2
Maddie
Isat as still as I possibly could, but I so wanted to look at the cowboy. I liked him from the minute he barreled into the room. He was a full-blown comedy of errors. Late, noisy, no pencil, a real mess, and when the professor gave him flak for being late, he swung charm at the guy, wielding his humor like a sword. For the record, a ballsy ego in the face of authority was my kind of pie.
He was a looker too. Tall, broad, resplendently manly, straight up yum. He had that strange but tasty combo of a full dark beard and long blond hair. How did that happen and why was no one asking that question? If we saw someone with different color eyes, we’d all be saying wow. But genetically two-toned hair and everyone was just like, whatever. No matter, very sexy—especially to someone like me who cut and colored hair for a living.
In this art class, he stood out like a rare bird, a grown-ass adult in a sea of children with crayons and backpacks. Literally, every student except him couldn’t have been more than nineteen, and they all looked like they were wearing their pajamas. But honestly, come on, how often did you see a full-blown cowboy sketching at an easel? And he was the real deal—boots, jeans, big ol’ belt buckle. For the love of doughnuts, he was still wearing his hat. I could feel him looking at me. He was off to my left, exactly parallel to me, so I could see him in my peripheral vision, but not really.
Admittedly, there were a lot of eyes on me. I expected to be looked at. I chose this gig. I have been working on learning to love my body. I was a recovered anorexic/bulimic. I was not ashamed of it. I had a shit childhood and managed it in a self-destructive way. I got myself help. I’ve been in recovery for almost a decade. We all have our ugly, right? My only regret was that my ugly left me barren. But barren is better than dead. Recovering from an eating disorder wasn’t about feeling pretty. It was about letting go of the need to control everything. So, I did that, but now I wanted to feel beautiful in my skin. Hence, this whole model for an art class thing. I thought baring my skin to a room full of strangers would be a good step in owning my beauty and releasing the pressure to respond outside judgement.
But all the eyes put together didn’t hold a candle to the impact of having his gaze aimed in my direction. Something about the way he stared at me felt like he saw me in a way that others didn’t. Again, I couldn’t really see the dude, but his eyes acted like fingers on my skin as if he was caressing every inch of me with his glances. And I reacted as if touched, literally trembling under his examination. I am not a wallflower or a saint. I have been loved and sexed up in my life, but I have never felt a man’s eyes on me like they knew the secrets of my lady bits… like never. Also, I wasn’t even fully naked yet. How was I going to handle that situation?
After an hour or so, and mere minutes before I lost my cool and full-on orgasmed from the way the cowboy was looking at me, the art professor told everyone that it was time to gather their things (by the way, the professor’s first name was Rufus, which was not only a dog’s name, but also a name that felt a little like it might belong to a creeper). I still didn’t move. I didn’t know if I was supposed to. Also, I was a little confused by what was going to happen to the sheet that I was draped in when I stood up. I wasn’t naked underneath. I was wearing underwear and a strapless bra, but still, I remained unsure of the protocol. In the movies, artist’s models always have silky kimono robes. Clearly, I failed to adequately prepare for my role. I wondered where I could get one before my next appearance as muse extraordinaire. Not in Conway.
Slowly, one by one, the Crayola crowd packed up their things and filtered out of the room. The cowboy was the only one left. He approached Rufus. I was so eavesdropping.
With a gentle humble tone, he said, “Listen, man, I’m sorry if I gave you attitude. I hate being late, and it’s not my M.O. It won’t happen again.”
Rufus was a consummate dick, “Lateness is not tolerated in this space, Mr. Morgan. In the future, you will kindly refrain from entering if tardy.”
Arguments with pompous blowhards like Rufus were a waste, but if the cowboy was hot-headed, Rufus’ self-important air might set him off. Inexplicably, I wanted to save him from the kerfuffle of upsetting his professor. I pushed my chair back and stood, bringing their attention to me. With the sheet pressed to my chest, I asked, “Do I just like get dressed now? Or do I wait for you two to leave?
Rufus smiled his subtly douchey smile, “Our apologies, Madeline. We will give you some privacy. We’ll see you next week.”
It’s Madison, not Madeline, but whatever, Professor McStuffy.
He snapped his artsy leather briefcase closed and headed for the door.
The cowboy, Mr. Morgan, was slower to move like it hurt him to take his eyes off me, but he also walked to the door, leaving me alone in the room.
I quickly got dressed and headed out. No need to dawdle. The halls of the building were as empty as a toy store on the day after Christmas, and every one of my footsteps echoed on the linoleum. I wondered to myself why all institutions feel so institutional. Then, when I was nearing the exit, I looked up. Outside, just past the glass doors, the cowboy lingered in the moonlight. I slowed my gait to savor the moment. It was my first real chance to put eyes on him without him noticing. Holy hot sauce, he was a choice cut of beef if I ever saw one. That boy got buns, hun. As if he could feel my eyes on him, he turned in my direction. He seemed uncomfortable. He was either nervous or had to pee.
When I approached the door, he held it for me. Then he awkwardly blurted, “Hey, this might sound weird—it feels a little weird—but are you okay getting to your car in the dark?”
Was he worried about me? That was a little bit cute. Okay a lot, that was hot. I couldn’t help flirting just a little, “I think so. Unless you’re dangerous. Are you dangerous?”
It was cold and he exhaled a cloud of smoky air. His voice dropped an octave when he said, “Maybe.”
I nervously laughed and then looked in my purse for my keys before saying, “So, does the serial killer thing work for you?”
“It can get kinda messy,” he joked back. He paused briefly before dropping any dark pretense he’d been able to conjure, “No, sorry. I can’t even make jokes about this. I didn’t get the killer gene. I’m a cowboy who can’t eat meat. I’ve never killed anything.” Another pause, “I mean, for you, I might, but…” He let his words trail off and we just stood there looking in each other’s eyes. His were oozy chocolate and I was swimming in them.
He was a funny mix of rugged man and awkward personality that I found almost completely irresistible. But I wasn’t looking for attraction or even a tumble in the hay right now. I was on a mission to find me, to get secure in my own skin, and goofy, sexy, cowboy Morgan would be a big fat distraction from that, so it was time to head on home.
Shattering the eye contact, I looked towards my car and said, “Well, off I go.”
“No to the escort then?” he asked.
“I’m good.” I shrugged.
“You mind if I just stand here and make sure you get off okay?”
“It’s a free country,” I offered, already on the move.
To my back, he hollered, “I’m Luke, by the way.”
“Maddie,” I called back without turning around.
“Nice to meet you, Maddie,” he said into the darkness punctuated by big overhead fluorescent parking lot lights.
I lifted my hand in a wave, back still turned. I wasn’t looking back. I didn’t want to give him any ideas.
“Thank you for tonight, Maddie. You were exquisite.”
I whipped around to see if he was joking. He didn’t sound like he was, but no one had ever called me exquisite before. Nope, dead serious. And just like that, I found myself smiling and walking backwards like an idiot.
Nice moves, Madison. Way to stand your ground.