Fearless (The Story of Samantha Smith #1) (21 page)

Men made absolutely no sense. Was this that stupid Madonna-Whore thing? Was I some kind of sweet innocent object of purity to him? Was he objectifying me in the reverse? Did he think I was too good to touch? Meanwhile, all the whores got to really have him?
 

And all I got was art instruction?

I’m sure my parents would be happy to hear it. They’d probably pat him on the back and tell him what a great guy he was for preserving my maidenhood. They sure thought I was the Madonna type.

But I didn’t want to be innocent and virtuous and pure. I wanted excitement in my life. I didn’t want to be a whore, but I didn’t want to be a virgin either.

Somebody hand me a hot poker! I was ready to kill myself.

At 1:15pm, he texted me.

Where r u? The kids r waiting 4 us at the library. Need 2 head over soon.

Shit. I forgot all about them in the hurricane of hatred I’d felt toward Christos.
 

A few minutes later, another text.

I don’t want 2 let the kids down. They’re going 2 miss u.

Why’d he have to pull the guilt card? Damn him. I texted back:

Meet u at the library at 1:30.

I got in my car and drove back to his side of town. Bastard. I was doing it for the kids, not Christos.

When I walked into the library, Christos was already in the room, helping the kids. I thought of him as Christos and not Adonis because how could I hate a guy who was so devoted to helping out children?

By the end of the hour, my foul mood had subsided. I got into helping the kids out, and had a great time. I loved how they did that.

I hadn’t made up my mind what I would do afterward. Would I go back with Christos to the studio? Or go home?

When the last kid had left, it was just me and Christos. We stood on opposite sides of the room from each other.
 

“Are you ready to do some drawing back at the studio?” he asked.

“I should probably go.” The only problem was that he blocked the door, and I had to pass him.

“Is something bothering you?” He must not have known I had seen him on the couch. “You looked all broken up about something when you came in earlier.”

“I did not!” I denied. Maybe I had. Why was I shouting?

“It’s about the mentoring thing, isn’t it? Is that still bothering you?”

“It’s not that. I should really go.” I walked toward him, wishing he’d move away from the door. “Excuse me.” Why did his shoulders have to be so broad? He was blocking my escape.

“Whatever it is, we can talk about it. Let’s go up to the studio. I’ll make you something to eat.”

“Did you make Paisley something to eat?” I hissed.

“Hello, Samantha,” Mrs. Elders said, standing in the doorway. “Another successful day of art class, I hope?”

“Ah, yeah. It was great.” I smiled at her.

“I love how the two of you work so well together. You make a great team. The kids love you both.”

A broad grin widened Christos’ mouth. His dimples came out from behind the clouds.

I hated Mrs. Elders. For a minute, anyway.

Christos had walked, so I drove us up to his house.
 

He got out of the car. “Are you coming inside?”

“Not until you explain a few things.”

He sat back in the car. “Okay.”

“What the hell was that?”

“Paisley?”

“It was her, wasn’t it.”

He grabbed the suicide handle over the door window. His knuckles tightened to white. “Yes.”

“How could you?”

“How could I what?”

“Do I have to spell it out?”

He took a deep breath. “Sam, I thought we went over this.”

Sam? Why was he calling me Sam? What happened to Samantha? Now I was angry and scared. “What, me catching you screwing one of your many girlfriends? How is that part of the mentor-student relationship?”

“First of all, how the hell did you know I was with Paisley today? She left before you showed up. I was watching the clock.”

How to explain that? That I’d snuck in his house, before I was supposed to be there?

“Did you walk in on us?”

Whoops. “Maybe,” I said sheepishly.

“I hate to sound like a parent here, but someone has to. Normally, people knock first, or ring a doorbell. You have no one to blame but yourself on this one.”

“But you were having sex with her! Weren’t you?”

“So what if I was? It’s my private life. Not yours. It shouldn’t matter to you what I do in my spare time.”

“But it does matter!” I turned to him, my eyes wet. Stupid tears. How did he do this to me? I hated him. Or the opposite.

He released the suicide handle and turned to me. “Look, Samantha, I’m sorry you saw us. I don’t want you to get hurt.” He touched my hand, which rested on the center console. “I
so
don’t want you to get hurt. Ever. That’s why I said what I did about only mentoring you.”

I thought about that Madonna-Whore thing again. “It’s not for you to decide,” I argued. “If I get hurt, that’s my problem.”

“I don’t like where this is going, Samantha.”

“I don’t either! In fact, I hate where it’s going!” I sat back in a huff, folding my arms across my chest.

He sighed again. “Look. I’ve got a lot of work to do after you leave today. We’re not going to fix this right now. Can we just get to work on your drawing? And talk about this another time? I meant what I said before about making your art instruction a priority. I’m not changing that.”

Why did he have to be so damn handsome while sounding so reasonable?

“Fine,” I pouted. “Let’s go.” I was settling for what I could get from him. I wasn’t sure if I should hate myself for being so pathetic. But he
was
trying to mentor me. Not get in my pants. Why did that sound reversed and mixed up to me? Groan.

We climbed out of my VW and went inside.

Christos went upstairs to change while I waited in the living room, admiring his grandfather’s landscape paintings.

One of them hung over the mantle, and I wanted to get a better look. A collection of family photos on the mantle distracted me.

Some of the pictures were older and showed Spiridon with dark hair. He looked very much like Christos did now. Another photo showed Spiridon with a young man. The family resemblance was clear. The young man was obviously Nikolos, Christos’ dad. I remembered Spiridon mentioning his name the day we’d met.

Nikolos held a baby in one photo. Little Christos. He smiled proudly, projecting the proud father thing perfectly.

More photos documented the years as Christos grew into a boy. His loving father always had an arm around him, or was tickling him and making funny faces. I couldn’t imagine a happier pair. I saw something in Christo’s dad’s body language that I’d never seen in my own father. Relaxed, affectionate joy. In simplest terms, happiness.

In that moment I envied Christos’ relationship with his father far more than I envied Paisley earlier, when I saw Christos on top of her. There was a chronolgy of love depicted in the Manos family photos I had never experienced in my own family.

I looked at more photos and noticed Nikolos was suddenly absent from the rest. Teenaged Christos was only pictured with his grandfather Spiridon from that point forward. What happened to his dad?

Then it occurred to me: there were no photos of Christos’ mom. Not a single one.

What was that about?

“You ready?’ Christos hollered. I heard him trundling down the stairs.

I felt like I was invading his privacy by scrutinizing his family photos without permission. I moved over to a painting on the opposite wall.

Christos walked into the living room wearing a tank top, surf shorts, and sport sandals. He looked like the consummate beach bum. His tan, chiseled chest, shoulders, and tattooed arms were free for the world (and me) to adore. How did he expect me to get any drawing done with him dressed like this? He was crazy, but I already knew that.

He glanced at my feet. “I see you remembered the shoes.”

I wore my cross trainers. “Yeah, what do I need them for?”

“Hiking.”

“Aren’t we going to draw?”

Christos held up a small sketchbook and pencil. “You ready?”

“Where are we going?”

“To look at beauty.” He grabbed a water bottle on the way out, and I pulled my backpack with my sketchbook out of my car.

There was a small trailhead a few blocks from the house. It led up into the hills. We hiked for about twenty minutes straight up the hill. The weather was perfect. Warm, sunny, a cool breeze. In November! San Diego rocked.

Eventually we stopped in a small clearing with a handmade wooden bench that overlooked the ocean. The back was curtained off by a variety of shrubs and small trees. Christos sat on the bench and patted the open space next to him. “Join me.”

There wasn’t much room. I took off my backpack and sat down reluctantly. The view was spectacular.
 

“This is beauty.” He said it with no hint of sarcasm.
 

“This place is amazing! It’s like a secret grotto or something. You must come up here all the time.”

“I do.”

Something about the view was…familiar. “Why do I feel like I’ve been here before?”

“Because you have.”

“No I haven’t,” I scoffed.

“Remember my grandpa’s painting at the museum?” He nodded in the direction to my left.

It had been awhile. “Uh…”

“Imagine storm clouds.”

“Oh, I see it! This is where he painted that beautiful landscape, isn’t it?”

“Yup. Shrouded Paradise. The weather was a tad bit worse that day.”

“I’ll say. It’s gorgeous right now.” I inhaled the clean ocean air.
 

“Shall we draw?” He pulled out his sketchbook.

I watched his fingers work delicately. Those hands had punched people out. They were so strong and manly, and yet sensitive. Such a contrast.

I unzipped my backpack and took my sketchbook and several new pencils out.

Christos drew with this ragged little golf-looking pencil. It seemed an inadequate tool for the job. But within a few minutes, he’d roughed out a small sketch of the view.

It looked half-finished already. “Wow, Christos. I can’t get over how good you are.”

He didn’t respond. His brow furrowed in concentration while he continued drawing. A lock of hair dangled from his forehead. It kept bouncing, but he didn’t seem to notice. I wanted to smooth it back with my hand. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat instead. Better start drawing, before I did something with that lock of hair that I regretted.
 

I perused the view. It really was gorgeous. I began sketching long lines, like I had been taught.

A few minutes later, Christos set his sketchbook down. His drawing was finished, and it looked amazing. He stared thoughtfully at the view.
 

I kept drawing.

Eventually he picked up his sketchbook, turned to a new page, and swiveled on the bench to face me. One of his legs rested on the bench. His knee brushed up against my thigh. He started drawing, glancing back and forth between his sketchbook and me.

I put my pencil down. “What are you doing?”

“I told you we came up here to look at beauty. So I’m drawing beauty.” Dimples appeared.

I grinned back. “I thought you meant the view.”

“The view looks good from here.” He curled his lopsided smile.

What was he doing? I thought we were supposed to be mentor and mentee. Nothing more. He wasn’t making this easy on me. Was he testing me? “Are you drawing me?”

“Maybe,” he said coyly.

“Can I see it?”

“No,” he smiled.

Without thinking, I grabbed for his sketchbook. He leaned back, out of reach.
 

“Lemme see!”

He chuckled, and sketched more quickly.

I tried to lean over to look, but he stood up and backed away. I followed him and tried to get behind him to see. The curiosity was killing me.

He stood at the edge of the small clearing, near a steep drop off, facing me so I couldn’t see the drawing. I feinted left, then went right, but he dodged me, the sketchbook held just out of my reach.
 

When I stopped myself, my foot slipped and I lost my balance. It was then that I noticed that the hillside drop-off was substantial. Almost a cliff. I flailed my arms and tried to regain my footing. I twisted, trying to lower my center of gravity back onto the level ground. But I was falling anyway.

Strong arms wrapped around my ribcage. Christos pulled me into his body. I flung my arms around…his ass.
 

My face was right in his crotch.
 

My first thought was that it would be better if he simply dropped me to my death. Because I was ready to die of embarrassment. This was no way for a mentee to behave toward her mentor!

He leaned back and pulled me so that I slid up his chest. My breasts dragged across the thin material of his t-shirt. I could feel his abs. Oh, damn.

My nipples tightened in response. Now my breasts compressed against his chest. Fortunately my bra shielded my nipples from detection. I hoped. Because our close proximity was not exactly helping with my embarrassment. At least now my face leaned against his rock hard chest.
 

I heard his heart pounding in his ribcage. matching rhythm with mine. Was he as scared as I was? I reminded myself to breathe. Seems I’d forgotten to do it since he’d grabbed me.

I closed my eyes and inhaled. I smelled a combination of fresh laundry and man. It was exquisite. The scent seeped into my body and a tingling sensation rained down my thighs to my toes. I sighed. It was a good feeling. I thought I might take a moment to enjoy it. Squeezing my arms tightly around his muscled back, I embraced him.

I didn’t want to let go.

Neither did Christos. I peered up into his eyes. He gazed back at me through half-lidded eyes. I saw distinct concern in his azure gemstones. I felt his hand stroke the back of my head. My hair was up in a pony tail, otherwise I sensed he would’ve run his hands through it.
 

“You almost fell,” he murmured.