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“Fuck off,” she waves dismissively at me, her black nail polish flashing purple and green in the sunlight streaming through the window beside us. “All I’m saying is Rainbow Brite seems right up your alley. You know, if you’re looking or whatever.”
“Wisp.”
“What?”
“Rainbow Brite was the name of the show,” I’m enjoying this too much to contain the laughter in my voice. She’s trying to push me on Lucy Doyle? There’s only one reason I can think of why she would do that, and it makes me desperate to get her alone. Now. “The main character’s name was Wisp. And just how many ‘rumors’ have you been hearing about my sex life?”
Charity shifts in her seat, the inky black lines of a tattoo peeking through a rip in the side of her jeans. “I’m not interested in your sex life, Dickbag.”
An unfortunate admission, considering every aspect of her life has been the object of my obsession for the last fifteen years. I know what art school she ran off to when she dropped out of Forest Falls Community College. I tracked every grade she made, every friend she had, and every dollar she spent. I can chronologically list her ex-boyfriends and their current addresses, and I have personally vetted every home she’s had since she moved out of her father’s house. I know exactly how many tattoos and piercings now adorn her skin, though I don’t know what some of those tattoos look like—yet.
“You started this conversation,” I remind her, gently shaking my head to clear the spiraling thoughts. “But I’ll be a gentleman and change the subject.”
“How magnanimous of you.”
“I really am a giver.” Charity makes a snorting noise I’m almost entirely sure is suppressed laughter. I search for a question, anything someone would ask a person they haven’t seen in the better part of two decades. “Where have you been hiding since you ran away?”
“I didn’t run away.”
“You sure about that?”
She leans back, an odd look passing across her face before she shrugs one shoulder. “I’ve been all over the place. Spent the last few years in New York, though.”
“The Big Apple, huh?”
“That’s the one,” it looks like she’s trying to bite back a smile. “Have you ever been?”
“Once,” I admit, but instantly regret it. If she asks me any questions, I will have to lie to her, and I don’t want our first real conversation where my head isn’t between her thighs to be riddled with lies. “Where were you before New York?”
“Seattle for a while,” she rolls the cup in her hand, watching the slightly melted ice cream swirl in gentle circles. “But I was in Florida the longest. That’s where I ended up after I graduated.”
“Where did you end up going to college?”
“You really haven’t been keeping tabs on me at all, have you?”
Her words spike my heart rate, and I wonder if she’s calling me out. “Was I supposed to?”
She gives me an assessing look, but it doesn’t answer any of the questions swirling in my mind. “I went to a university in France.”
“Goddamn.”
“I know,” she huffs, and I swear I see a small smile pull at the corner of her mouth. “Pretentious as fuck.”
“What kind of art did you study there?”
“Painting and sculpture mostly, but my degree is in Art History. And now, I get to draw shit for a living.”
“And that...pays your bills?”
“Yeah, Dickbag,” Charity rolls her eyes again. I hadn’t realized how often she does that. I’d love to help her break the habit. “It pays my fucking bills, thank you.”
“Just making sure,” I force a laugh, trying to keep the conversation light. “Alright, Madame Artiste. Art pays the bills, but what do you do for fun?”
She studies me for a long time, and I watch her right back, hoping she can’t see the barriers I’ve constructed around my soul. “I’m an artist. Drawing is what I do for fun.”
“There has to be something other than art.” My eyes are glued to Charity’s mouth as she pulls the spoon between her lips. When I finally drag my gaze away, she’s giving me a knowing look.
“There really isn’t,” she raises one perfectly sculpted brow at me. “What do you do for fun, Dickbag?”
