Page 156 of Forgotten Comeback
“Why do we have to wait a week?” I cry incredulously. “I love you; you love me. So show me.”
He grips the steering wheel so tight I’m afraid he’ll rip it from the dash. “My last bout, I channeled all my sexual frustration into beating my opponent. I want to keep that laser focus going into the championship.”
“This is bullshit.” I cross my arms, staring him down.
He shrugs. “This is loving a boxer.”
Like a petulant child, I pout all the way to…the boardwalk. “What are we doing here?”
But he doesn’t tell me, leading me to the ticket booth and buying tickets for one ride. We get in line for the ferris wheel, and like a Pavlovian response, my pussy tingles in anticipation.
“We’re not here for that,” he warns me, and I resume pouting.
We’re ushered to our seat, and the bar closes, as we begin our ascent. I’m hopeful Gavin’s changed his mind by the way he’s looking at me, but instead of placing his hand on my thigh, he reaches inside his pocket.
“What’s that?” I eye the little black box.
He answers by opening it, and I gasp. It’s a spiderweb ring made of black and white diamonds. “I love you, and you love me. Let’s be not crazy for the rest of our lives together. Marry me.”
I open my mouth, then close it.
“It’ll have to be a civil and not a legal ceremony,” he continues. “But we’ll be husband and wife in our eyes, and they’re the only ones who count. Taylor, be my wife.”
“You’re denying me, and now telling me I can’t have a legal wedding, and that’s your proposal?” I raise an eyebrow.
“It’s either I marry you or my dick, but you’ve already stopped that wedding once.” He smiles smugly. “We know you can’t share me, even with my right hand.”
“Gavin?”
“Yes, baby?”
“Stop running your mouth and put the ring on my finger.”
“Is that a yes?” he asks hopefully.
“Yes,” I say, my eyes welling with tears. “Let’s be not crazy for the rest of our lives together.”
“Together,” he promises, slipping the ring on my finger and kissing me sweetly.
My studio bell rings, and I hurry to the front door, ushering Inferno inside. “Thanks for agreeing to this,” I tell my future brother-in-law of sorts. Now having met John, Inferno’s mask is identical to his twin’s face. It’s the bendiest of mind bends.
“Don’t thank me just yet,” he warns, whatever that means.
“I’ll have you positioned over here, seated on the stool.” I lead him to the area I have set up. “We’ll work in thirty-minute increments and take five-minute breaks. Try to be as still as possible, but if you have to move, no big deal.”
Inferno unbuttons the top of his dress shirt, and using both hands, he grabs the edge of the mask. It’s peeled off like a secondskin, and I suppress a gasp. What he’s been hiding is a shock to the system: his face and neck, severely scarred, like the man’s been dipped in a vat of acid. “What are your artistic thoughts so far?” He challenges.
I go with honesty. “Your form is disturbing, yet interesting. I don’t want to look, but I also don’t want to look away.”
His lips lift ever so slightly before he places the mask on the table and returns to the stool. “Proceed.” It feels as if I’m getting a peek at something forbidden, like sneaking into hell and watching the devil seated on his throne as he laments the choices that got him there.
Creativity buzzes beneath my skin as my charcoal flies over the pages, filling one after the other. Only when I look up at the clock do I realize we’ve been at it for two hours. “I’m so sorry; we went longer than I promised. Let’s take a break.”
“No apology necessary.” He rises and gives his neck a roll, a move Gavin does often. “May I see?”
“Please,” I tell him, and he walks over to examine my work. He eyes them without expression, and I hold my breath.
After a painfully long stretch of silence, Inferno says, “I would like to commission you to paint a mural in my office, with Dante ‘vibes.’”
