Page 96 of Real Fake Husband

“Pencil’s over there by the bed,” she tells me.

“Jesus, woman.” I give her a slap on that delicious round ass because: man. Josie squeaks and wiggles it delightfully in response. She pushes her ass up higher, and I smack it again, of course, because: same reason.

“Okay, get comfortable,” I tell her, grabbing the pencil and sitting on the edge of the bed. There, I flip the red book open to a blank page. She has been busy. There are hardly any blank pages left.

Josie props her chin on her hand as she lies on her stomach, her legs kicked up in the air and crossed at the ankles. Sexy. Very sexy.

Well, let’s see.

This should be doable.

I’ve been watching her enough to basically be an expert.

I start to sketch her, my eyes darting between her and the page as I fill it with lines. Ha. I’m not half bad at this. Another line here, and one there, very good. More and more of her beauty is uncovered in my drawing. Playing hooky from art class wasn’t a detrimental mistake after all. Sure, it’s tough, and it takes most of my concentration, but not enough that I don’t admire how fucking sexy she looks. God, she’s flawless. Just like the girl on my paper.

“Okay, ten minutes are up,” Josie says not too long after. I should have known she was keeping an eye on the clock.

“All right, you ready to see this masterpiece?” I ask.

“Absolutely.”

I turn the page around.

And Josie bursts into laughter.

Yeah, okay, the drawing is questionable. Barely a step above a stick figure. This shit is harder than it looks. Still, I’m incredibly proud of it, and seeing Josie amused makes me grin.

“I know, we should do a joint art show,” I say with exaggerated pride. “I don’t like to throw the term ‘genius’ around, but come on. Just look at this.”

Josie is still cracking up, and now tears are streaming down her cheeks. Her face is bright red, and she’s on her back, her hand pressed to her stomach. “Oh, my God,” she blurts through peals of laughter. “I…can’t…breathe.”

“It’s not an exact interpretation. I took some liberties,” I continue, loving what the ongoing joke is doing. I’m determined to keep it rolling as long as I can. I’ve never seen her this carefree and happy. I keep talking and talking, explaining my profound thinking process behind my artistic triumph, my opus—the defining masterpiece of my career.

Once in a while, she looks at the drawing only to burst out in laughter again. “Cal…I can’t stop. It’s so funny it hurts.”

Eventually, I crack and join in, laughing along with her and tossing the sketchbook off to the side. “All right, fuck motorcycle dealership, new career, and I’m going all in. Mr. Art Douche won’t know what hit him,” I say, lying next to her.

Once I squeeze her against my chest, I caress her soft cheeks. “At least you know whatever you draw will never be as fucking bad as that,” I rumble softly.

“Fair point,” she says, still giggling.

This is paradise. A beautiful naked woman in my bed, happy and carefree and looking at me like I’m everything she ever wanted.

Like I’m the fucking king of the world.

35

JOSIE

NINE DAYS LEFT

I’m humming to myself as I head back to work. The image of Cal’s “utterly exquisite drawing” creeps into my mind now and then, and I start giggling all over again. I’ve never seen something so peculiar and hysterical in my life. It was like Cal started the drawing with a stick figure and just added on body parts. Hilarious. He’s still a mystery to me. How can the boy who made fun of my picture and set it on fire back then have no trouble making fun of his own drawing style?

We had such a great time yesterday.

We spent the night in that room with Cal doing various poses while I filled canvas after canvas. By the time we went to bed, I had several new drawings. They’re mostly done too. I just need to go in and work on some finer details.

Cal isthebestmodel. I’m not kidding.

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