who I was before she popped back up, which I know wasn’t much, but it’ll be worse if she stays. If seeing her daily is in the cards, I’ll go straight back to the state I was in when she left. I know my heart, how it’s always beat and longed for her. If she doesn’t go, eventually, I’m going to want her back.

And I can’t do that. I can’t allow myself to want the person who broke me. I won’t give in to her again. There are no other options beyond my deal working.

This time when she leaves Quaint, I’ll be looking forward to it.

Faking a relationship is ridiculous as shit, but it’s a necessity now. It’s the only way I have a hold over her. The only way I can stay in control of this fucked up situation, which is exactly why I’m sitting outside of her place with my car idling. With the windows down and the breeze flowing in, I wait for her to grace me with her presence, tap, tap, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel as I do.

I can’t fucking believe I agreed to do this. I was worried about Layla backing out, but honestly, right now, I’m worried I’m going to be the one withdrawing from the ultimatum I gave her.

“If you keep looking so miserable, he’s going to paint you that way,” Layla warns, her voice deathly close to my mouth as a shiver cools the length of my spine. It’s part of the reason I’m scowling as the street artist paints us. Her friend, Sierra, convinced her to get our portrait done, and because I’m good at this role I’m playing, I agreed. That was before the artist told us to sit a certain way. Before he told Layla to put her ass on my lap and motioned for me to drape an arm over her leg. Before he told her to position her hand around my neck and pretend as if she’s kissing my cheek. Luckily, he didn’t correct her when she only pressed her cheek against mine, but this is almost worse than what it would be like if her lips were on me.

I’m half inclined to stand abruptly and have her fall to the ground to get as far away from her as my feet will take me, but I’m aware of how important it is that I sit here and play nice. My job is to sit, smile and ooze satisfaction as a true boyfriend would. Like I used to do.

“I don’t care how the hell he paints me,” I bark back because that’s apparently another thing we’re doing; whisper-yelling at each other so people can’t hear us. Particularly her friend Sierra, who’s sitting on the bench next to us, being drawn by a different street artist. When she wiggles slightly, my fingertips press into the outside of her leg. It’s skin on skin and awful. Every goddamn movement makes my dick want to come to life, and I have to heavily talk it down. How is it that I can begrudge her, but my body still comes to life for her?

I hiss through my teeth, “Stop moving.”

“I keep slipping and need to re-situate. How much longer do you think he’s going to take?”

“Who the fuck knows, but let’s hope he’s almost done.”

She sighs, and an odd silence falls between us. Then, out of nowhere, she’s back to whispering, this time softer, reminding me once again about the good times we shared. “Remember the last time we were here?”

My teeth graze my inner cheek, and I’m so damn close to biting and drawing blood that it’s unbelievable. “Yes,” I snip, grinding my molars. How could I forget? I thought I was the luckiest guy in the fucking world that day. “I remember.”

I recall the way she tasted when I surprised her with a picnic in the square, sitting under the biggest weeping willow we could find. The fruitiness of the strawberries that lingered on her tongue. The way her fingers curled behind my neck and gently scraped along my hairline. When she took a berry between her teeth and silently begged for me to bite half of it away, I devoured that tiny piece of fruit like it was nothing. Like I hadn’t eaten in weeks, and then I pressed my mouth to hers and slid my tongue along the crease of her lips. It’s no wonder security showed up moments later and told us to beat it.

“I still can’t believe they asked us to leave. This is the first time I’ve been back since.”

It’s the first time I’ve been back, too, but I don’t tell her that. Don’t tell her that up until now; I’ve avoided this side of Quaint to avoid having the memory seep back into my thoughts. “Can you blame them?”

I catch the blush of her cheeks from the corner of my eye, and a part of me wants to tease her for it. Part of me wants to dig my fingers into her skin softly so she’s fully aware of what it does to me, but I can’t. I wouldn’t ever want to give her the same false hope she gave me. To do that to a person…

When she gulps, I hear it and keep my eyes trained on the way the artist quickly moves his paintbrush against the canvas. He’s not as slow as I would’ve pegged, but this is what he does for a living. People passing by wouldn’t agree to a portrait if it took an hour. His quick, furtive glances in our direction have me hopeful that he’s almost finished. A beat later, he nods his head and steps back from the canvas, assessing his work. He pulls it from his makeshift easel and eyes it. “Well,” he says with a thick, French accent, flipping it around. “What do we think?”

It’s…really fucking good. Better than I expected. Pencil sketches our faces and bodies—at least that’s what it looks like to me—and he used blue and yellow paint to shadow and highlight important aspects of our pose—Layla’s cheekbones, the curve of her leg on my lap, my jawline.

“Wow,” Layla breathes out as she slowly slides off my lap, her eyes scanning the multi-medium portrait. “It’s beautiful. You did…an amazing job. Thank you so much.”

The artist nods, his almond eyes lighting up, and it’s the first time I realize that he’s not very well put together. Worn clothing cloaks his body. His hair is unkempt, looking like it hasn’t been washed in days. His fingers, stained in various paint colors, are dry and calloused.

This guy, no matter his appearance, knows what the hell he’s doing. He’s damn good at what it does, and I don’t miss the smile it puts on Layla’s face, or the way her heart-shaped lips curve upward softly.

“Looks great, man,” I compliment as I stand and hold a palm out to shake his. I may not have been keen on having Layla on my lap, but I know when appreciation is due. “How much do we owe you?”

He smiles gleefully. “Twenty, sir.”

Only twenty dollars? The hell with that. His work is more valuable than a measly twenty. I pull out my wallet and fish out a fifty. “Here.”

His eyes widen in amazement, his hands immediately making slashes in front of him as he tries to decline the bill. “No, no, sir. I couldn’t. Too much. Far too much.”

“You’re talented,” I tell him, clamping a hand on his shoulder to ease his worries. “You deserve it.”

---