How could that ever be wrong? Why should we pay for the sins of our fathers?
I don’t like that thought crowding my blissed-out state, but our reality is only a few hours away, and while we can’t pretend forever, we can pretend for a few days…
“Turn to your side.” My eyes sweep Deacon’s nude torso. As I drag the kohl pencil down my large sketch pad.
“At least it’s warm.” He quips. One leg is bent, and a small towel covers his lap. “I wonder where you’re planning to hang this one.”
I’m shading the lines of his muscles, the planes of his shoulders, when I realize he’s teasing me. “Do you need a break?”
“I’m good.” A sly smile curls his lips, and my favorite dimple catches my eyes, distracting me for a moment before I get back to work.
Sliding my hand along the page, I return to the smooth highlight of his pecs… his beautiful body. My eyes narrow as I look at him again, so unaware of himself sitting there naked and amazing.
“I’ve never had someone sit for me before outside of class.”
He looks up from his phone. “Good.”
It’s so emphatic, I laugh. “Good?”
“I don’t want you looking like that at other guys.”
“Looking like what?”
His eyebrow arches. “Like you’re all flushed.”
“You make it hard to concentrate.”
That only feeds his ego. His blue eyes darken, and I shift in my seat, clearing my throat. “I need to finish this so I can send it with my Arthaus application.”
“When is it due?”
“This week, and it’s very important.”
Then he grins. “So I’m distracting?”
I don’t answer, moving to his stomach. Eventually, I’m going to get down to his pelvis and then all bets are off.
Drawing him is like touching him, but slower. It’s examining every line, memorizing every square inch of skin, every shade and nuance. It’s the most intimate thing we’ve ever done.
“Tell me about your mom.” He takes a drink of the water bottle I put out for him along with some snacks. “You said she made you want to be an artist? I know she was a Buddhist. How did that happen?”
Pausing a moment, I take a breath. It’s a good distraction, and it’s something we haven’t talked about very much.
“She went to art school in California. It’s where she learned different philosophies.” Looking up at the mountains rising along the skyline, I try to remember her. “She never told me why she turned to that belief system over our family’s tradition. I was raised strict Catholic, but she resisted.”
“Do you think that’s strange?” Blinking back to him, I see he’s watching me with that familiar intensity. So interested in everything I say.
“I didn’t then.” Lifting my pencil, I return to work on his perfect abs. He is such a Michelangelo. “Maybe I don’t now… I mean, knowing what I know. Once or twice she mentioned the life she left behind. She would talk about hearts consumed with revenge and hate and how it was cancer in your soul.”
“She left her husband and her son.” His voice is gentle, not accusatory. “Didn’t she feel bad about that?”
My brow clenches, and I slide my pinkie finger over his abs on the page. “I was so little. I never thought about that. I never asked, and she never said.”
Deacon shrugs. “It would explain why he’s so angry. My mother died when I was young. It hurt to have her gone, but at least I knew she loved me.”
“Mamá loved her family…” My voice is sharper than I intend, and Deacon’s eyes blink to mine.
“Hey, I’m sorry—”