Good. It’s time to end this ridiculous charade.
As if on cue, Danika lets out a little moan as she rouses from sleep. It’s the sexiest fucking sound I’ve heard in my life, turning my morning wood to tempered steel.
Shit.
“What time is it?” she asks while rubbing her eyes and shifting to her back. Her nipples beg for attention, pressing stiffly against her nightshirt.
“Eight thirty.” I clear my throat. “My designer should be here in the next thirty minutes.”
“That’s good.”
We lie on our backs and stare at the ceiling for endless seconds before she breaks the silence.
“I like what she’s done with the place. Should have known Ricky had moved when I saw all the beautiful plants you have, but I wasn’t thinking very clearly at the time.”
“How’d you know him?” If she actually did know the guy. It’s entirely possible she’s working for Biba rather than running from him, and everything she’s told us is a big fat lie.
“He was an adjunct professor for the photography class I took in my last year of school. He’s a really nice guy, so we became friends.”
Is that a polite way of saying they fucked?
Jesus, I’m a dumbass. Now I have the image of her getting fucked in my living room, only it’s not my cock she’s riding, and it pisses me off. Would she be in his bed right now if I hadn’t moved in?
My entire body crawls with the need to hurt someone.
“I like plants,” I grit out harshly. “They’re simple. No fuss required.”
“Glad you think so,” she continues as if I didn’t just bite her head off for no reason. “I can’t keep plants alive for the life of me.”
“All you have to do is be consistent.” This time, I’m able to speak without sounding like a disgruntled man-child.
She peers at me from the corner of her eye and smirks. “Not sure if you’ve met many artists, but consistency doesn’t tend to be our forte.”
That has me intrigued. “What kind of artist?”
“I work in digital arts, but I prefer paint—oils and acrylics.”
“I guess it works that you’re here, then.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because that’s the reason the designer is coming over. She’s found a painting for my dining room wall and wants to see what I think, but I don’t think anything about art.” I may not know about art, but Grace does, and it’s one way to test Danika.
“You don’t think about it, or you don’t enjoy it?” Her openly curious tone, absent of judgment, keeps me from getting defensive. Art has long been a sensitive subject for me.
“I don’t see it. All the symbolism and designs that others say they see? It’s all just blobs of color to me. I told her to just pick something and put it on the wall, but she insists on finding something that speaks to me. If art speaks, I must be deaf.”
“If you ask me, I’d say you don’t have to hear it to appreciate it. Blobs of color can be just as enjoyable as a well-crafted statement on the human condition. If it appeals to you, who cares about the reason?”
I think about that for a moment and realize she has a point, except she doesn’t understand how hard it is to appreciate something when you know it has a secret meaning and you’re the only one who can’t decipher it. I don’t need art to serveas an additional reminder of how my brain sets me apart from everyone around me. I’ve had enough of that in my life.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I mumble, effectively ending our conversation. The silence that ensues would probably be categorized as awkward for most people, but it doesn’t bother me. If there’s nothing to say, silence is the natural result. Why should that feel uncomfortable?
I take the time to ground myself by mentally reciting the US capitals in reverse alphabetical order. It’s a practice I started when I was young. To this day, I find it’s still one of the best ways to clear my head. I’m midway through my second recitation when the door buzzer rings.
“That has to be Grace.”
We both keep inhumanly still, straining to hear the door open. The second the lock clicks, I shout for her attention.
