Page 8 of The Painter and His Poet

I really need to get my shit together.

“Whydo you trust me?”

“Call it a hunch,” she shrugs, pulling on her light denim jacket, the action causing her belly-coasting band tee to lift higher.

I rip my gaze away from that smooth expanse of skin and her gently rounded hips, my throat dry, my cock aching. I really fucking hope she doesn’t look too closely at my crotch, because right now I’m sporting a very painful erection.

“Seems unwise to rely on a hunch,” I comment, my head spinning momentarily, causing the ground to tilt beneath my feet.

“I’m not afraid of you. ”

“I’m no more than a stranger,” I counter.

She frowns at that, something I can’t interpret flicking in her eyes. “Apparently so.”

Her response is strange, bulging with hidden meaning, and I can’t help but wonder if she feels this connection too, or am I so caught up in the barrage of my overloaded senses that I’m imagining things that aren’t real?

“Get a grip,” I mutter under my breath as I lean my head back against the wall and press my eyes shut.

“So, I know you said you didn’t want to go to the hospital…” she says after a beat, her voice trailing off as I shake my head then push off the wall and begin walking down the alleyway towards the main road. I need to move, to force my body to act before I crumble again.

“I should get home,” I croak out, forcing my hands into my pockets so I don’t reach for her and do something rash like kiss her.

“Can I at least grab you a cab?” she offers when we reach the pavement and turn to face each other.

A breeze whips up her hair, and for the first time this evening I notice that it doesn’t quite move in the same way natural hair does. It’s stiff almost, coarser than I’d realised.

She must notice me staring because she reaches up and tugs, pulling off a wig to reveal silky honey blonde hair pulled back in a low bun. If I thought she couldn’t be any more stunning, I was wrong.

“You’re blonde,” I say inanely.

“It’s just something I wear when I sing. Part of the…” she frowns, then clears her throat as she runs a hand over her natural hair, smoothing down the wayward strands “Act, I suppose.”

“You shouldn’t hide yourself. I like it.”

“Thanks…”

Her voice trails off as she stuffs her wig into her bag, and I can’t help but notice that her hands are trembling a little. It makes me wonder if talk of me being a psychopath has scaredher, that whatever snapped to life between us in the club has dispersed alongside the clammy late night air the city has been shrouded in of late.

“Can I have your number?” I blurt out, realising that I’m staring, staring at her beauty, at the colour that still twines around her, at the way her purple lipsticked mouth parts on a soft breath and a deep blush rushes across her cheeks.

She hesitates, considering my request, then nods. “Sure, let me have your phone.”

Reaching into my pocket, I pull it out and hand it to her. She takes it from me, chewing on her lip as she types in her number. “There,” she replies, passing me the phone back.

“Well, I should go,” I say, pocketing my phone once more, finding this whole exchange excruciating. I’m not even sure why I asked for her number other than to cover up the fact that I was staring at her like a creep.

“Sure. I guess I should get going too,” she replies, obviously coming to her senses.

I can’t help but feel disappointed. Not that it’s her fault. I’m not a smooth talker like my best friends back home are when it comes to women. I’ve always been socially awkward, abrupt with people I don’t know well. Growing up being different means I’ve had to adapt to the people around me, always trying to fit in. It’s not been easy. Back home people know me as the heir to a multi-billion pound fortune, a man who, on the surface, is as polished and as good-looking as his father. Yet, that’s just a front, a camouflage to hide the real me, the person who stumbles through each day trying to hide his differences, his awkwardness, all in an effort to make other people comfortable. Tonight she’s seen a side to me very few people have, and honestly, I feel vulnerable. It’s not a feeling I enjoy.

“I’m still happy to grab you a cab before I leave. There’s plenty around.”

“I only live a block away. I’ll walk,” I reply, shoving my hands into my jean pockets.

“You do? Okay… Well, I guess this is goodbye?”

She chews on her lip, a sudden nervousness slipping through, telling me she’s not quite at ease in my company as she’d like me to believe.

---