Emery
“This is your car.” I stand back while Theodore opens the passenger side door to an old black muscle car with red interior.
“Get in, kitten.” He sounds bored by my surprise. Maybe even impatient.
“What is it?”
“Get in and I’ll tell you.” He lifts his dark brows, waiting for me to comply.
I take him in standing next to his car, making him look even more like a devilish James Dean.
I dropped him off at the dark stadium parking lot where he told me he’d pick me up at my house after dropping off my dad’s truck. I sat on the front steps of the house staring at the classic car not believing it was actually him until he got out to retrieve me.
“It fits you.” I drop into the passengers seat and run my hand over the leather. “How do you afford a car like this?” Sure, it’s a personal question, but after allowing a man inside my body multiple times I think we’re beyond personal boundaries.
The engine rumbles as he pulls away from the house. “You mean, how does a guy who comes from nothing afford a car?” He eyes me quickly. “I work.”
“What do you do?” He’s never mentioned having job or having to be up early for work. And it’s hard to believe with his school schedule and football that he’d even have time to work enough to afford a car like this.
He guns it once we hit the freeway. “I sell drugs.”
“Oh.” I stare blindly out the window. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. With his tattoos, piercing, constant scowl, he certainly looks the part. But drugs? He doesn’t strike me as the type of man that would lower himself to such weakness.
His low chuckle pulls me from my thoughts. “I can see the wheels turning in your pretty head.” His smile brings a boyishness to his face that softens his rough edges. “I don’t sell drugs.”
“Why would you lie?” I’m not sure if I believe him.
He shrugs. “Wanted to see how quickly you’d believe it.”
Another game. Will we ever stop playing them?
When we pull into his driveway he hits a remote that opens the garage door and pulls the vehicle inside. This explains why I never saw his car parked out front.
“Come on, I’ll show you how I make money.” He folds out of the car and I follow him inside. The house is dark and quiet, the rest of the guys must be out still celebrating their win.
Once in his room he turns on the lights and opens a laptop on his desk. He pulls out the desk chair and motions for me to sit. I settle in cautiously but curious as to what I’m about to see. Does he do porn? Hack bank accounts? Does he have an Etsy page? A few clicks of the mouse and colorful images slide across a dark screen—dragons, skulls, pin-up girls. Art typically seen on…
“Tattoos?” The banner on the home page of the site is an illustration of a sleek black spider on an intricate web and the business name in a unique but readable script. “TS Designs.” I look over my shoulder at Theodore who looks casual and a little bashful. “You run an online design company?”
“I like to draw.”
“Draw.” Seems like too simple a word for what these are. I click around exploring the different pages of the site. He has hundreds of different images that can be bought for anything from tattoos, to wall prints. He even designs fonts. “This is incredible.”
He shrugs and sits at the edge of his bed. “Easy money.”
“Easy?” I turn back to the screen and look at the variety of different fonts, some with twisty curled ends and others with thick slashes. The fonts are unique and edgy, but his illustrations are breathtaking. There are a variety of women’s figures and I wonder if he drew those from memory or had live models. I douse the flicker of jealousy that sparks to a flame. “You draw women.”
“Yes.”
I study a particularly beautiful drawing of a raven-haired temptress with large breasts, her naked skin swirled in tattoos of vines and roses. “This a friend of yours?” I hate that I can hear the envy in my own voice.
“No.” I hear him shift behind me, and then he pulls a sketch pad from the bookshelf and places it open in front of me. “Those women are fiction. These,” he taps his finger to the pages of the book. “Aren’t for sale.”
I open to a random page and find sketches of people. His teammates on the field, his roommates, one of Rowan staring at someone adoringly, I assume her boyfriend. I flip the page, squint and lean in closer. “When did you draw this?” I recognize my own naked body even from the back. My hair on his pillow while I slept.
“The day after you stayed the night.” He rubs the back of his neck.
“From memory?”
He nods.
“You’re talented.”
He chuckles and takes the sketch book back, shoving it in a desk drawer before taking his spot seated on his bed. “Or desperate.”
“For?”
“An outlet.” He shakes his head and leans back propping himself up on his elbows. “Independence.”
“I underestimated you.”
He tilts his head to study me. “Same.”
“TS. Your initials?”
“Simon. Theodore Simon Web.”
“Sounds like someone I’d meet at boarding school.”
His eyebrows drop low over mossy green eyes. “Not likely.”
“I see why you go by a nickname. Theodore Simon doesn’t evoke fear quite like Spider.” I spin back around in the chair and click through his images. “I think I might like to get a tattoo.”
“Oh yeah?” There’s hint of excitement in his voice.
“I’ve wanted one for awhile now, but never could settle on anything I liked enough to have on my body forever.” I click through drawings of ferocious animals, a pirate ship, skulls, all beautiful but none
