Rebel Hearts: Outside The Lines Part 7

"And you think I can fix this?"

"Oh of course." He takes another bite of yogurt. "You just have to show him you're more than one of the guys."

I nod, thinking I should probably listen to Cameron. He's always given me great advice before, yet there is a knot in my stomach-a separate knot from the friend-zone knot-that says I should just be me. I want a relations.h.i.+p, not a one-night stand. Yeah, s.e.x with a hot guy would be great too, but I can't deny the deep-down longing for something long term.

Someday, right?

Someday I'll figure this c.r.a.p we call life out and learn how to fully ignore society's definition of what a woman should be, from the way we look and dress to the way we're supposed to clean the house, raise the kids, and have dinner ready and waiting on the table.

Someday.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

I stand on the closed toilet, precariously balancing on tall heels, and snap a picture of myself in the mirror. I carefully jump down, wis.h.i.+ng I had another way to get a full body shot of my reflection in the mirror in my bathroom, and send the picture to Erin.

I rush into my closet and change my top, slipping a silky black tank top on, and quickly s.h.i.+mmy into a pair of dark jeans. I ditch the heels, opting to holding them in my other hand instead of risking falling and breaking my neck before the date with Ben. I send her another picture, then move to the sink to take the hot rollers out of my hair.

A few seconds later she replies, saying both her and her hubby like outfit number two better. Good. I won't have to change again. With much care, I loosen the curls and create a new hole in the Ozone with hairspray, touch up my makeup, and accessorize with a red-jeweled necklace, matching earrings, and a black bracelet. I sit on the closed toilet to put on a pair of tall black heels, tastefully spotted with gold and scarlet gems. Yes, they are Gryffindor shoes, and yes, I f.u.c.king love them.

I put them on, spray myself with perfume, and look in the mirror.

"You are awesome," I tell myself. "The s.h.i.+t, actually. If Ben doesn't like you, then f.u.c.k him. His loss." I nod at myself, trying to believe the pep talk. Can I have a gla.s.s of wine? Just half a gla.s.s?

I'm so nervous.

I tighten my bra straps and reach inside my s.h.i.+rt to give my b.r.e.a.s.t.s a boost. I have on a push-up bra and might have done a super-light version of Cosplay cleavage, which entails using contouring to make my b.r.e.a.s.t.s look fuller and rounder ... not that they need much help though.

I leave the bathroom and straighten my bedspread. Ya know, just in case we come back here and things get physical. When was the last time I washed my sheets? Last week? Two weeks ago? Maybe longer since I can't even f.u.c.king remember.

I cringe and go crazy with the Febreze. I shove my dirty laundry into the closet, force the doors closed, and go into the living room. I have about ten minutes before Ben gets here to pick me up. We're going to Osteria Rossa, a fancy Italian restaurant in Grand Rapids. I'd yet to go there, and am really looking forward to yummy food.

I sit on the couch, getting the evil eye from Ser Pounce because I pushed him off my lap, not wanting to get covered in cat fur, and flip through channels. I end up watching the tail end of an episode of Naked and Afraid until the doorbell rings. I shoot up, count to ten, run my hands over my top, and go to the door.

"Wow," Ben blurts when I open the door. His dark eyes widen and he slowly looks me up and down, clearly not caring that he's obviously checking me out. "You look amazing."

"Thanks," I say, trying to brush off the compliment and not smile like a goon. "You don't look so bad yourself." He's wearing dark pants and a black b.u.t.ton-up s.h.i.+rt. He's effortlessly put together. I take a step to the side. "Come in."

We move into the living room and he turns, eyes f.u.c.king me all over again. He closes his eyes in a long blink and bites his bottom lip. The he shakes himself and smiles.

"Hungry?"

"I am," I say. "You?"

"I'm always hungry." He sees Ser Pounce and reaches out to pet him. The fat cat hisses and turns his nose.

"He's an a.s.shole, don't take it personally," I say. "I wanted a dog, but my old apartment didn't allow dogs. I think Ser Pounce knows that he was my second choice and resents life because of it."

Ben laughs, and I'm relieved. Not everyone understands my weird sense of serious-sounding sarcasm. "We should probably take off. Ready?"

"I am," I repeat and grab my purse. Ben waits for me as I lock the front door, then opens the pa.s.senger side door of his Audi for me. I get in, breathing in the scent of new leather and paint. I turn and see a sheet draped over the backseat, protecting the leather from all the art supplies he has thrown in the back. Yes, definitely a chaotic mess creative type. We make small talk, mostly Ben telling me how Mindy still can't figure out how to use the website.

He opens the door and offers me his hand when we get to the restaurant. I carefully step onto the curb, clutching my purse in the other hand. Ben locks the car and pockets his keys.

And he doesn't let go of my hand.

We have reservations, and only wait a couple of minutes before the hostess leads us to a table in the back of the restaurant. The lighting is low and it's supa fancy. I feel nervous again.

You're the s.h.i.+t.

Yes. I am. We sit opposite each other. Ben orders a bottle of red wine-thank G.o.d-and the waiter brings us bread to nibble on as we look over the menu.

"You said you haven't lived here long," Ben starts as he takes a drink of wine.

"No, I got a new job and moved from Mistwood about seven months ago."

"Mistwood?"

"It's a small-ish town near Lake Michigan."

He nods. "Do you like it here?"

I shrug. "It's been okay so far. It's kind of fun being somewhere new, and the job is pretty easy."

"I'd think so," he comments. "What's someone who graduated from MIT doing working in customer service?"

"Oh," I say and put another piece of bread on my plate. "I don't actually do customer service. I was filling in for someone else at the company I work for."

"What do you actually do, then?"

"Code websites. Easy-peasy stuff." I wave my hand in the air. "I used to be a software programmer before this. Loved the job, but the place I worked didn't offer much room for growth. Or raises," I add with a wry smile. "Who knows where I'll be in a year or two."

Ben is smiling. "You've got the wanderl.u.s.t bug."

"I do," I agree. "I like traveling and going new places."

"So do I." He dips his bread in oil and takes a bite.

I take another drink of wine. "Have you always been here?"

"I grew up in Detroit," he says. "My father was in the military so we moved around a lot until I was a teen, and he was done with the army for good."

"That must have been hard," I reply, knowing how hard middle and high school was for me and I had the same friends throughout both.

"It wasn't so bad." He shrugs. "When you're constantly going somewhere new it forces you to not be shy. I think it pushed me to be an artist too."

"Really? How so?"

"I liked sports, but you can't join teams mid season," he starts to explain. "Which makes it harder to make friends. But you can always join art clubs no matter what point it is in the school year."

"I wouldn't have taken you for an art club type," I admit. "You don't look the type."

"You said it: looks can be deceiving." He lets out a breath. "I always liked art, liked being able to get lost in something."

That's how I feel about Cosplay and fantasy. I feel another connection to Ben. "And you're good at it, right?"

He smiles. "That too. I really don't think anyone can be bad at art. It's expressing something. If you can't paint landscapes, sculpt. There's always another way to get what you feel on the inside onto something on the outside." He shakes his head. "It wasn't always easy moving around, and art gave me that outlet."

I like seeing this deeper side to him. "That makes sense."

"I did eventually get used to moving, and used to making new friends. And that's how my parents met," he goes on. "My dad was stationed in j.a.pan for a while. Brought my mom back with him." He laughs softly. "I think my grandparents are still p.i.s.sed about it."

"Have you ever gone there to visit them?"

He moves his head up and down as he finishes chewing. "A few times. I haven't been there in years though, and I'm wanting to go back."

"I've never been there," I say. "I'd love to go. So much."

"It's beautiful. My grandparents are a bit old school too, so it's almost like going back in time. And Tokyo is just ... so much. There are so many people and there's always something going on. It's nonstop, but it's awesome." His eyes grow big as he talks, and the pa.s.sion and excitement takes over his face. "It's easy to get that lost in the crowd feeling when thousands of people pa.s.s you buy unnoticed, but it has an energy about it that's just contagious."

"Why haven't you gone in a few years?" I ask and hope it's not prying.

"I opened the gallery here a few years ago," he says. "And it's kept me a lot busier than I expected. But I love it too."

I don't really know what being an artist entails, though I imagine it's pretty f.u.c.king awesome, like getting paid to get up and do your hobby. Making websites isn't art, but it's creating something, and seeing something come from nothing.

"I like to sew," I declare. "Not really the same thing."

"I've never attempted sewing," he says. "What do you like to sew?"

"Costumes," I answer. "I like to Cosplay."

"So you're one of those people who go to Comic Con all dressed up?" There is amus.e.m.e.nt in his voice, but it's not judgmental.

"I am. It's so much fun."

"I've never been to Comic Con."

"Wizard World in Chicago is coming up at the end of summer," I tell him. "My friend Erin and I are going. We go every year."

"Are you dressing up?"

"Of course."

The smile is back on his face. Before he can ask me anything else, the waiter comes over to take our order. I hadn't looked over the menu at all, so I order the same thing Ben does.

"So," I start once the waiter leaves. "What do you do other than paint?"

"Hang out with friends, work out." He shrugs. "Usual stuff. I've been going to a lot of galas and art shows lately," he says almost like it's a surprise. I nod like I have no idea either, although his pictures came up when I searched him on the internet, smiling next to one of his paintings, with the buyer on the other side. And the buyers ranged from politicians to CEOs of huge companies. He hasn't said it out loud to me-yet-but I know he has a piece in the Museum of Modern Art in New York. Once that went up, his popularity increased tenfold ... and then he moved here. Weird. Or at least that's what the research says. "And I like to read."

"Me too. I read a lot. What do you like to read?"

"Anything, really. I've been into the cla.s.sics lately. You?"

"I love paranormal romance."

"I've never read that," he muses. "Is it like that Fifty Shades stuff with vampires?"

I laugh. "There are some like that."

Ben wiggles his eyebrows. "Then maybe I will read it. I do like to be bitten."

My cheeks flush at his blunt confession, and I'm not sure if he's joking or telling the truth. I think he's telling the truth. If things get hot and heavy tonight, should I go in for the kill and nip him with my teeth? The extent of my BDSM knowledge goes so far as tips from Cosmo, and after that last article about poking a man's tender regions with a fork-don't break the skin, they said, like that was even a question-I'm doubting all their advice.

No surprise, my brain gets ahead of me again and I get a flash of flesh and see Ben on top of me, thrusting those glorious hips into me, and I gently clamp my teeth down on his neck. Blood warms my cheeks, going through me and making me feel hot between my legs.

The waiter brings us more bread and refills our wine gla.s.ses. I pick mine up, fingers trembling slightly, and take a big sip. I set the gla.s.s down and look at Ben, unable to get the image of him naked and on top of me out of my head.

We keep talking about normal first date things, like our families and work. The food comes and we get words in between bites. The silence isn't awkward, but I'm so worried it will be I keep saying stupid things, things no one cares about, like how long it takes me to clean my house. I like talking to Ben, and the more time that pa.s.ses, the more comfortable I feel. There is still a formality in the way he talks to me, like he's not really being himself. He's "on" and his game is good.

Suave, smooth, confident. Yep. He's got it all.

I get sauce on the side of my mouth when I take a bite of cheese ravioli. Some splatters on my s.h.i.+rt. Thank G.o.d the fabric is dark and you can't see the stain. I don't have it all. And I never will.

I mentally sigh.

When we're done with the main course, Ben orders two pieces of cheesecake without asking me what I want. Should that bug me? Or should his dominance turn me on? (Because it does.) And I like cheesecake. Pick your battles, right?

I'm nowhere near drunk after the wine plus all the food, but my mind is a little buzzed and it helps me relax. I slowly eat the cheesecake, legit full from filling up on so much bread-but it was so good! Whoever doesn't fill up on bread, or chips and salsa, or whatever you get before a meal at a restaurant has no soul, I swear-and feel Ben's eyes on me.

I look up and smile. "Do I want to know what you're thinking?" I ask and pick up my water.

He gives me a wicked grin. "You might be interested in it."

"Then you better tell me." I slowly run my finger down the stem of my wine gla.s.s.

His eyes drop to my chest then go back to my face. "I don't see how you weren't the popular girl in high school, like you said. You look like you would be."

I drop my gaze. "Looks can be deceiving." He's meant it as a compliment, but his words make me feel self-conscious. d.a.m.n it.

"They can."

"I didn't always look like this," I offer and know I should just shut my stupid mouth and stop talking.