“Why are you lying?” His gaze drops to the band-aid around my finger. “Do you do that all the time?” A shake of my head makes his muscles tighten. “Is this the only drawing?” Another shake.
Rebel looks around, and when he sees the short hallway, he walks toward it, daring me to stop him.
What would be the point now? He’s seen it, and it’s not like every painting in that room is him. In fact, when he curses, a sly smile creeps over my lips. He’s seen the second portrait I’ve been working on.
“Kinsley!”
I’m not about to go running just because he called. I count to ten, he doesn’t shout again, so this seems like a pointless standoff. It’s getting hot, so I tug off my hoodie and toss it on the table, then head to the art room.
Surprising me, Rebel isn’t standing in front of the portrait of Stryker, he’s looking at the one of him. I’ve taken some liberties, and he is bare down to the crack of how I imagine his ass. In the portrait, he is side-on, staring off to the side, his brow furrowed.
“This isn’t what I look like,” he says without looking at me.
I lean against the doorframe, contemplating his words. I’m confident in my work and my abilities.
One of my specialties in college was the human form and portraiture. The gallery events I’ve held in LA have had nothing but praise for my portraits.
Rebel tosses the pad at the table I’ve dragged in here to sit at when I’m sketching, and before I can say anything else, he strips off his leather cut, then drags his T-shirt over his head. He looks over his shoulder, but I’m not paying any attention to his face anymore, I’m staring at the tattoo that covers his entire back.
It is a portrait of the back of a soldier facing a setting sun. In the distance, there are crosses, like at memorial fields for fallen soldiers. There is far more detail than my brain can take in, it’s stunning. My breath catches, and my hand reaches out to touch it, but I pause before my making contact.
The reds, browns, and ochres of the sun are the only colors in the image. Being able to draw like that is amazing, being able to tattoo it is something else entirely. Then he turns to face me, in all his bare-chested glory.
The tattoos on his pectoral muscles aren’t as crisp as the one on his back and there are words swirling in the one on the left side. The same person did not do these tattoos.
He has flames tattooed on his hips, in that delicious V dipping beneath his jeans. I didn’t notice them the last time he was here because his jeans weren’t pulled back far enough.
The only tattoo I have on my lower back symbolizes something I’ve always felt that I lost. Three roses, two large, one small, nestled in between them.
The family I never had.
“Who is that?” I ask, the question is low, almost reverent, because I sense this means a lot to him.
He pauses, his brow creased, then he shakes his head, as if he will not tell me, so it’s a surprise when he does.
“My dad. If you want to draw me, you need to do it right.”
He doesn’t want me to ask questions about his father, so I honor that. “What do you mean?”
“You can figure it out.”
“Now?”
“Not this,” he waves at the canvas.
Rebel glances around, his eyes landing on a small table where my equipment is laid out. I’ll be the first to admit I’m not the neatest of people, but I keep my art supplies clean, I have to, they’re not cheap.
Mesmerized by him being in this space and wondering how in the hell I haven’t jumped him, I let out a surprised gasp when he turns, holding up an Exacto knife that I use for cutting thick board or canvases. The blade is inside the protective cover, but he pops it off and pushes it up.
“What are you doing?” I ask as butterflies swirl around my stomach, a mixture of surprise, desire and anticipation.
He walks toward me and hands me the knife, then holds up his arm, palm down. “Finish the drawing.”
My head shakes in disagreement, but he uses his other hand to clasp my chin so I can’t turn away.
“Cut me.”
My hand trembles as I hold the knife, then his arm, which is steady in front of me. We’re across the room from the table where he set the sketchpad, so I move around him, making his hand drop away from my chin. When he sees me reaching for the pad, he follows me.
