Outside the Lines (Rebel Hearts #1) (10 page)

“I’ve never been there,” I say. “I’d love to go. So much.”
 

“It’s beautiful. My grandparents are a bit old school too, so it’s almost like going back in time. And Tokyo is just … so much. There are so many people and there’s always something going on. It’s nonstop, but it’s awesome.” His eyes grow big as he talks, and the passion and excitement takes over his face. “It’s easy to get that lost in the crowd feeling when thousands of people pass you buy unnoticed, but it has an energy about it that’s just contagious.”

“Why haven’t you gone in a few years?” I ask and hope it’s not prying.

“I opened the gallery here a few years ago,” he says. “And it’s kept me a lot busier than I expected. But I love it too.”
 

I don’t really know what being an artist entails, though I imagine it’s pretty fucking awesome, like getting paid to get up and do your hobby. Making websites isn’t art, but it’s creating something, and seeing something come from nothing.
 

“I like to sew,” I declare. “Not really the same thing.”
 

“I’ve never attempted sewing,” he says. “What do you like to sew?”

“Costumes,” I answer. “I like to Cosplay.”
 

“So you’re one of those people who go to Comic Con all dressed up?” There is amusement in his voice, but it’s not judgmental.

“I am. It’s so much fun.”
 

“I’ve never been to Comic Con.”
 

“Wizard World in Chicago is coming up at the end of summer,” I tell him. “My friend Erin and I are going. We go every year.”
 

“Are you dressing up?”

“Of course.”
 

The smile is back on his face. Before he can ask me anything else, the waiter comes over to take our order. I hadn’t looked over the menu at all, so I order the same thing Ben does.
 

“So,” I start once the waiter leaves. “What do you do other than paint?”
 

“Hang out with friends, work out.” He shrugs. “Usual stuff. I’ve been going to a lot of galas and art shows lately,” he says almost like it’s a surprise. I nod like I have no idea either, although his pictures came up when I searched him on the internet, smiling next to one of his paintings, with the buyer on the other side. And the buyers ranged from politicians to CEOs of huge companies. He hasn’t said it out loud to me—yet—but I know he has a piece in the Museum of Modern Art in New York. Once that went up, his popularity increased tenfold … and then he moved here. Weird. Or at least that’s what the research says. “And I like to read.”
 

“Me too. I read a lot. What do you like to read?”
 

“Anything, really. I’ve been into the classics lately. You?”

“I love paranormal romance.”
 

“I’ve never read that,” he muses. “Is it like that Fifty Shades stuff with vampires?”

I laugh. “There are some like that.”

Ben wiggles his eyebrows. “Then maybe I will read it. I do like to be bitten.”
 

My cheeks flush at his blunt confession, and I’m not sure if he’s joking or telling the truth. I think he’s telling the truth. If things get hot and heavy tonight, should I go in for the kill and nip him with my teeth? The extent of my BDSM knowledge goes so far as tips from
Cosmo
, and after that last article about poking a man’s tender regions with a fork—don’t break the skin, they said, like that was even a question—I’m doubting all their advice.
 

No surprise, my brain gets ahead of me again and I get a flash of flesh and see Ben on top of me, thrusting those glorious hips into me, and I gently clamp my teeth down on his neck. Blood warms my cheeks, going through me and making me feel hot between my legs.
 

The waiter brings us more bread and refills our wine glasses. I pick mine up, fingers trembling slightly, and take a big sip. I set the glass down and look at Ben, unable to get the image of him naked and on top of me out of my head.
 

We keep talking about normal first date things, like our families and work. The food comes and we get words in between bites. The silence isn’t awkward, but I’m so worried it will be I keep saying stupid things, things no one cares about, like how long it takes me to clean my house. I like talking to Ben, and the more time that passes, the more comfortable I feel. There is still a formality in the way he talks to me, like he’s not really being himself. He’s “on” and his game is good.
 

Suave, smooth, confident. Yep. He’s got it all.
 

I get sauce on the side of my mouth when I take a bite of cheese ravioli. Some splatters on my shirt. Thank God the fabric is dark and you can’t see the stain. I don’t have it all. And I never will.
 

I mentally sigh.
 

When we’re done with the main course, Ben orders two pieces of cheesecake without asking me what I want. Should that bug me? Or should his dominance turn me on? (Because it does.) And I like cheesecake. Pick your battles, right?
 

I’m nowhere near drunk after the wine plus all the food, but my mind is a little buzzed and it helps me relax. I slowly eat the cheesecake, legit full from filling up on so much bread—but it was so good! Whoever doesn’t fill up on bread, or chips and salsa, or whatever you get before a meal at a restaurant has no soul, I swear—and feel Ben’s eyes on me.
 

I look up and smile. “Do I want to know what you’re thinking?” I ask and pick up my water.
 

He gives me a wicked grin. “You might be interested in it.”
 

“Then you better tell me.” I slowly run my finger down the stem of my wine glass.
 

His eyes drop to my chest then go back to my face. “I don’t see how you weren’t the popular girl in high school, like you said. You look like you would be.”
 

I drop my gaze. “Looks can be deceiving.” He’s meant it as a compliment, but his words make me feel self-conscious. Damn it.
 

“They can.”
 

“I didn’t always look like this,” I offer and know I should just shut my stupid mouth and stop talking.
 

“That doesn’t matter,” he says. “I didn’t know you then. And I like the way you look now. A lot.”
 

I can’t help the smile that pulls up on my lips. “Yeah, it’s not so bad,” I say back. The waiter brings us the check; Ben grabs it before I can even look at it and pays, leaving a rather large tip.
 

I waited tables in college. Ben just earned major bonus points from me.
 

He takes my hand when we leave the restaurant. The night is still warm, and a light breeze rustles my hair. Stars do their best to shine above us, despite the light pollution. It’s perfect.
 

“I don’t know about you,” Ben says, “but I’m not ready not to call this a night yet.”
 

“I’m not ready either.”
 

Hand in hand, we slowly walk to his car. He opens the door for me again, then gets in the driver’s seat. “What do you want to do?” he asks as he pushes the start button. “We could get drinks at Stacks.”
 

That’s another place I’d never been but had heard of. Stacks is an upscale bar that caters to white-collar businessmen. So not my thing.
 

My nose wrinkles and Ben laughs. “You have another idea?”

“It’s so nice outside. We could … uh … go mini golfing and ride go-karts,” I blurt, saying the first thing that comes to mind. Plus I rock mini-golf.
 

Ben’s face goes slack and I’m sure he’s thinking that’s the stupidest thing in the entire fucking world to suggest we do on a first date. We’re adults, after all. He puts his hands on the steering wheel. “That sounds awesome,” he says and the smile returns to his face.
 

I sit back in the seat, grinning ear to ear.
 

*

“You’re cheating!” Ben laughs after I get my third hole-in-one. “I don’t know how, but you’re cheating!” He sets his beer down on the bricks that outline the eighth hole and drops his ball, using his foot to line it up with the hole.

I grab my ball and hop off the AstroTurf, piña colada sloshing down my hand. “Yes, cheating with my telekinetic powers,” I laugh back.
 

Ben hits the ball. It bounces off the side of the little brick path, rolls halfway up the slopped course, and comes back down. We both laugh. It takes him five more attempts before we can move on.
 

“I didn’t know these places served booze,” Ben says, grabbing his beer. “Well, the last time I was at one, I wasn’t old enough to drink.”
 

“I assume they started doing it for the parents who come with small children,” I say. “You know, the ones that take even longer than you. They have to drink to keep their sanity.”

He takes my arm as we walk across a wooden planked bridge. It’s not the easiest thing to do in heels.
 

“You’re probably right.”
 

We stop at the next hole, and I step aside. “Go ahead. Let’s see if you can get it in the hole on your first try.”
 

Ben turns to me, a devilish glint in his eyes. “I always get it in the first try.”
 

Oh boy.
 

I open my mouth, wanting to say something sexy and witty back to him. But only a garbled, “I bet” comes out. He flashes me his bedroom eyes and sets the ball down.
 

I stare at his tight ass, thinking of it sans clothing with my nails digging into his flesh as he goes to town, pumping and thrusting into me. I get hit with a hot flash, and I know it’s not from my oncoming period.
 

I take a big gulp of my drink and shake my head. A group of teenagers shriek and laugh across the course. It’s a group of three couples, and they are all over each other in a typical juvenile public display of affection.

“Young love,” Ben muses, looking up. “They don’t know how easy they have it.”
 

“No bills, no jobs, just homework and parents to deal with,” I say. “But still, I’d never go back to high school if you paid me.” Unless I was undercover, like in a movie. Then maybe I’ll consider it. Maybe.
 

Ben’s ball rolls into the little white hole next to a fake pond filled with water so scummy the fountain is clogged and just spitting up bubbles instead of spraying the water into the air.
 

“You really hated it that much?” He steps off the course.

I drop my ball, hit, and miss. It goes into the water. I grimace and walk up to get it, using my purple golf club to pull it from the water. “I’d never go back, if that tells you anything,” I say. “But it was years ago. I’m over it.”
 

“I loved high school,” he admits and it doesn’t surprise me. He’s always been good looking, I can tell, and I’m sure he’s always been athletic and talented too. “But I wouldn’t go back either. College, yes.”
 

“Oh me too,” I say. I’d go back for a do-over. I fucked up big time in college. “That was fun.”
 

I get a hole-in-two and Ben and I exchange party stories as we finish the course. I win, by a lot, but I stopped keeping score after the fourth hole and it became apparent I’d dominate.
 

“Are you up for go-karts?” I ask Ben when we turn in our golf clubs and balls. I finish my piña colada and toss the plastic cup in the recycling bin next to the trash.
 

“If it involves you, I’m up for anything,” he says and I can’t help but wonder if the “up” reference has to do with his penis.
 

I’m so fucking mature, I know.
 

“Let’s see if your Mario Kart skills carry over into the real world,” he teases and buys us tickets. There’s not many people left this late, and the park closes in twenty minutes. It’s more than enough time. We get into our little cars and the attendant comes over to check our seat belts. Ben revs his engine, wiggling his eyebrows at me.
 

“You’re going down,” he says. Another sexual reference? Gah, I need to stop.

“So are you,” I threaten and rev my own engine, getting a stern look from the man in charge. Mine was a sexual reference, by the way. I love a man who goes down on a woman.
 

The green light flashes and we take off, passing the three other people on the course—who are all twelve years old or younger. Ben jerks his wheel, slamming into me. My car shutters and hits the wall, bouncing off the rubber tires lining it.
 

I laugh and hit him back but he swerves out of the way just in time. We fly down a hill and my kart gains enough speed to pass him. He catches up quickly and rams into me again, causing me to spin out and get stuck.
 

“Hah!” he calls out, smiling as he goes on. I have to wait for the stupid attendant to come over and turn the car around. Seriously, why isn’t there reverse on these things? I’m off again, laughing when one of the kids hits Ben’s kart, slowing him down enough for me to pass.
 

“That’s karma for you!” I shout as I fly by. Ben’s on the go again, his kart picking up speed, and he T-bones me. We both spin out, laughing. The attendant comes over, muttering about how this “isn’t bumper cars” and turns us both back around. We have one lap left, and Ben gets ahead by just a few feet. He wins, and waits for me at the finish line.

He hops out of his kart and comes over to me, offering me a hand. I climb out, a bit unsteady on my Harry Potter heels, and I stumble. He catches me, hands closing on my waist, and he holds me a moment longer than necessary, not letting go even after I get my balance back.
 

I feel his muscles through his clothes, smell his cologne, sense the warmth of his skin. I shiver. He turns, letting one hand drop to his side. The other stays on my waist. Once we’re back on the sidewalk, heading to the parking lot, his slides his hand down to the curve in my hip. Cameron’s words about wearing Spanx come back to haunt me, and I hope and pray Ben either doesn’t notice or doesn’t mind the extra fat I have sitting on my hips, stored there and waiting for me to go into hibernation or something.