All the Pretty Lies by M. Leighton Page A

it’s so he can hear me
if I need anything. Or to torture me. I can see him doing either
one intentionally. He’s a compelling, charismatic bundle of
contradictions, I’m learning.
    I listen as the spray cuts on. I close my
eyes and I follow him through the process. I hear the rings slide
along the rod as he pulls back the shower curtain, and then again
as he likely closes it behind him. All too clearly, I can imagine
him stepping, naked, into the stall, taking a bar of soap, so white
against his tanned skin, and rubbing it over his chest and stomach.
I can picture the beads of water traveling down his back and over
his perfectly-curved butt. There’s very little that I can’t picture
with absolute clarity. Very little. But the part I want to see most
is the part I can’t imagine.
    My eyes are still closed when the water shuts
off. I hear the soft friction of the towel against his skin and I
can imagine him securing it around his waist as he runs his fingers
through his hair to straighten it.
    The fan in the bathroom becomes louder and I
open my eyes. Hemi is standing in the open doorway, wrapped in
nothing but a towel.
    “Were you sleeping?”
    “No, just…thinking.”
    “What were you thinking about?” he asks,
walking casually to the bed and stretching out across the end,
leaning on one elbow, facing me. He crosses his feet at the ankle
and waits, his expression patiently interested.
    “Skin,” I answer in honesty. I just don’t
tell him that I was thinking about his skin in particular. I
hurry to continue. “I was thinking about what it would feel like to
draw on it.”
    “Wanna practice?” he asks.
    “What do you mean?”
    “Well, I’m sure there’s a pen in here. You
can draw something on me if you like. It’ll wash off.”
    “Seriously?”
    “Sure. What else is there to do?”
    I can think of several ways to answer that,
but I voice none of them. I’ve got white gunk on my leg, I haven’t
showered all day, and my hair is a mass of saltwatered tangles.
    “Is there something particular you’d like me
to draw?”
    Hemi gets up and walks to the desk, returning
with a pen that boasts the hotel name. “Hmmm, well, I’ve been
thinking about getting ‘Live, no regrets’ tattooed on my right
side. Lettering that has some kick ass points. Nothing too ornate.
Maybe some design that looks like tribal art coming off the L and
the G. I don’t know. I’ve been meaning to sketch it out since…well,
for a while now. You’re welcome to give it a shot.”
    “Okay,” I say, warming to the idea. “Is that
your life motto or something?”
    “It was…someone else’s. Someone that I used
to know.”
    Something in his voice leaves me with no
doubt that the topic is closed for discussion. But that same
something in his voice makes me want to explore it, to see if this
is what he escapes from in his art. And if it’s about a woman.
Maybe the woman he used to sleep beside. And have breakfast with.
So long ago.
    I put those disconcerting thoughts out of my
head as I sit up in bed, thinking about the logistics of making
this work. “How can I…I mean, where will you…”
    “Are you right or left handed?”
    “Right.”
    “Perfect. Roll up onto your left side and
I’ll come lie in front of you.”
    I scoot over in the bed and roll onto one
side, like Hemi suggested. I assumed he’d put his back facing me to
give me access to his right side. I’m flustered and more than a
little excited when he stretches out facing me, resting his head on
my leg just below my jellyfish sting and slinging his arm over my
waist, leaving his ribs open to me.
    Hemi looks up at me, his eyes like pools of
turbulent, dark blue waters. “I can be very…accommodating.”
    “Yes, you can,” I say, unimaginatively, my
nerves stretched taut. “I hope you aren’t ticklish.”
    “Only in one spot, but you won’t be getting
anywhere near that with your pen,” he says with a wink.
    I feel my face flush and, again, I curse