Chapter 20
Elle
Do you know what happens to an artist who can’t follow through on a gallery opening show even when it’s her own fucking gallery? She gets blackballed. Talked about behind her back. Treated like a pariah in her own social circles.
You would think ‘Pop Culture in Abstract’ would be an interesting flex of artistic talent. That the door is wide open for different interpretations of what pop culture means to the different artists selected for the show. And you’d be correct. The other artists being featured have submitted amazingly colorful and bright masterpieces that comment on today’s obsession with celebrities and brands, television and movies, music and fashion. And what do I have? I have canvas after canvas of noir. Dark, emotional, almost violent paintings. What the fuck am I going to do?
When the knock comes at the door, I jump three feet off the floor and let out a small scream. I don’t even look through the peephole. I fling the door open, flinching when I see Ranger standing there looking like a God in jeans and cotton.
“Elle?” he asks, but I’ve already started pacing and talking to myself again. “Elle?” he tries again, but I just wave him off.
It’s not until he grips my shoulders that I’m able to stop, and the look of worry in his eyes almost breaks me.
“What’s wrong?”
“Everything. Nothing. I don’t fucking know!” I half-sob. “I don’t have a single fucking painting that I can place into this show, and it’s my show!”
I know I’m rambling. I know he has no clue what I’m talking about, but it feels good to get it out there.
“Whoa-whoa, slow down,” he tells me, which as we all know never works.
“Slow down? I can’t slow down! Don’t you understand? I have three days before I leave and I can’t leave because I don’t have any pieces I can add to the show! This could ruin me. Do you understand that? It could fucking ruin me, close my gallery. Jorge would be out of a job, and I can’t do that to him. He needs this job! And I love my gallery and my studio, and this studio, too! And could you imagine my mom and dad? What will they think of me when I’m nothing but a fucking failure and I have to run back to them to save me?”
I’m full on sobbing now, my chest heaving, a panic attack damn near consuming me.
“Tink.” Ranger calls me that horrible name. “Listen to me.”
I shake my head, crossing and then uncrossing my arms.
“I said listen to me. Right fucking now.”
It’s the demand in his voice that has me looking at him. Still struggling to catch my breath, my eyes focus on him.
“That’s better. Everything is going to be okay.”
“But—”
“I said, everything is going to be okay. Trust me.”
I gasp out a laugh that turns into a shriek when he scoops me up into his arms and starts walking.
“What are you doing?” I smack his shoulder. “Put me down!”
“Can’t do that, Tink.”
“Don’t call me that.”
His smirk grows. “Why not? Do you not like it?”
“You know I don’t!”
He sits me on the countertop in my small kitchen area, stepping between my knees and gripping my chin with his thumb and forefinger. “There, you’re down.”
“Why am I sitting on my kitchen counter?” I ask.
“Because you got something,” he brushes his finger across my cheek with his other hand, still holding my chin, “right there.”
He steps away only long enough to grab a paper towel and dampen it. When he’s standing between my legs again, he starts to gently wipe off my face.
“Here’s what we’re going to do.” He gives me a challenging look, but I don’t say anything. I’m too stunned that he’s being nice to me. When he realizes I’m not going to interrupt him, he continues. “We are going to get you cleaned up. Then we’re going to look at what you have and see if we can fit it into the theme. Maybe you just need another set of eyes.”
“I’m not sure I want you to see my work,” I quietly tell him, my cheeks burning at the admission.
“Why’s that?” he chuckles. “Afraid I’m going to tell you they suck?”
I shake my head. I don’t want to tell him why.
“That’s not going to work for me, Tink. Now I need to know why. And Scout’s honor, I won’t laugh.”
“Were you actually in the Scouts?”
He gives me a boyish grin, making him look so much softer than he always is around me. “Nope.”
“Then fuck your Scout’s honor bullshit.” I try to sound pissed, but I don’t have it in me to hate him right now. “Why are you being nice to me, Jonathan?”
Yeah, I know, I never call him by his first name. But if he insists on calling me Tink, I feel I have the right to pull out the full name every once in a while, right?
“Am I ever truly mean to you?” he asks, not calling me out on the name.
“No,” I reluctantly agree. “Might be easier if you were.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, if you were always an asshole, you wouldn’t be here taking care of me. And I wouldn’t be feeling things neither one of us wants to face or admit.”
He doesn’t reply but continues to clean the paint splatters off my face, my neck, my arms. When he gets to my hands, he raises a brow at me.
“Those are a lost cause.” I shrug.
“How long have you been up, Elle?”
I close my eyes at the use of my real name. It almost physically hurts when he uses it.
“What day is it?”
“You have to sleep,” he growls.
“Okay, Dad,” I reply in a petulant teen voice.
He leans in close, so close I can feel his breath on my face, and says, “You can call me Ranger, Cross, Jonathan, Daddy, or if you’re a really good girl, Sir. But I am not now, nor will I ever be your dad. Understand?”
I nod—words have evaporated from my brain.
“Good. Glad we cleared that up. Now take your pants off.”
My spine snaps straight. And I look at him in horror. I start to shake my head no, but he places his hands on either side of my neck, his thumbs rubbing small circles on my jaw.
“Say no and I’ll stop. Right now. I’ll turn around and walk away. But I want to taste you. Need to, actually. And you need the release. Will you let me do that for you?”
My jaw goes slack, my core tightening on air, and I want this man. I want this man more than I’ve ever wanted anyone in my life. I make eye contact with him, the lust and desire in his eyes driving me forward.
“Yes,” I answer quietly. “But I haven’t showered,” I try to protest.
“Don’t give a fuck. Pants off, Tink.”
Not breaking eye contact, I lift my hips with his assistance and pull my sweatpants down over my hips. I must not be quick enough for him, because he reaches down and yanks them the rest of the way off, tossing them over his shoulder.
“No panties?” He raises a brow.
“No panties.”
“The things you do to me, woman.”
He captures my mouth again, his tongue invading, seeking, tasting. I feel my body relaxing, the freakout from moments ago fading to the recesses of my mind. I close my eyes, my head falling back as his mouth moves to my jaw, my throat, and then I feel him on my thigh, spreading me with his strong hands.
“I’m not stopping until you beg,” he tells me.
I whimper at his declaration and can feel myself getting wetter. His hands rub up my inner thighs, and when he reaches my pussy, he spreads me wide, inhaling my scent.
“Delicious.”
And then there are no more words. His head descends between my legs and his tongue swipes through my slit, back to front, circling my clit. With the perfect amount of pressure, he assaults my clit with vigor, lapping and nipping. He lifts my legs over his shoulders, one hand pushing me until I’m flat on the counter, moaning his name.
I feel him probing my opening with his finger before plunging it inside as he sucks my clit into his mouth, making me scream. His finger finds that spot that makes me go off, and before I know it, I’m a shaking, trembling, gushing mess. A beautiful mess.
But he doesn’t stop and before I’ve come down from my first orgasm, I’m already ramping up for another one.
“No,” I cry, “I can’t.”
He mumbles something into my clit that I can’t hear, but the vibrations push me even closer to the edge. With one finger still curled perfectly inside of me, I feel his pinky circling my ass. He does love to do that. And when he pushes it inside, I come all over his face again. My body gives out, going limp against the cool marble beneath me.
“I’m not done, Tink. Just getting started.”
I open my eyes to see him standing up, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm. I hear his zipper being pulled down, and without a moment of rest, he thrusts into me.
“Yes,” he hisses. “So wet. So perfect.”
“Fuck me,” I beg. “Please.”
“There you go.”
He only gives me the smallest break to adjust to his size before he’s pumping in and out, gripping my legs hard, and I relish in the pleasure-pain of it.
“More,” I demand.
He grunts, slamming into me over and over, a sheen of sweat covering his skin. “Need you to touch yourself.”
I reach between us, my finger circling my clit, while he watches, his eyes zoomed in to where I’m touching my body.
“I’m so close,” I cry out when he adjusts my body, hitting at a new angle and making me see stars.
“Good,” he grunts again. “Get there.”
Three, four, five more thrusts and I’m coming all over his cock, crying out his name, my back arching off the counter.
“Elle!” he roars. He’s lost all control and is blindly thrusting inside of me until his own release explodes out of him, coating my walls.
He collapses on top of my body, both of us breathing hard, and I manage to lift my hand and run it through his hair, cupping the back of his head before my hand flops back onto the counter, and I close my eyes, loving the feeling of his weight on top of me. I want this. I want him. More than a benefits situation. But that’s not what he wants, and I’ll be damned if I’m the one who breaks and admits my feelings to a man who doesn’t return them.
He pulls out of me, grabbing my hands and pulling me up to sitting. It’s only then I realize we both still have our shirts on. We couldn’t even get all the way naked.
“Feel better?” he asks, a cocky smirk on his face.
“Yes, actually, I do.” I give him a full smile.
“Let’s get cleaned up and figure out your problem,” he says almost awkwardly.
“You don’t have to stay.”
“I know.”
With those words, he helps me off the counter and we go into the bathroom. After getting cleaned up, I grab us each a bottle of water, and we stand in the middle of the studio, looking at the chaos.
“These are amazing, Elle,” he tells me, walking the circle of canvases I have laid out.
“They don’t work for the show.”
“Why not?”
“It’s supposed to be pop culture in abstracts, not,” I wave my hand around, “these.”
“What would you call these?”
“Noir.”
He nods. “I can see that. Kind of dark, mysterious. But aren’t you the owner and featured artist?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Then you make it whatever you want. Are you close with the other artists in the show?”
“Some of them, why?”
“What if you changed the progression? Find out if they have something they can submit that isn’t as bright or abstract and lay the show out that way—from crazy colorful to this. Put these at the end.”
“But they aren’t pop culture,” I point out.
“So what? Who gives a fuck that you didn’t paint Bennifer 2.0 or Taylor and whoever she’s dating now? These are amazing and need to be seen.”
“Why…why are you being so nice?” I ask, completely dumbfounded at why he cares.
“I know I’m an asshole, and I hate the personal shit, but this is professional stuff. This is your livelihood, just like tattoos are mine. And these are amazing works, Elle.”
I preen under his compliments, not realizing how much I needed them. And I work out in my head who on the artists list would be the best to contact. “Jorge is going to kill me.”
“No, he won’t. And if he does, well, I’ll be there to save you.”
I don’t think he realizes what he just said, that he’d basically take care of me, and I’m not going to bring it up, that’s for sure. He continues talking me through adjusting the show, going over the issues we might encounter, and before he leaves, it’s with a promise that he’ll be there Wednesday night to help Jorge and me set up. There’s no goodbye kiss, no acknowledgement of what we just did. Not that I expected one, but I still feel the emptiness when he’s gone, and I wonder if he feels it, too.