Page 36 of Whiskey Throttle
My gaze moves back to the painting, waiting for his answer. He moves closer, not enough to touch, but for his presence to loom over me. Not intimidating, but seeking peace at this sudden invasion of my privacy. Before I can ask again, he answers.
“I really wanted to paint that first night.”
I look over my shoulder at him. Clueless about what he’s talking about. Our eyes connect, the chemistry growing. This side of him is new to me.
Introspective and quiet.
Not readily charming or shmoozing people. No. This version is raw and real. Authentic in a way I only dream of being. I find myself wanting to lean back, to sag against his chest, weary from all the scrutiny of our carefully curated life. Yet, years of training keep me from giving in to my urge to touch him.
“What first night?”
My throat clogs with everything I cannot say. The feelings of lust and wanting catch in my throat.
“It was after your divorce and scandal. The first party you attended. Tongues were wagging, of course. You held your head high, expression hard as marble. You looked regal but sad. Soft skin over an iron spine.”
His words are low, no more than a whisper. Heavy with the emotions he captured in these strategically placed lines. His eyes flick beyond me, to it. The painting from now. Not the first event after my divorce.
My gaze follows.
“I expected Dom to be there. Hoped he would be, so I’d have someone to hang out with. But you showed up alone.”
The floor creaks with the final step he takes toward me. His chest is against my back. The warmth seeps into my dress, heating my body, while he explains.
“I was surprised. Heard others gasp. You stood in the doorway, surveyed the room. Eyed everyone eyeing you back.”
His words enthrall me. His hands grasp my arms, skimming down my skin until they wrap around me. Holding me gently as his words lull me into a story I didn’t even know anyone noticed, including him. I don’t even recall him being there.
Then again, I was too scared to really look around the room in case my eyes would land on my recently ex-husband and his latest conquest.
“You didn’t turn and run. You didn’t even hesitate for a second before snatching up a glass of champagne and walking into that place like you damn near owned it. I remember thinking, even back then, how stunning you were. It was a red dress. Probably too audacious for the event, but it looked perfect on you.”
He paints a very romantic picture of a terrible night. My first experience in society as a divorced woman.
“The red made me feel sexy and powerful.”
I lean into him. Drenched in his admiration when I was at my lowest. His hum of agreement soaks into my body. Confirming and appreciative.
“Your hair was swept up, adding to your allure. You were Babs fucking badass Barrett. I think that’s when my crush really started.”
I gaze over my shoulder, his expression the most serious I’ve ever seen.
“Pardon me?”
His arms tighten, unwilling to let me go while confessing his ages-old secret.
“Yeah. I’ve thought about you forever. Painted, sketched, and drawn you a lot over the years.”
He waves a hand around the room, a sadness in his tone. I look with him, seeing bits and pieces of him in many works. Abstracts, realism, and caricatures. All art in various modes and mediums serves as an expression of himself, existing beyond the public's gaze. This is private and sacred, meant for a few eyes, only mine and his family's.
“I wanted you to see this, Barbara. I wanted you to know this side of me before we go any further. It’s not an obsession, I just wanted to capture you this time, when I couldn’t last time.”
He doesn’t say why he couldn’t last time. Nor do I ask. That night, which he held in reverence, was awful for me. Best to forget it. Although this sketch, the one in front of me that I already saw on his phone, is another sad night. Not as difficult in comparison, but still one I’d like to forget.
“I hope it doesn’t creep you out.”
I turn fully to face him, his confession ringing in my ears louder than the ocean outside. He looks nervous now. Not cocky, not flirtatious. Vulnerable in a way that matches mine. For a moment, I don’t know what to say. No one has ever looked at me like this. Not when I was married. Not even when I was young and still believed men meant it when they said they loved me.
I study him. Not just his expression, but the subtle tremble in his hands, the tension in his shoulders, as if he’s bracing for rejection. It does something to me. Softens me in a way I didn’t know was still possible.
