Page 24 of The Bad Girl List

He bursts out laughing. The sound is unexpected. It washes over me like warm honey, but there’s an edge to it, like he’s not used to laughing.

“Definitely walk of shame, huh?” I smile to show him I’m not mad, then roll up the sleeves of his shirt so my hands peek out.

“Kind of, yeah.”

Since I’m already dressed for the part, how about you be my vacation fling? The words are on the tip of my tongue, but for all that the Cosmos have loosened my vocal cords, I can’t get those particular words out. I settle for sitting on the edge of the trunk and fishing around in my pants for my pencils and sketchbook. Now that I’ve finally reconnected with my inner artist after such a long dry spell, I don’t want them out of reach.

He surprises me by sitting down next to me. “Are you planning to go back inside and drink more Cosmos?”

“Mm-hmm. I’m on a mission, remember? Six months of free rent is on the line.” I finally manage to excavate my drawing materials from my pants. I balance them on my lap while I try to figure out if either thing will fit in the pocket of Trevor’s ginormous shirt.

“Are you going to draw more pictures?” he asks.

“Probably. I like to draw.”

“Can I see?”

I squirm. “You already saw.”

“I saw a glimpse of a face before you put your foot over it.”

“It was your face, okay? Is that what you want to know?” Once again, the alcohol makes me more honest than is arguably intelligent. “You’re good subject matter.”

His forehead crumples in amusement.

“See, right there!” I point to his face. “That expression!”

“What about it?”

I dig into my pencil bag. Since we’re no longer pretending he doesn’t know about my drawing, I may as well take advantage of this moment.

“Stay right there.” I twist so that I’m facing him and take out my charcoal pencil. “Hold that face.”

His amusement deepens, but he obliges me by holding the expression.

“Is this what the naked guy felt like when he posed for the statue of David? My face is starting to cramp.”

“Stop talking.” My eyes flicker back and forth between his face and my pad. I keep the sketch relatively simple, yet somehow manage to capture his expression and the light cast on his face from the open trunk. “What do you think?” I hold it up for him to see.

He slides over so that our hips touch. Another pleasant zing goes through me. I’m starting to feel like a horny teenager.

“Can I see your other drawings?”

I’m pretty sure no woman can look into those dark eyes and say no. I’m certainly not in any shape to be the first.

Wordlessly, I pass him the sketchbook. He flips through the pages and studies the three I made of him, lingering the longest on the one that captured his haunted look back in the bar. He stares at it for so long that I start to fidget.

“I should have asked you first,” I blurt, unable to take the silence any longer. “It’s just that I’ve been working my ass off at this soul-sucking company and until I decided to be a rebel and get myself fired yesterday, I had completely lost touch with my art. I’ve barely drawn anything in two years.”

“You’re really good.” He turns the picture so the full light of the trunk spills over it.

His compliment warms a deep part of me. It’s been so long since I’ve drawn for the pure joy of being creative. How had I let this part of me lapse? I’d sacrificed so much for Presidio, and what had it gotten me?

“You can have it.” Impulsively, I take back the book and rip out the page. As I hand it to him, our eyes meet.

He might be drunk, but his gaze is electric. I feel like I'm trapped in a tracking beacon as his forehead crumples and uncrumples with thoughts I can’t decipher.

CHAPTER 8

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