Guided Love (Prick #1) (8 page)

I’ve somehow acquired Camaron’s closing tasks as he seems to leave early every night. Monday and Thursday nights, he always seems to have plans, which is fine by me, as I love spending time with the pricks. They’ve all become great friends to me. Every Monday, Allen teaches me how to play pool I don’t understand why he continues to try since I’m horrible at it, but he doesn’t give up and I love playing. Paul and Carrie have adopted me on Thursday nights when Camaron has important plans. They pick me up and we head to a local bar called Cruisers, for all you can eat wing night. I’m in heaven on Thursdays. I still try to watch what I eat in front of Camaron, but damn, endless wings—I have a smile ear to ear each and every time.

It’s Sunday and we are off today, I've asked Camaron if it would be okay to paint the kitchen and get some new dishes. The kitchen is the last room to update since I’ve already completed the rest of the house. All of my furniture arrived and I bought some new end tables. I have framed a few pictures of the pricks as well as a few of Camaron and me and hung them on the walls. The apartment is now becoming a home and it looks great. The only downer is the kitchen but Camaron agreed and so now we’re at The Home Depot looking at color samples.

“Babe, whatever color you like is fine. This is our apartment and if you want the kitchen to be pink, paint it pink.” I chuckle and shake my head at him.

“I would never paint our kitchen pink, pink is not a kitchen color.” Camaron comes up behind me, places his chin on my shoulder and his arms around me, and looks at the samples that I have narrowed it down to.

“I think we should paint it Sundance it reminds me of when we were younger and we played in the grass and looked up at the sun.” Wow, I love how he remembers the little things.

“Yellow it is.” We head off to get the paint mixed and then check out.

On our way home, we stop at Pier One and pick out our new dishes. They are gorgeous and actually have a similar yellow accent to the paint color—they fit perfectly. So while the dishwasher is cleaning the dishes, we’re preparing to paint the kitchen. I have everything covered and we start to primer the walls. As I reach up to get the corners, I see that Camaron is just staring at me with this look of intrigue on his face.

“What are you looking at?” I could feel myself starting to blush.

Damn, this man, he could make me blush over something so small. I probably have a freaking stain on my shirt and that’s what he is staring at and here I am turning red over a freaking stain. I shake my thoughts from my head and look at him for his reply.

“Just looking at you, Sam, you really are such a great person, you know that right. I absolutely adore you.”

I don’t know what to say to that; I want to scream, “
Camaron, I love you, we belong together so just take me now, throw me on your bed and fuck my brains out.”
Yeah, you can tell that I’m completely sexually frustrated. I haven't had any attention, besides my vibrator, and that’s only when Camaron isn’t home or I am in the shower and I can hear the volume of the TV is on high.

“Okay, slacker, pick up a brush and help me with our kitchen if you adore me so much.” He shakes his head and picks up his brush. We have two of the three walls primed and are about to start the third when his phone chirps. I see him from the corner of my eye he rubs his head, which means he is worried about something. A few moments after I see him respond, he comes up behind me and again puts his chin on my shoulder.

“Babe, I have to head out—I forgot I said I would meet up with some of the guys.”

My gut is telling me he is lying. If the guys were meeting up, I definitely would know of it but I don’t say anything.

“No problem, Cam, I got the rest of this. Thank you for taking me and helping to pick out the colors.”

He kisses my head and responds, “Anything for you, beautiful. You are my anchor, my constant.”

He walks off toward the bathroom and I hear the water turn on, a half hour later he walks into the kitchen looking for his keys. Hot damn, he looks gorgeous in dark wash jeans and a tight black button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up his arms. He even has on his black doc martens and his black belt with the chain connected to his wallet in his back pocket. The back pocket that fits so snug against his perfect ass. There is no way he would dress up like this just to go and grab a beer with the guys, but we don’t have lies between us there is no reason he would lie.

He comes up behind me and whispers in my ear, “I really want to hug you but you have paint all over you—makes you look adorable, by the way.”

I turn around and stand on my tiptoes and kiss his cheek. “Have fun with the guys, babe, be safe.”

I look up and see something change in his eyes for a split second I think I saw . . . guilt. He grabs his keys and heads out. I am still painting and jamming to “Girls Just Want to have Fun” by Cyndi Lauper and I hear a knock at the door. By the time I register it, the door is opening and Axel is walking through.

“Hey, Samantha, where is the prick?” I stand on top of the counter covered in paint. It’s in my hair and down my shirt, shorts and legs, something Axel finds to be quite funny by the look on his face.

“He went out with the guys for a beer. I thought you’d be there with him.”

I can see a slight hesitation in his response. “Damn, yeah, I forgot that they were meeting tonight. You’re here alone and left the door unlocked? You need to make sure you lock that, even when you are home you don’t want just anyone walking in.”

I shake my head and look back at the wall. “Yeah, Axel, I wouldn’t want just anyone walking into my apartment.”

I am expecting him to just go and meet up with the pricks but to my surprise, he sits down at the table. “Need any help?”

I turn around again and see him already pulling his tee over his head. “Why are you taking your shirt off, Axel?”

He looks up at me with these mesmerizing brown eyes and in all seriousness he replies, “This is my favorite shirt.” Like that should be a logical reason for why he is taking it off.

“Well, Axel, if it’s your favorite shirt don’t you think you should keep it on?” He shakes his head like my question isn’t logical.

“Babe, I am not going to get paint on this shirt. I'm here so I’m going to help you.” I can’t help but smile.

I really do appreciate the fact that he is willing to help and that he feels comfortable enough with me to want to stay. I motion to the extra brush and pail and he heads over and picks it up. Axel’s back is to me and I never realized how many tattoos he has. He is covered. Truly, his body is a canvas of art—across his shoulder blades he has
Strength
in big bold lettering. Underneath that, he has an oak tree with the roots leading down to his belt. The detail of the tree is magnificent, the bark and the branches along with the leaves are so realistic it truly takes my breath away. The tree looks to have something engraved into it, but I can’t see the names this far away.

“Like what you see?” I shake my head and realize that I was caught staring at his back and the paintbrush I am holding is dripping down my arm as well as on the covered floor.

I feel myself turn red. “No. sorry, I mean yes . . . grrrr! I was just admiring your tattoos.”

Once again, Axel is laughing at me and shaking his head. “Red looks good on you, Samantha.”

“Get back to painting, Axel, then we can order some pizza . . . I mean if you are hungry. But if you need to go meet the guys and all, I completely understand.” He pours some more paint into his container and turns back to his wall.

“I’m helping you paint and I’m going to need to be paid in pizza for all of my hard work,” he says as he winks at me.

The kitchen looks good and working alongside Axel was fun. He is hysterical when he actually opens up and talks. I see now that, at first, he comes across as standoffish and intimidating with his broad shoulders, all the tattoos and the beard, but when he opens up his personality is one of a goof ball. I haven’t laughed that much since I hung out with Gabby. We are now on the floor in the living room with our backs against the couch and a large pizza with everything, in between us.

“So, did you always want to be a writer?” I look up at him and him and nod.

“For as long as I can remember, yes, I have always wanted to be a writer. When I was four, I would put together all of my color sheets and my mom would staple them and I would make them into books. I would even try and sell them at our yard sales.” I laugh as I remember setting them up on my own table. Axel starts to chuckle and takes a bite of his pizza.

With a mouth full of food, he still talks to me. “Really . . . did anyone ever buy them?” he asks in between chewing and laughing at me.

I look up and right into his eyes. “Of course they did, I am a fantastic writer.” I can’t stop my laughing. “Of course, I later found out that my mom paid my neighbors to come and buy them from me—some even asked me to sign them,” I said, remembering. It really feels good to remember that. Remember the times that were so much simpler. “Okay, Okay stop laughing at me. My mom just always wanted to make sure I never doubted my dream.”

“Well, she sounds like an incredible mom and you are a fantastic writer.” I look up at him and he genuinely looks like he means it.

“How would you know if I am a fantastic writer? I may totally suck at it.”

He is shaking his head before I can finish my sentence. “No way, you, Samantha, are great at everything you do. I mean, really, you came here, saved my ass from drowning in receipts. You have increased sales to the point that we are all booked at least three weeks out—even Jay has a few more appointments. You are freaking awesome and you know it, so if you are going to write a novel then that will be the best fucking novel out there.” He grabs his beer and tips it to me in a nice ending to his declaration.

I look at his face, I really look at him, and all I see is sincerity. “Thank you, Axel, truly I wish that I could have that confidence in myself. I have so many ideas but it seems that when I finally find the time to sit down and start to write it all just disappears. I can’t seem to get it out on paper.”

“The right story will come to you, just don’t give up.”

“Well, I’m trying to get everything up and running with Pricks. When I get all of that settled, I’ll make time.”

“No.” I look up with a perplexed face and his is set in stone.

“What?”

“No. You need to take time. You have been great, truly amazing, but you need to start writing. Take a day off. Really, the shop will be fine and you can start fulfilling your dream.” Again, he winks at me and gives me that famous smirk.

“’I’ll think about it. Change of subject here, but what is up with the tattoo on your back? Does it have a meaning?” He sets his beer down and closes the top to the now empty box.

“Yeah, I was pretty much on my own when I was younger. So, what does a boy do when he is alone, he gets into trouble. One day, when I was about eight, I saw this tree in my neighbor’s yard. I went out and hopped the fence, deciding to climb it. Every day I would go up there, sit on the branch, and look out at the neighborhood. One day, I went out to tree, as usual, and there was a ladder that lead up to a floor. It was the start to a tree house. I didn’t know what to do, I just stood there looking up. I heard a voice behind me. It was my neighbor, Mr. Martinelli. He said, ‘It’s a lot easier to climb the ladder than it is to climb the tree. I have the floor done and I thought you would like to help me with the walls.’ I was shocked, I didn’t think they knew that I was climbing their tree, but they did. From that day on, I would head over to their house and go hang out in my tree house. That tree saved me. It was my escape, it’s where I found my family, and it’s where I found myself—my strength.”

As he is telling me the story, it looks like he is back there. He is just looking into a memory. “Do you still talk to them?”

He looks up and smiles. “Of course, the Martinelli's became Ma and Pop to me. They honestly raised me. The poor people moved into a new home and inherited an eight year old,” he says this with a laugh in his voice. “Pop died when I was in high school, but Ma, she lives about a half hour away. You should be meeting her soon, she has us pricks over for dinner every now and then.”

“Looking forward to it, she sounds like an awesome lady.”

“She is,” he says as he nods at me. “So, what’s next, Samantha? Want to watch a movie?”

“Absolutely, do you mind if I go take a quick shower?”

“No, go ahead, I’ll clean up here and get the movie ready. What do you want to watch?”

“It doesn't matter, anything is fine. Camaron has a ton of movies under the TV, pick whatever you’d like, I’ll be right out”

Could my night get any better? I head over to see if Camaron wants to grab a beer and end up spending the night painting and laughing with Samantha. Camaron is supposedly out with the pricks, which I know is a lie, but hey, it all worked out for me. Seriously, I have never met a girl like her. She is truly genuine. She has a heart of gold and will do anything for anyone, especially Camaron, which kind of annoys the hell out of me. Scratch that—it drives me insane because he is such a dick to her. Nevertheless, I can’t get enough of this chick. I knew when I took my shirt off she turned three shades of red, I don’t think she saw me catch her but, damn, she looked so adorable and all I wanted to do was put my lips on her.