get swept away by that face of his. You would be better off flirting with Zander, less chance of getting burned, unless you’re just looking for a wham, bam, thank you ma’am.”
I was never good at taking advice, but maybe this time I’d make an exception. I was no one’s bootie call. Then again, maybe I could learn a thing or two from the famous Zane. “What is it that makes bad boys so appealing?”
“When it pertains to Zane, it would be a shorter list to name his redeeming qualities, if any.”
“Yeah, I kind of got that feeling. Did you and he ever…?”
She made a face. “Ewe. God no. He’s not my type.”
That got me thinking. Did I have a type? Zane couldn’t possibly be my type, because then that would mean my type was douchbag. “And who is your type?” I asked.
A dreamy smile lifted the corner of her lips. “Jensen. He’s a re—” She stopped midsentence, before starting over. “He’s the complete opposite of Zane. Do you have a boyfriend back home?”
I got the feeling she was hiding something, and I vowed to get it out of her sooner or later. “Uh. No, not really.”
She pursed her lips. “You don’t sound so sure about that.”
Pulling my knees to my chest, I hugged my legs. “There is this guy, but we’ve been friends since diapers. It would be weird, you know? I’m not sure I want to cross that line.”
“Maybe distance is just what you need. It might put things into perspective.” Standing, she reached for the empty tray on the nightstand. “I should get back to work. And you should take advantage of the sun. Go down to the beach, and work on that tan, pasty.”
I laughed.
That sounded like a good idea. “I just might.”
I gazed at the rugged jag of cliffs jutting over the ocean, watching the waves swallow them. Tiny flowers fought their way through the cracks, blooming along the rough terrain, alongside small patches of wild grass. Twirling a dark gray colored pencil, I tipped back my head, deep in thought. Waves hurdled themselves against the sandy shore, slapping my feet, the deep, deep blue water going on forever.
I nibbled my lower lip, staring down at the sketchpad in my lap, a pretty girl clutching a wicked looking scythe. My favorite kind of anime, a girl who could kick major ass and wasn’t afraid to get bloody. It was always the same sleek, deadly weapon, just a different heroine. Her face never really mattered, because the weapon always stole the show.
Death’s weapon.
A psychologist would probably tell me it was ironic, my mind projecting my mother’s death, a symbolism of her horrible murder. I would probably tell that shrink to stick to his bullshit analysis, and then I would be promptly asked to never come back.
But today, the weapon made me think of Zane. It was wacky weird. What were the chances he had a nickname about my favorite anime accessory? I’ll tell you. A gazillion billion to one.
I angled my head, using the natural light to shade in the shadows on her face. As the creative juices flowed, I envisioned her with bright purple hair, something punky, the colors not yet on paper working into my imagination.
As my strokes flew over the paper, a shadow fell over my pad. I silently cursed the soul stupid enough to invade my peace and block my soon-to-be fading light. Lifting my pencil from the page, I glanced up. The silent curse became a mutter under my breath, and a body planted down in the sand beside me. Zane’s body.
“Did you come to run me out of town, or just irritate me?” I huffed.
One corner of his lips tipped as if he were secretly laughing. “Both.” He snatched the sketchpad from my lap, before I realized his intent.
“Hey,” I protested, attempting to steal it back from his grubby fingers.
He put up one of his python-sized arms as a roadblock. Ten seconds passed while his eyes scanned my drawing, exposing a piece of myself I wasn’t comfortable opening up to a jerk. Ten whole seconds. It felt like ten
I was never good at taking advice, but maybe this time I’d make an exception. I was no one’s bootie call. Then again, maybe I could learn a thing or two from the famous Zane. “What is it that makes bad boys so appealing?”
“When it pertains to Zane, it would be a shorter list to name his redeeming qualities, if any.”
“Yeah, I kind of got that feeling. Did you and he ever…?”
She made a face. “Ewe. God no. He’s not my type.”
That got me thinking. Did I have a type? Zane couldn’t possibly be my type, because then that would mean my type was douchbag. “And who is your type?” I asked.
A dreamy smile lifted the corner of her lips. “Jensen. He’s a re—” She stopped midsentence, before starting over. “He’s the complete opposite of Zane. Do you have a boyfriend back home?”
I got the feeling she was hiding something, and I vowed to get it out of her sooner or later. “Uh. No, not really.”
She pursed her lips. “You don’t sound so sure about that.”
Pulling my knees to my chest, I hugged my legs. “There is this guy, but we’ve been friends since diapers. It would be weird, you know? I’m not sure I want to cross that line.”
“Maybe distance is just what you need. It might put things into perspective.” Standing, she reached for the empty tray on the nightstand. “I should get back to work. And you should take advantage of the sun. Go down to the beach, and work on that tan, pasty.”
I laughed.
That sounded like a good idea. “I just might.”
I gazed at the rugged jag of cliffs jutting over the ocean, watching the waves swallow them. Tiny flowers fought their way through the cracks, blooming along the rough terrain, alongside small patches of wild grass. Twirling a dark gray colored pencil, I tipped back my head, deep in thought. Waves hurdled themselves against the sandy shore, slapping my feet, the deep, deep blue water going on forever.
I nibbled my lower lip, staring down at the sketchpad in my lap, a pretty girl clutching a wicked looking scythe. My favorite kind of anime, a girl who could kick major ass and wasn’t afraid to get bloody. It was always the same sleek, deadly weapon, just a different heroine. Her face never really mattered, because the weapon always stole the show.
Death’s weapon.
A psychologist would probably tell me it was ironic, my mind projecting my mother’s death, a symbolism of her horrible murder. I would probably tell that shrink to stick to his bullshit analysis, and then I would be promptly asked to never come back.
But today, the weapon made me think of Zane. It was wacky weird. What were the chances he had a nickname about my favorite anime accessory? I’ll tell you. A gazillion billion to one.
I angled my head, using the natural light to shade in the shadows on her face. As the creative juices flowed, I envisioned her with bright purple hair, something punky, the colors not yet on paper working into my imagination.
As my strokes flew over the paper, a shadow fell over my pad. I silently cursed the soul stupid enough to invade my peace and block my soon-to-be fading light. Lifting my pencil from the page, I glanced up. The silent curse became a mutter under my breath, and a body planted down in the sand beside me. Zane’s body.
“Did you come to run me out of town, or just irritate me?” I huffed.
One corner of his lips tipped as if he were secretly laughing. “Both.” He snatched the sketchpad from my lap, before I realized his intent.
“Hey,” I protested, attempting to steal it back from his grubby fingers.
He put up one of his python-sized arms as a roadblock. Ten seconds passed while his eyes scanned my drawing, exposing a piece of myself I wasn’t comfortable opening up to a jerk. Ten whole seconds. It felt like ten
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