Drift (Lengths) (6 page)

He nods and puts one strong, warm hand on my elbow as he leads me passed the crowd that’s exclaiming over my sister’s genius.

I put one foot in front of the other and wonder if I’m being my usual stick-in-the-mud self, upset over something that isn’t a real issue. Maybe this
is
all just me projecting my own screwed up, up-tight, butt-hurt situation onto my sister.

Isaac finds an empty table in the corner and pulls my chair out. He gets two more glasses of champagne and sets them down. I take a quick sip, not sure if the drink is going to make all the feelings swirling through me calm down or storm more erratically.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks after a few long seconds of pensive quiet.

I shake my head, but go ahead and ask, “Do you think the fact that my sister was, um, naked in that video was a bad idea on her part?”

His smile is partially sheepish, and I realize that it’s odd to ask him about my naked sister. “I may be speaking from a unique perspective. I’m an artist first and foremost, Lydia. I’ve been sketching the nude body since before I understood all the ways it could be most beautiful. The artist who made that video, Salomina Corsit, is a very brave one. She’s doing incredible work, and—though it may be shocking visually—she doesn’t do what she does
to
shock. She does it to crack open things some people would rather have hidden away. She brings them to the light.”

I rub my thumb over a smudge on my glass. “It’s not that I don’t...
like
...nudity. I guess the ‘bringing to the light’ part is the strange thing for me. Maybe it’s conservative of me, but I feel like some things have their place in the shadows.” I watch his eyebrow quirk up and rush to explain. “Not because they’re embarrassing or shameful. Because they’re intimate. Vulnerable. And exposing them to the light might shrivel them.”

He slides his hand across the table. Those long, strong fingers curl around my wrist and splay out over my knuckles. When I’m finally able to look up from our twisted hands, I see how hungrily his mouth twitches when he looks at me.

“I think the way you feel is beautiful. And I agree that some things are best left behind closed doors. But your sister did not look ‘about to shrivel.’ She looked like she came alive. I imagine because she trusts Salomina.”

I try to tug my hand back to break his spell over me. He holds tight for second, then
lets go suddenly. It makes me wish for more from him immediately. “Trust is a tricky thing. It can bite you hard when you least expect it to.”

“It’s a risk,” he declares, smiling like we’re still flirting.

I wish we were.

I finish my drink and stand. “I should probably see if my sister is ready to go.” At that moment a loud cheer goes up from inside.

Isaac stands next to me, his long body almost too close to mine and inching closer with every labored breath. The two of us are tucked away, hidden in this quiet corner insulated from the crowd. He brushes a piece of my hair back from my shoulder.

“The film runs on a forty minute loop. I think we left when it was about ten minutes in. We probably have half an hour.” There’s a rushed hitch to the last statement, and my mind stretches and rubs against what I could do with Isaac for half an hour.

Not that I would. Or will. But I
could
. If I were brave enough.

Or dumb enough.

And, as if my brain wants to prove just how completely it’s turned to mush, I find my hand reaching out to press against the crisp white cloth of his dress shirt. I plant my hand hard, until I can feel the heat of his skin and the thump of his heart under my palm.

“Your heart is beating fast,” I observe stupidly.

“That makes sense. I’m excited,” he whispers, one hand on my hip, pulling me impossibly close.

“Is it the art?” My fingers follow the line of buttons up and down his shirt, pausing at each one.

“No.” He draws out the word and his fingers tighten on my hip until the sequins bite through the under layer of my sexy dress and into my skin.

I slide one finger into the space between two buttons, running it along his overheated skin. “You feel hot.”

“Maybe I have a fever,” he suggests, ducking his head low and letting his lips almost brush my neck.

The way my spine tingles and my heart ricochets, I’m scared for his almost touch to become an actual one.

“You seem healthy to me.” I flick a button open and scissor my fingers in the opening, peering into the gap in the stiff white cloth, teasing myself with a quick look at what’s definitely forbidden territory.

“It comes and goes,” he says, sucking a breath between his teeth then I let one fingertip, than a second and third coast over his skin. “I’ve noticed it gets worse around particular stimuli.”

I cock an eyebrow and let my fingers graze in a lazy circle. “Stimuli? Sounds very scientific, Professor.”

His thumb rubs over the rounded bump of my hip. “It is. I’ve been observing the issue, and it’s very specific. I’ll be perfectly normal, steady heart rate, cool temperature. And then I’ll catch sight of this one specific thing, and my body goes crazy.”

He brings his other hand up and presses it over mine, knotting our fingers together as we both keep track of the jackhammer thud of his heart.

“Maybe you should avoid whatever it is that’s making you go so insane,” I suggest as he pulls my hand from the gap in his shirt and pulls it up to his lips.

Those perfect, strong lips. Those lips I want to stop almost touching me and press against my skin. Hard. Over and over. Dragging and feasting on me.

I pull in a quick breath. Damn. That champagne must have been a lot stronger than I realized. I never do things like this, think things like this.

Well, not in public.

And not since I was in high school.

If we were in his bedroom and we were both seventeen...very, very naughty things would have been happening.

“I can’t,” he says, my fingers about touch his lips and rejolt me with a shock of the powerful electricity that seems to hum when we’re skin to skin.

“Why not?” I pull my hand back to steady myself for the feel.

“Because I’m already addicted to your beauty,” he says, twining my hand and his behind my back and walking me the two steps that erases any space between us.

I can feel him from my chest down to my thighs. He’s hot and hard and...
very
hard. I can feel how ready he is, and I know he feels it from me too. For a second, I don’t care that we’re adults, or that I’m in public, at a swank art show. I want him, damnit, I want him the way I haven’t wanted anyone or anything in a long time.

Just when the desire makes me grind my hips into his and lick my lips, a familiar voice smashes the moment and leaves all the desire stripped. Deep, sickening humiliation takes its place.

“Cece!” I cry, yanking my body from Isaac’s embrace. There’s an instant short-circuiting, and I’m shocked at how dull and flat the world looks when I’m not in his arms.

“I think we’re heading back now,” my sister says, giving me a look so full of accusation, I feel like my skin is on fire.

Strange. Cece is usually the least hung-up about public displays of affection out of all of us. Hell, I caught her making out with our great-aunt’s lawyer’s son...at Great-Aunt Marjory’s funeral. I try not to read too much into her look, but something nags at me.

“Some people had plans to go to a dance club,” Isaac says.

I relax. Cece
never
says no to dancing. If there’s an opportunity to shake what she’s got, she will, happily.

But my sister shocks the hell out of me by shaking her head. “Sorry. Not for me tonight. You should go if you want, Lydia.” She examines her fingernails as she says it, like she’s throwing down a dare.

Caro clears her throat. “Right. Well, it was so nice meeting you, Mr. Ortiz.”

“Isaac,” he corrects, catching her hand in his and shaking. “It was nice meeting you both.
Congratulations to both of you on your artistic debut.”

Cece gives a small smile and turns. I look at Isaac, and I feel like I’m in the Sahara and he’s a tall, icy glass of water. Which makes it that much harder to walk away.

“It was wonderful to see you, but I need to go with my sister.” Not sure what to do to say goodbye, I fall back on the handshake.

A little bit of a weird formality, considering I was just pawing his half-naked chest.

He pulls my hand to his mouth, just where it was before we were interrupted. He grips my fingers and drags his lips, soft and warm, over the knuckles, his thumb flicking softly against the inside of my wrist. He pulls my hand back slowly.

“When will I see you again?”

“Class,” I choke out.

“That’s too far away.”

“I’m not good for your health,” I remind him.

“I like to live on the edge.” A smile curves over his lips. “I enjoy risk.”

I stand on my toes and kiss him, softly, just to the side of his lips. I feel like I walked up to the threshold of paradise and took a deep breath of its sweet smell…

Just before I slammed the door shut forever.

“But you know I don’t. We went too far tonight, Isaac. I have to go.”

I walk away from him, telling myself with every step that what feels good isn’t always right, what happens too fast and under the influence of too much champagne is best left alone. I watch him stuff his hands into his pockets and smile at me before I turn around and catch up with Cece and Caro.

His smile says he knows I’ll be back.

The scary part is? Whether I like it or not, I have a feeling he’s right.

7  ISAAC

It felt like it would be pretty easy to arrange something else with Lydia. I figured I’d be able to bump into her again on campus. Look her up and find her number so I can call and ask her out.

I could see if I could worm information out of Samantha or Cece. But Samantha has been little more than hostile since I disappeared with Lydia at the art show. When the group went out dancing, I declined. If she thought her petulant face would change my mind, I’m afraid she doesn’t have any idea how to catch me or any reasonable man for that matter. Nothing turns me off a woman faster than pouting.

Cece is another story. I consider going to talk to her a thousand times, but I keep delaying. I’m not sure why.

“Too many women?” Cody asks, throwing a wadded up piece of notebook paper at me. I catch it before it lands in the cup of coffee he just handed me.

I toss it back. “Just one. And her sister,” I add.

Cody sputters on his coffee. “Shit, man. Don’t even involve me in that craziness in a secondary way. That’s Biblical amounts of trouble.”

It’s definitely nice to have Cody around when my mind is cruising around in manic circles, like a rat in a wheel. “Not like that. There’s a girl who’s had me distracted since the second I met her. I can’t seem to get her to agree to a date. And I have no way of getting a hold of her until the next lecture I do. But her sister is in the social sciences department.”

“What’s her name? I don’t have many friends over there. A little too touchy-feely for me. But I might know.” Cody looks at me over his Tardis cup.

“I’d so appreciate it. Her name is Cece Rodriguez.”

This time Cody really does spit his coffee out. “
What?
” he coughs, tossing his mug on the desk and standing up, shaking his head. “Cece
Rodriguez
?”

“Yes.” I narrow my eyes at him. “I met her the other night. She seems very nice. And I’d imagine she’s open minded, considering I was introduced to her while a video
of her dancing naked played in the background.”

“Salomina got the okay for that?” Cody asks, momentarily sidetracked. He holds a hand up before I can answer. “Damn it! They need to reopen the science wing
fast
. I need clothed dorks with no social life around me again. You art and social science people are like a never ending Greek drama.”

“It’s not
that
intense.” I rub my face. “Is there something about Cece you know that I don’t? Some reason I should stay away? Other than the naked dancing?”

“No.” But Cody says the word like it’s a question. “Nothing is wrong with Cece or any Rodriguez. Just...remember I told you my buddy married the girl he tutored?”

“Right. The ones who are in Belgium is it?”

Cody smiles and snaps at me. “Damn. It took the guys in my lab three weeks just to learn my name. You art guys are good at all this friend stuff. Right, so, yeah, they’re in Belgium. And she’s a Rodriguez.”

I nod. “I see. Well, Lydia said she had a few siblings.”

“Lydia?” Cody says, again, like he’s hard of hearing and has to double check everything I say. “Man, you sure you want to get with her?”

“I’m sure I want to take her out to dinner.” I wonder if I really want to know, but I ask anyway. “What’s the issue? Is there something about this family I should know?”

“Nothing’s
wrong
with the Rodriguezes,” Cody says. He says it carefully. Like maybe how someone might say, ‘Nothing is
wrong
with grown men who love playing with dollhouses.’

He seems like he’s going to say something a few times, but keeps changing his mind and shutting his mouth. Finally he goes completely silent.

“If you’re not going to explain to me, are you willing to help me get her number?” I ask.

“Sure.” Cody kicks his feet up on his desk and picks his coffee mug back up. “But listen to me: Rodriguez girls are
intense
. My buddy, Adam? He’s happy. Seriously happy. But Gen’s brothers put him through hell. And their father practically had a shotgun pointed at his heart while he grilled him. And he’s a scientist and a professor. And Jewish! A nice Jewish scientist from Israel, and it was still blood sport to get accepted into that family.”

I cross my arms. “What exactly are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” Cody says, thumping his feet down on the floor and throwing his hands in the air, “you’re an
artist
.” He holds his hands out at his sides like the rest is obvious. “And probably not Jewish?”

“I’m a lapsed Catholic. I have this gig, too,” I say.

“Yeah. A sometimes Catholic artist with a part time guest lecture spot that earns you the title of Professor. Not that impressive, dude. Lydia? She’s a
lawyer
.” He raises his eyebrows high.

“A lawyer?” I assumed she was student.
Maybe
a graduate level student. I wonder if she’s coming back to school for a different degree or personal reasons. “Do you know how old she is?”

“I’m not sure, man. She’s the oldest of all of them. I’d say late twenties. She finished school fast and is crazy brilliant. Like, intimidatingly smart and really aggressive. It’s sexy. Scary sexy. I heard she made junior partner after just a few years.” Cody eyes me warily. “And if you’re serious about her, you better up your game. I know all this about her because her father grabbed me at Gen and Adam’s wedding and talked my ear off about his amazing lawyer daughter. She’s definitely a daddy’s girl, and that guy is no fucking joke.” Cody grimaces. “You should see his mustache. I swear the guy packs heat. No one who looks like that dude
doesn’t
carry a gun.”

“A real gun?” I feel a little nervous. I’ve never held a gun in my life, but I hear Americans are crazy about them. An overprotective, armed father aside, if Lydia is in her late twenties, this may be a whole different thing than I was expecting.

I knew there was something grounded and sexy about her. It makes sense now that she’s older than I assumed. She has the air of a woman who knows herself.

“Just speculation on my part, bro,” Cody says. “But, like I said, Adam couldn’t be happier with Gen, even if he did have to go through a trial by fire. I don’t mean to scare you off. This is just a warning. Maybe I’m all wrong. Maybe you’ve got the chops, Picasso.”

I think about what it would be like if I didn’t pursue Lydia anymore. If I let her out of my grasp and shut down the feelings that have been consuming me lately. There are enough reasons: she’s at a different place in her life than I am right now, her family sounds pushy and interfering, and she’s made it clear that she’s not interested.

Maybe I need to tone down the passion I feel and listen to logic. Despite what my father thinks, I’m actually not very good at doing this. But I know when things are out of my control.

“Thanks for the heads up.” I get up and head out of our office. “I guess I’ll put a hold on that number for now.”

Cody gives me a weak goodbye, like he doesn’t agree entirely. Which is strange, considering it was his argument that made me reconsider.

***

I can’t stop thinking about her.

It’s ridiculous.

I’ve known her a few weeks, talked one-on-one with her a couple of times. We’ve hardly touched. I’ve kissed her hand.

I’ve done more sooner with so many women, I can’t count them all. And any woman I’ve really fallen for? That happened slowly, over the course of months or even years.

Nothing has
ever
felt this immediate or this all-encompassing.

Even if I can lie to myself, lie about how I don’t want the risk and the complications, the divergent life plans and the family led by a gun-toting father, my art never lies.

I have seventeen chapel pieces planned for my exhibition. The last one—based on the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels—should be finished in two weeks.

Though I’ve gone to the cathedral a dozen times, I’ve never come back to the studio inspired to work on it.

An incredibly famous sculptor, Robert Graham, cast the bronze doors that I pushed through as I entered the church’s frankincense scented interior.

But when I get back to my place and begin mixing colors to find the perfect replication of the sunlight glinting on the metal, I forget the door entirely. I wind up with a color that the color and warmth of Lydia’s eyes as she looked up at me, her fingers running lightly on the skin under my dress shirt.

The geometric complexity of the cathedral drives my mind mad, but when I grab my paintbrush, I have no interest in detailing the twists and turns of its foundation.

I soften every line until I’m painting the swells and dips of her body, the ones I know more intimately since I held her outside the gallery, but not intimately enough to give her body the depth and power it deserves.

In order to do that, I’d have to see her completely naked.

No.

I’d have to
feel
her completely naked.

Some painters use their eyes, but I prefer to engage all my senses. Before I paint a chapel, I want to know the density of the stone, the smolder of the incense, the clang of the bells echoing from their little tower.

But to paint a woman?

To paint Lydia?

I’ve done life paintings before, of course. And I did tend to do better when I had some knowledge of the people I painted, but I was usually going through the motions, and it showed. Technically, they were fine. But they lacked the passion of my more detached pieces. I had a theory that being able to focus without getting too carried away would make my art stronger.

That theory is being blown out of the water as I sketch page after page of Lydia’s face, hungry to know her body, wild to feel her, taste her, smell her, until I’ve had enough.

Though I’m not sure there’s any such thing as “enough” when it comes to her.