15. Callie
15
CALLIE
PAST, ArtFusion Night Two
The guys think I’m meeting my “friend from high school.”
Never mind I didn’t have any friends in high school, and they know that. It still wasn’t hard to get them to buy the lie. Becket is giving me the silent treatment because my “headache” derailed his plans of getting lucky. Pike is distracted by his own plans, and Rocky and Ezra are too busy bickering to question me.
Once they’re gone for the evening, I rush to get ready. The body painting itinerary said to wear a swimsuit if you want to participate, but I don’t have one with me, so I have to stick with a strapless bra and a pair of underwear. Aside from my Phoenix outfit, I only packed the bare necessities—nothing frilly or sexy—and I pull on a pair of cut-off jeans and a plain tank over the top. There will probably be people in bikinis; hell, there will probably be people half-naked, but I’m more comfortable clothed. Besides, I don’t even know if Torren will want to participate. Maybe he just wants to observe. Maybe he wants to meet there and then go somewhere else. The fact that I really don’t know what to expect makes my stomach flip with nerves.
It's okay. It’s good. I’m just going to go along with whatever.
I debate makeup, then decide against it. It’s hot as fuck outside, and I’ll just sweat it off anyway. I don’t even bother checking my reflection in the van’s side mirror. If I do, it will just make me more anxious. As it is, I spend the entire walk to the art tent with my head in a spiral. I tell myself it’s not a big deal, just a casual meetup with a guy I met, but my pounding heart isn’t buying my lie.
This is Torren King. The Torren King.
I’m sneaking off to meet the Torren King at ArtFusion to possibly do latex body painting, and there isn’t a single thing I can tell myself that will make this feel less surreal. It’s not until I turn a corner and find him waiting for me, standing just out of the beam of one of the light posts, that my nerves threaten to consume me. I stop in my tracks and stare.
He doesn’t see me right away. His head is tipped in shadow as he scrolls on his phone with a lit joint hanging from his pouty lips. He’s got the baseball hat and sunglasses on again, and there’s more scruff on his face than there was yesterday, but there’s no hiding who he is. If the colorful tattoos on his arms don’t give him away, the god-like aura he exudes should.
God, he’s so effortlessly gorgeous that it’s unfair. Tattered blue jeans and a plain black T-shirt shouldn’t look this good on anyone. I fist my hands, take a deep breath, then force myself to walk toward him.
I’m just out of arm’s reach when Torren looks up from his phone and finds me. His smile is immediate, and my cheeks and chest heat with a blush.
“You came.”
I shrug. “I did.”
He stubs out his joint, then takes his sunglasses off and hangs them on his shirt just like he did yesterday. He never breaks eye contact. It’s so intense, the way he stares me down with those impossibly green eyes. I almost forget how to speak.
“Have you done this before?”
Torren tips his head toward the tent. There are already about twenty people inside. There’s a woman walking around in a fully painted colorful latex bodysuit, chatting up participants and handing out foam paintbrushes. I scan my eyes over her perfect body—a canvas of blue and purple swirls that somehow hides and accentuates every dip and curve—and determine that she’s almost entirely naked. She might have on some sort of thong, but it blends with the latex paint so well that I can’t be sure.
I swallow past the lump in my throat and shake my head .
“No. You?”
“Yeah. A few times.” He turns and walks into the tent, so I follow him. “Are you allergic to latex? Sorry. I probably should have asked you that already.”
“I’m not.”
“Good.” He stops in front of some buckets of paint, every color of the rainbow on display, then turns a mischievous smirk on me. “You gonna let me paint you?”
The bluntness of his question catches me off guard, especially after seeing that gorgeous model of a woman all sexy and painted. I about choke on my spit. I have to clear my throat before I can force words out of my mouth.
“Why can’t I paint you?”
The words come out stuttered, clumsy, but I don’t miss the flash of heat in his eyes. He cocks his head to the side and sinks his white teeth into his bottom lip before speaking.
“What if we do it together? You do me, and I’ll do you.”
I nod, and then stand frozen as he takes off his hat, then pulls his shirt over his head. When he drops the shirt and hat to the ground, my eyes fall to his chest and my exhale lodges in my throat.
I could probably draw his tattoos from memory, but the pictures I have stored in my head are nothing compared to seeing the art up close. His biceps, shoulders, collarbones, and chest are covered in intricate, colorful designs, and I scan them like I’m completing a seek-and-find.
The skull on his right pec looks even more menacing in person, yet the red rose growing from it looks so real, I want to lean in and smell it. I find the antique record player on the side of his rib cage, and I know from an interview he did once that the music notes filtering from the horn make up the opening chords to The Hometown Heartless’s first single.
My eyes drift lower, searching for the moth inked onto his pelvis, the one he told a night show host represents rebirth and new beginnings, and when I find it, I curl my hands into fists. He’s fucking art. This body I’ve dreamed about, that I’ve seen only in photographs, is real and close enough for me to touch.
“I think I’d feel bad covering them up,” I whisper, and when he laughs, I flick my eyes from his pelvis to his face and blush. “Sorry. ”
He steps closer. “Don’t be. I like it when you look.”
Our gazes lock and hold. My heart thuds louder in my head the longer we stare at each other. He’s older. He’s unattainable. He’s experienced, tempting, and so very dangerous for me. I’ve exchanged only a handful of sentences with him—hell, some of them weren’t even full sentences—yet here I am, reaching for the hem of my shirt so I can strip it off for him.
I’ve done some reckless fucking things in my nineteen years of life, but this has to be top of the list.
Part of me wants to look away, knows I should break eye contact and flee.
But the other part...
The other part simply cannot .
“Would you like me to help you?”
The words are whispered seductively as he covers my hand with his. The feel of his long, calloused fingers sends a rush of shivers up my arm and over my torso. I know I’m blushing. My breathing is shallow. I might pass out from lack of oxygen.
Torren King is touching me.
I shake my head, and he drops his hand, severing the skin-on-skin connection right before my vision fizzles at the corners. I suck in a lungful of night air, the scent of latex paint and weed and leather consuming me, and then I turn my back to him so I can pull my shirt over my head. He chuckles, and goose bumps cover my back, chest, and arms as I drop my shirt onto the ground beside his.
I turn to face the instructor and don’t look at Torren again as we’re given a rundown of the dos and don’ts of body painting. Someone stops by and asks if we need help, and Torren says no. He’s done it before. The instructor does a double take, obviously recognizing him, but she says nothing and leaves us to begin without assistance.
“You want to go first?” he asks, and I shake my head again, my tongue still incapable of forming words. “I’m going to fix your hair.”
I nod, and he smirks as he steps in front of me once more. I try my damnedest not to think about the fact that I’m currently standing in front of Torren King in nothing but cut-off shorts and a nude, strapless bra. I fail.
Gently, he removes the claw clip from my hair, and my long auburn tresses fall to my back. He puts the claw clip between his teeth, freeing both hands so he can gather my hair and twist it into a bun at the back of my head.
My eyes flutter shut the moment his fingers make contact with my scalp. His tattooed forearms frame my face, his hands sinking into my hair and caressing in a way that has me imagining bed sheets and no space between our bodies.
I’m inches from his chest. Just a hitch at the waist and I could kiss the guitar pick tattoo on his sternum.
I pray he can’t see how hard my nipples have gotten. I’m so fucking grateful he doesn’t know how wet he’s made me just from the simplest of touches.
He takes the clip in his hand again, then tightens his grip on the hand still fisted in my hair. A small tug, just enough to sting at the root, and I have to swallow back a whimper.
“Your hair is so soft.”
I say nothing. I breathe him in, eyes still closed as he makes sure every strand of my hair is safely in the bun, then he secures it with the claw clip.
“There. Now we can start.”
I clear my throat. “Okay.”
“First, we have to put this on you.”
He holds up some aloe lotion before squirting some on his hands and rubbing them together. He doesn’t ask if I want to do it myself, and I’m grateful for that. I want his hands on me so badly I might die, but I don’t think I could say it out loud.
The moment his hands land on my shoulders, I suck in a quick breath.
“Cold?” he asks with a smirk.
“Yes.”
“Sorry. I thought I warmed it enough.”
He did. It’s not cold. His touch is just more than I expected. The jolt of electricity I felt from the brief touch of our hands was nothing in comparison. He slides his palms over my chest and down my arms, then over my stomach and back. It takes all my strength not to tremble under his touch. I have to remind myself not to lock my knees.
“Do you want to keep your shorts on?” he asks, and my eyes widen. He laughs. “You can keep them on. I didn’t know if you wanted to do full body.”
I bite my lip, warring over the decision for all of two seconds before shaking my head.
“You can, um...you can take them off.”
God, his mischievous grin goes right to my fucking clit. It’s not until his long fingers are undoing my button and pushing my shorts over the curve of my ass that I realize this could make the wetness pooling in my panties visible to him. I start to panic, but he never pulls his eyes away from mine. Not even when I’m stepping out of my shorts and kicking them to the side. Not even when he lowers himself to his knees and runs his hands up and down my calves and thighs, coating me with the aloe lotion. The eye contact almost makes it worse, my arousal heightening, my attraction to him increasing tenfold. When he finally stands and turns away, my body sags as if finally released from the force field created by his green eyes.
He grabs one of the sponge paintbrushes and smiles. “I’ll try not to get paint on your bra.”
I swallow roughly and decide before I can overthink it. “You can take that off, too.”
He arches a brow, his nostrils flaring slightly as he inhales. “You don’t have to.”
“I know,” I say, then I force a small laugh. It comes out a breathy blend of nerves and arousal. “But I don’t want paint on my bra.”
He nods slowly, then doesn’t take his eyes off mine as he reaches behind my body and undoes my bra with one hand and drops it next to the rest of my clothes. Skilled and swift. It shouldn’t be a turn on, but it is. My nipples pebble in the warm night air, my breasts heavy and aching.
“Do you want to do the lotion?”
I shake my head no and watch as he puts the handle of the paintbrush between his teeth and reaches for the aloe lotion. He rubs more lotion between his hands, warming it, then pauses briefly, seeking my consent again. I give him a small smile and a nod, and then he puts his hands on me once more.
I bite my lip, my body erupting in chills as his hands glide smoothly, almost respectfully, over my breasts coating my sensitive skin in the aloe lotion. He doesn’t toy with me or fondle me, but I still have to swallow back a whimper when his palms pass over my peaked nipples, his calloused fingers circling them briefly before his thumbs run under the curve of my breast. I think I see his eyes fill with heat. I think his breath grows shaky. But he never takes his gaze away from mine.
When he’s finished, he takes the paintbrush from his teeth and smirks.
“Ready?” His voice is a low rasp, making my heart skip and my own words come out in a strangled whisper.
“Yes.”
He dips the paintbrush in a bucket of red, and I gasp when he drags the cold paint over my collarbone in long strokes. I can’t suppress my shiver. My nipples ache, my core throbs, and he’s barely touched me. His eyes bounce from my chest, to my eyes, and back, dividing his focus between the painting and how I’m reacting to it.
He must like what he sees, because his own naked chest begins to rise and fall more rapidly, and his white teeth sink into his bottom lip in a way that has me wondering what his bite feels like.
He alternates brushes, moving between reds, oranges, and yellows. Some white. Some black, until my arms and chest are a canvas of swirling flames, and I feel like I might overheat from the lust churning in my stomach. He lowers to his knees again and freezes. When I glance down at him, I find his eyes focused on the apex of my thighs, and suddenly, I’m blushing so hot I worry I’ll melt the latex right off my body.
I clench my thighs together, and slowly, painfully slow, he tilts his face up to mine. The look on his face—sex and hunger and primal need—makes my head spin. And then his full lips curve into a smile so devious, my core throbs. When his sharp canines appear, I fist my hands and try not to sway at the mental image that floods my mind. His teeth sinking into my thigh, my hips, my ass. Leaving red bite marks and bruises. Marking me.
As if reading my thoughts, he presses a kiss to my hip bone before nipping at the sensitive skin there. I gasp and reach for him, gripping his shiny black curls on impulse. He laughs, then whispers against my skin in a tone that almost sounds like singing.
“A fire-colored flower...burning in bloom.... ”
His lips drag over me, his tongue dipping into the band of my underwear once before he finally leans back and gives me space to breathe. To think. I drop my hands from his hair, and he grins up at me.
“You can leave them there,” he says ruefully, putting the paintbrush where his lips just were and continuing his artwork. “Pull a little harder next time. But not too hard, or we might end up giving these people a show they didn’t ask for.”
My jaw drops and my eyes widen. He barks out a laugh so loud that it elicits one of my own.
“You’re...” I start to say, shaking my head. “You’re...”
“I’m...?”
“You’re not at all how I imagined you’d be.”
He smiles, but he doesn’t look up at me. He keeps his eyes on my stomach as his paintbrush glides over my skin. Thank god. It’s so much easier to form words when I’m not held hostage by his eyes.
“You’ve imagined me, hmm?” The humor in his voice makes me bite my lip and look away. I don’t answer, and he doesn’t stop painting. “I like the thought of you imagining me. Someday you’ll have to elaborate. I want to know how reality measures up to your fantasies.”
I snort out an awkward laugh. “Who said they were fantasies?”
My voice is high-pitched and breathy. A dead giveaway. They were totally fantasies. He doesn’t comment on my tone, though. He just shrugs.
“I’ll fantasize about you fantasizing about me, then. It will keep me company when I’m alone on the bus.”
Jesus, the thoughts that spur in my head. Alone—so not with Sav. Alone—not with me, either. Unless this is another subtle invitation?
The retraction of my previous rejection climbs up my throat, but it gets stuck on the tip of my tongue. If he asks me to go back to his bus again, I’ll go without hesitation. I’d go right now if he asks. He doesn’t.
It takes Torren over an hour to finish my body paint. It goes by in minutes. When I’m spinning in front of one of the full-length mirrors, I find myself speechless. He’s transformed me into a living, dancing flame. Even though I’m topless in just a pair of underwear, I don’t feel naked at all.
“Can you take a picture?” I ask him, pointing to my discarded jean shorts. “My phone is in the front pocket. ”
“You like it, then?” He bends down and retrieves the phone.
“I love it.”
“Good.” He points the phone at me. “Smile, Firebird.”
He snaps a picture, then types on my phone for a few seconds. I hear the familiar sound of a text being sent, and then he hands my phone back to me.
“What did you just do?” I ask.
“Sent it to myself.”
My lips twitch with excitement. There’s now a thread in my text messages with Torren’s phone number, and I have to resist the urge to pull it up and look at it. It takes all my restraint to click the screen off and not hunt down his number like the obsessed fan that I am.
When I look back at him, he’s pulling his shirt and hat back on, and my brow furrows. I thought I was going to paint him next, and the disappointment that floods me is immediate.
“I’ll walk you back. It’s late.”
He hands me my shirt and bra, then holds my shorts out for me to step into them. The paint has dried, feeling warm and tight on my skin. Like a wet suit, or a second skin made of rubber. I wonder if this is what it would feel like to be a Barbie.
Torren tugs the shorts over the curve of my butt, then drops his hands, leaving them unbuttoned. He nods a thank you to the instructor, and when he turns to leave, I follow.
“Camp or car?” he asks, and I tell him where the tent is, then we fall into silence.
His sunglasses are back on, a new joint is lit between his lips, and I trail him as he weaves through bodies. It’s only a little after midnight. ArtFusion events go until three every night, but I don’t protest. I feel myself crashing from the excitement, like I’ve crested the tippy-top of a rollercoaster, and all that’s left is the plummet.
He leads me all the way back to the park exit corresponding with my camping section, then he stops walking.
“Get that shit off before you fall asleep.” Despite the sunglasses, I know he’s not looking at me. Everything about him has cooled. From raging fire to burning ice. “You can overheat. Don’t leave it on too long.”
“Okay,” I say with a sharp nod. “Thanks. ”
He blows a stream of smoke from his nose, the pungent smell of weed growing stronger, then he starts to walk backward.
“Sleep tight, Firebird.”
I don’t watch him leave this time. I turn and walk through the exit, heading for our campsite. Once I’m by the van, I try to peel the paint off my body, but it’s not as easy as I thought it would be. I drag myself to the shower structures set up for our camping section and wait in line. When it’s my turn, I use my soap to wash Torren’s artwork from my skin. After fifteen minutes, I’m scrubbed clean of any proof that Torren King ever touched me, a chill settling deep in my bones despite the hot night.
When I get back to my camp and crawl into my tent, I take out my phone and finally check my message threads. I know what I’ll find even before it’s opened.
Or rather, what I won’t find.
There’s no text with Torren’s number. There’s no text because he sent the photo and then deleted the thread. That realization makes my breath catch for a whole new reason.
Torren deleted the thread because he didn’t want me to have his phone number.
Guess I’m not that special after all. I’m an idiot for even thinking I could be.