Page 32 of Dravin

I inhale and exhale. My belly is still pitching a fit, so I unroll the window a crack to let the fresh night air in. It smells leafy, like trees and grass. That’s probably not a thought I’d have sober.

I wouldn’t have kissed Dravin if I was sober either.

I know that’s what he’s talking about, but I still play dumb. Buzzed me can admit to the thrill that hums under my skin like a bug light. “Define what part ofwhatyou mean exactly.”

“Why did you drink all those shots?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why did you kiss me?”

Why did you let me?

I focus real hard on the crack in the window and the dark scenery flashing by. “I don’t… know.”

“Do you know anything right now?” He’s not trying to be rude. He’s frustrated. Confused. His voice even shakes slightly, betraying just how rattled he is.

“For the past year, not fucking much of fucking all.” The words pour out of me, raw and unfiltered. I make a mental note never to drink again. I don’t remember ever having this honesty problem before.

The silence fills up the car, thick and uncomfortable. I have to say something or I’m going to burst, even if it’s unwise. He dropped his questions. I should just let it ride until we get to the house, and I can hide in there.

And what? There’s no pretending this didn’t happen. You’re not even that drunk. You’re buzzed, at best.

“I do know one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“You kissed me too.”

The car swerves as he tears over to the side of the road. We’re in the industrial section where Lynette told me that Bullet’s new range is. All I can see are the dark outlines of huge buildings and none of them look like a range. Maybe we’re not in the right area. “You grabbed my cock,” he hisses, ramming the car into park. He doesn’t shut it off. Probably because it’s hard to do with a damn screwdriver.

Somewhere, we reached a precipice, some kind of edge, and I’ve been pushed past it. It’s the only reason I can use to explain why I turn to him and continue to drive stakes under his skin, agitating both of us. “You want to kiss me again.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

Neither of us know what to do with that.

I inhale too harshly and let it out in a hiccup. I blame the heat spreading up my neck and burning in my cheeks on the very loud belch sound.How enchanting.

His hands clutch the wheel, strangling the shit out of it before they loosen and grasp it again. He won’t look at me. I stare openly at him, a parade of images slamming into the backs of my eyes. I want to bruise his lips, kiss him so hard that it hurts us both, then do whatever it takes to ease the pain into pleasure. I want to strip him out of his black t-shirt and jeans, kiss and taste every scar, every inch of his skin, drink in his essence and drown in him. I want to rub myself against him until his scent stays with me, clinging to me like it did long after he took his shirt back. I want to spend hours gazing at him, memorizing his body, seeing him not just as an artist, but as awoman.

I felt the outline of his cock back there. I squirm in the seat right now as I imagine what that hard, long thickness would feel like inside of me. If there’s one thing alcohol is good for, it’s lowering inhibitions and kicking up the libido. This whole thing is one red flag and do I care right now?

I guess that I do, but not the way I should.

“Is this where you give me the mistake lecture?” I grunt, knowing that’s going to be a for sure yes.

“No.” I whip my head over to stare at him. His face isn’t just impenetrable. It’s downright stone, but even stone can be carved. It can be warmed. It can be brought to life. It can also crack. “But it can’t happen again.”

“Yeah.”

“Is that yes as in no, or yes as in yes?”

“Can I still paint you?”

In the dim lighting, I can still see just how white his knuckles are as he gives that poor wheel the chokehold of its life. “Is that a metaphor for something else?”

“No.”

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