Read Online Beneath The Skin (A College Obsession Romance) by Daryl Banner - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Daryl Banner
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show you art. That’s it.”
He smirks cockily. “Why? You afraid I’m too much for you?”
“I’m not afraid of anything.”
“Sure you are,” he retorts. “We’re all afraid of something. I, for one, am kinda afraid of leaving this art gallery without at least a kiss.” He bats his eyes dumbly, smiling with that crooked, dimpled smile.
My fists tighten. What a tool. “And where does that kiss lead? To me becoming just another dent in your headboard?” I lean into him. “Let’s be clear. You’re not an artist. You’re just in my school to score.”
He laughs at that. “Why would you think that about me? I’m not some … weird kind of art school man-whore.”
“No, you’re just the normal kind. Another guy who thinks he can get inside any woman he bats his eyes at. You already had your way with some girl behind that folding partition earlier this week in my studio class. Probably had one or two others that same night. And maybe two the weekend before. And how many have you had since?”
“Wait, wait, wait …”
“Hey, I don’t care,” I tell him, raising my hands up innocently. “I’m not here to judge you. I don’t know you and you owe me nothing. If you want to be a player, go ahead, play. But I’m not part of your game. I make art. I push at the world. I—”
“Yeah, well, whatever art you do, make sure it’s more meaningful than what this Nell freak did with her naked censored BDSM lady. What’s it called? ‘ Object’ … Okay, yeah. Do somethin’ better than this piece of crap,” he says with a smirk down at the work of art.
My work of art.
I stand between him and my sculpture defensively, facing him with red-hot fervor. “You wouldn’t know what art is if it grew hands and feet and slapped you right in that smug-ass face of yours.”
“Okay. First, that piece of crap does have hands and feet,” he states with a smirking, tilted nod at it, “and seeing as it’s cuffed and doesn’t appear to have a pulse, I don’t think it’ll be slapping me in the near future. Secondly,” he adds with a wink, “you are sexy as fuck when you get all angry.”
I take a breath. “If we’re going to stand here debating realness and art and objectification , then I figure the least you owe me is a bit of your unadulterated candor and a little less of your player bullshit.”
It seems my words still do nothing to affect his slick, smooth-talking cockiness. If anything, it strengthens him. He lowers his voice and works his silkiest tone when he says, “Babe, I’m not a player.”
“Babe? I’m not a ‘babe’ on your lady list you can just wrap around your little finger.”
He presses his lips together, tickled. “I wouldn’t call it so little …”
“Your list? Or your finger?”
He snorts. “Alright, alright, alright. You win. We’re gonna be totally straight with one another, then. Out in the open … upfront, direct, honest. That’s what you want?”
I cross my arms and wait in a cool, patient silence.
“Alright.” He claps his hands together, gives them a quick rub, then states, “I’ve been with exactly one girl this past week. One. It was a dancer named …” He squints suddenly. “C-Clara. And …” He clears his throat. “And she was a very sweet girl. A dancer , I might add. Not an artist. Well, an artist on the stage, maybe. Not that I’ve seen her dance. Doesn’t matter. Anyway, things between us were casual, and it’s over. I haven’t even heard from her since, like … you know. The behind-the-privacy-screen thing.”
I shrug. “So?”
A frustrated sort of snort flees from him. “So, I’m not a player. I’m respectable. I treated her like a lady. I mean, well, y’know. Aside from banging her against the wall like a jackhammer so hard, I was probably dislodging bricks. I treated her like a lady, alright?”
I don’t respond to him, my arms still folded and my eyes like needles as I debate whether or not to let this whole thing go.
He smirks cockily. “Why? You afraid I’m too much for you?”
“I’m not afraid of anything.”
“Sure you are,” he retorts. “We’re all afraid of something. I, for one, am kinda afraid of leaving this art gallery without at least a kiss.” He bats his eyes dumbly, smiling with that crooked, dimpled smile.
My fists tighten. What a tool. “And where does that kiss lead? To me becoming just another dent in your headboard?” I lean into him. “Let’s be clear. You’re not an artist. You’re just in my school to score.”
He laughs at that. “Why would you think that about me? I’m not some … weird kind of art school man-whore.”
“No, you’re just the normal kind. Another guy who thinks he can get inside any woman he bats his eyes at. You already had your way with some girl behind that folding partition earlier this week in my studio class. Probably had one or two others that same night. And maybe two the weekend before. And how many have you had since?”
“Wait, wait, wait …”
“Hey, I don’t care,” I tell him, raising my hands up innocently. “I’m not here to judge you. I don’t know you and you owe me nothing. If you want to be a player, go ahead, play. But I’m not part of your game. I make art. I push at the world. I—”
“Yeah, well, whatever art you do, make sure it’s more meaningful than what this Nell freak did with her naked censored BDSM lady. What’s it called? ‘ Object’ … Okay, yeah. Do somethin’ better than this piece of crap,” he says with a smirk down at the work of art.
My work of art.
I stand between him and my sculpture defensively, facing him with red-hot fervor. “You wouldn’t know what art is if it grew hands and feet and slapped you right in that smug-ass face of yours.”
“Okay. First, that piece of crap does have hands and feet,” he states with a smirking, tilted nod at it, “and seeing as it’s cuffed and doesn’t appear to have a pulse, I don’t think it’ll be slapping me in the near future. Secondly,” he adds with a wink, “you are sexy as fuck when you get all angry.”
I take a breath. “If we’re going to stand here debating realness and art and objectification , then I figure the least you owe me is a bit of your unadulterated candor and a little less of your player bullshit.”
It seems my words still do nothing to affect his slick, smooth-talking cockiness. If anything, it strengthens him. He lowers his voice and works his silkiest tone when he says, “Babe, I’m not a player.”
“Babe? I’m not a ‘babe’ on your lady list you can just wrap around your little finger.”
He presses his lips together, tickled. “I wouldn’t call it so little …”
“Your list? Or your finger?”
He snorts. “Alright, alright, alright. You win. We’re gonna be totally straight with one another, then. Out in the open … upfront, direct, honest. That’s what you want?”
I cross my arms and wait in a cool, patient silence.
“Alright.” He claps his hands together, gives them a quick rub, then states, “I’ve been with exactly one girl this past week. One. It was a dancer named …” He squints suddenly. “C-Clara. And …” He clears his throat. “And she was a very sweet girl. A dancer , I might add. Not an artist. Well, an artist on the stage, maybe. Not that I’ve seen her dance. Doesn’t matter. Anyway, things between us were casual, and it’s over. I haven’t even heard from her since, like … you know. The behind-the-privacy-screen thing.”
I shrug. “So?”
A frustrated sort of snort flees from him. “So, I’m not a player. I’m respectable. I treated her like a lady. I mean, well, y’know. Aside from banging her against the wall like a jackhammer so hard, I was probably dislodging bricks. I treated her like a lady, alright?”
I don’t respond to him, my arms still folded and my eyes like needles as I debate whether or not to let this whole thing go.
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