That would be giving up.
And we don't give up.
Now—
Now, I'm here, imagining Opal tied to my bed.
"Have you had many?" she asks, somehow reading my mind. "Many girlfriends?"
"Some." This isn't a safe subject. "Did you watch anything else with your mom?"
"Everything. We'd read the same books too."
"You read?"
"Do I not look like someone who reads?"
My eyes flit to her hot pink backpack. Her stylish cashmere sweater. "You don't, but that isn't what I mean."
"No, you didn't invite me here to call me a stupid home-wrecker?"
Does she really think that? "I didn't mean—"
"I know. I'm kidding."
Maybe she's trying to ease the tension, but she is upset by the implication. "Really, Opal. You didn't do anything wrong."
"I know."
"I don't know you well enough to know how intellectual you are," I say.
"Then what did you mean?"
"You're a visual person?"
"I am."
"Visual people often prefer the medium of film."
"Do they?" She traces the edges of her sketchbook. "I don't know if that's true. I love to read. It's easy for me to see the scenes happening."
"You have a great imagination?"
She nods. "I don't need to see something created for me, on screen. But then plenty of unimaginative people read. So… maybe there isn't a correlation. I don't know. I love music, but I don't know much about it. I don't have great taste."
"What do you like?"
"No. What do you like? If there's anything embarrassing, then I'll tell you one of mine."
"We're here to work on your art."
"Then you should make me feel comfortable, like I can trust you with personal things."
True. If she were anyone else, I'd be trying to build a relationship. I wouldn't withhold because I didn't trust myself.
"What if I say I only listen to jazz?" I ask.
"It would fit with your black coffee image," she says. "And I wouldn't tell you anything."
"Indie rock?"
"How much work did it take to get you in a suit instead of a beanie and designer jeans?"
My lips curl into a smile. "You want embarrassing?"
"Ideally."
"And honest?"
"No, I want a lie." She shoots me a get real look.
"Taylor Swift."
"No," she says.
"Yes."
"How?" She sits up straight.
"I started, ironically, to mock my girlfriend."
"The recent one?"
No. Cassie hated anything popular. She was like me there too—all darkness and frustration. It was too much. Fire and fire. "It's your turn."
"No." She shakes her head. "We need to stay on this longer. Are you a full-blown Swiftie?"
"I'm a fan."
"Have you been to a show?"
"I took my niece."
"But you wanted to be there?"
"I wanted to experience the event with her."
"Uh-huh." She smiles wide. "Favorite song?"
"Blank Space."
"Me too. It's just… everything. She writes great lyrics."
"She does."
"You really believe that?"
"I do."
"Do you like other pop singers?"
"You first," I say.
"Okay. Taylor Swift. Back to you."
"Vanessa Carlton."
"You do!"
"And Tori Amos."
"Fiona Apple?"
"I love Fiona Apple."
"Are you being serious right now?" she asks.
"I am."
She leans closer. "Favorite song?"
"It's obvious."
"Criminal?"
I nod.
"You know she wrote that to prove she could write a pop song."
"I know."
"You swear you're not fucking with me?"
"Cross my heart and hope to die."
She stares, studying me, absorbing this new information. "What is it about the artists?"
"They share their secrets."
"And most people don't?"
"We rarely see into someone else's head. Even when we know someone well, we don't always know how they feel. We don't know their deepest, darkest desires, their fears, their burdens." Or you ignore their signs. Ignore every single fucking clue. "Is that your project?"
"Does it give you every one of my secrets?"
I swallow hard.
"Is that what you want? Do you want every one of my secrets?"
Chapter Ten
MAX
Do I want every one of her secrets?
I want every thought in her gorgeous head.
I want to see her stripped bare in every single way.
Fuck, I thought it was bad wanting to see her naked—
But this craving is deeper, purer, infinitely more painful.
"I want what's best for your project." It's bullshit, but it's true. I'm here to guide her, to honor my last promise to my friend, whatever that takes.
"I know." She forces a smile. "I'm teasing."
She is, but she means it too.
"People are always mocking Taylor Swift for singing about heartbreak. I don't have that kind of heartbreak. No ex-boyfriends of note." She studies my expression, trying to see how the news lands.
Is it obvious I'm relieved?
Is it obvious I want to bend her over the desk and fuck her senseless?
"Is she your role model?" I ask. "For the project?"
"I don't know… I didn't think about it." She looks to her work, shifts her focus to the pieces themselves. "It is confessional. And there is an obvious influence from other artists. I guess I should show you."
"Please." I motion for her to go on. Tell my cock to cool it.
She takes a deep breath and peels the cover back. She flips through pages of graphite sketches and stops on a simple self-portrait. "Some are more metaphorical. Some are more literal. I have an entire series like this. I was thinking, maybe this is what I want to say."