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Lord, tell me it was closed.
Marigold jerks her head up to look at me, her blue eyes wide with fear. Guilt clogging my throat, I keep unloading the dishwasher like I’ve never seen a sketch in my whole damn life. Never seen those drawings of me, with the shape of my body shaded in such fine detail. Nope, never.
“Um,” Marigold says. “Did someone…?”
Feeling like the world’s biggest jerk, I glance over and raise an eyebrow. “Did someone what?” Clink, clink, go the glasses in my hands, and if I had an ounce of decency I’d beat myself over the head with one of ‘em.
“Nothing,” she mumbles, flipping her sketchbook open to that same page with the two regulars sharing a smoke. Her pencil turns over and over in her fingers, and her teeth dig into her plump bottom lip; nibbling in a way that makes me want to reach over and press her lip free with my thumb, then slide knuckle deep and let her suck on my digit. Let her suck all those worries away.
My cock aches something fierce at the thought, but I do my best to ignore it. Should never have seen those sketches of me. Should never have pried.
And so I lean further over the dishwasher, trying to lose myself in the rhythm of the work, and forget what I learned tonight: my fixation with Marigold goes both ways.
Three
Marigold
I’m less alive when I’m not at Flint’s bar. Less substantial, somehow. Like a strong gust of wind might blow me away, atom by atom, until I fade like an old picture in the sun.
Everything else is a blur. Running errands, cooking meals on the hot plate in my tiny rented room, drawing commissions to keep some money trickling in—nothing holds my full attention. Not anymore. Not since him. I stumble through my days in a trance, mind elsewhere, until night falls and I can finally slip through the doorway at Flint’s.
Then: noises are full and rich again, pressing against my ear drums. The heat and humidity tickles my skin, and the taste of whiskey mists the air.
I’m here at last, rooted in my body, fully alive once more as I slip through the crowds of drinkers to find a good spot to sketch. When I glance at Flint’s closed office door, a knot in my chest loosens.
Because—it’s okay. The boss here didn’t see my sketches last night; my cover isn’t blown. I haven’t ruined everything with one cowardly trip to the bathroom. I can keep coming here, keep sketching this bar and its patrons, keep stealing glances at him.
Thank god. I need this routine like air.
“There she is!”
“Hey, Picasso.”
“Draw me next, okay?”
The locals know me on sight, greeting me with sloppy grins and waving arms, drinks sloshed over their wrists. I smile and nod back and edge around the rowdiest groups.
It’s busier tonight. Loud and hectic. There’ll be no spreading my stuff out on the bar, that’s for sure—not unless I want a beer-soaked sketchbook and constant elbows knocking my sides. Even now, a man stumbles into my back, plastering me briefly against the scratched wood. I wince, face scrunching up as I wait for him to step away again, but the nearest bartender is less patient than me.
“Hey!” Tess yells, leaning over the bar to smack at the guy’s shoulder. “Jimmy! Give poor Marigold some space.”
I smile at her as the weight lifts away from my back, a slurred apology thrown over the man’s shoulder.
“Thank you.” My words are swallowed up by the din, but Tess sees my lips move. She grins at me, wide and and crooked, and nods at Jana where she’s serving at lighting speed at the other end of the bar.
“No worries. We’re both here tonight, right until closing, so you give us a shout if you get in any trouble. Okay?”
“Sure.”
“And feel free to draw us.” Tess places my glass in front of me with a wink, ice cubes clinking together in a cold, sweet lemonade. Beads of condensation are already forming on the sides of the glass, sweating and sliding. “If you get tired of your muse.”
I manage another wobbly smile. There’s no hiding my crush on their boss from Tess and Jana; they’ve both stolen too many glances over my shoulder while I’m sketching. And yes, it’s embarrassing to have them know exactly what I’m up to when I come here to draw every night, it’s squirmy as hell, but I still can’t keep myself away.
It’s like there’s an invisible rubber band tied onto my rib cage, and the other end stretches all the way through Starlight Ridge town to Flint’s office door. Any time I’m away from here, there’s a dull ache in my chest: a constant pull to come back, to get closer, to find him.
The second I step through the bar door each night, that ache eases. So… yeah. A little embarrassment is not gonna keep me away, not when too much time away from Flint gives me indigestion.
“There’s a quiet spot at the back,” Tess shouts over the hubbub, jerking her chin over my shoulder. “In that corner. I tucked a stool under the table for you.”
