Page 4 of Cruel Debts (Killers of Port Wylde #4)

THREE

ASHER

If I had a dollar for every time I got pressured into doing something I had no interest in, only to find out I was wrong about my enjoyment, I’d be broke.

But I’d have a dollar now, so there was that.

My exhibitionism was no secret—the guys teased me about the late-night walks through the apartment with no clothes on.

I did it back when we were in barracks, too, much to the frustration of my squadmates in various units.

Occasionally, when I did decide to go out and get laid, there were public spaces involved—fucking on a balcony in the midday sun, a quick blowjob behind the movie theatre during shift change, hell, even a visit to one of those random sex booths in the adult stores where someone could pay to watch you fuck a stranger—or yourself.

But this was different. Sure, it was a turn-on to have a hundred or so people standing around watching a stranger paint my body with latex colors and designs.

But the girl at work on my body was the one I wanted to look at me.

Her brushes glided over me like the softest caress, leaving behind tangible evidence of where she’d been, what parts of me she’d used as her canvas. I could feel her eyes on me as she circled, her smile growing with every pass she made.

Hell, when the girl handed me a paintbrush and told me to hold it, I simply held out my hand and gripped the thin, fragile wood calmly, patiently waiting for her to demand it back.

“So, are you from around here, or are you in town for the club?”

Was she really trying to make small talk right now?

Her paintbrush was an inch away from my asscheek. “Ah, yeah, born and raised in Port Wylde, actually,” I replied, proud when my voice didn’t crack, when there was no hesitation in my words. “You?”

“Not born and raised here,” she replied smoothly, though I watched her brows draw together, her cute nose scrunching up in anger, or perhaps frustration. “Hopefully, I won’t be here long, either. But who knows?”

I sensed some deeper source of rage and let it slide, preferring not to have a stranger dump her whole life of drama on me, another stranger. “What are you painting on me?” I switched gears, trying desperately to look over my shoulder. “Better not be something dumb.”

Even the act of her rolling her eyes was enough to make my blood heat up. “It’s not.” Her brush dragged slowly between the blades of my shoulders, bristles tickling the sensitive skin along my spine. “But if you keep moving, you’ll fuck it up. So maybe stand still, soldier.”

As if jerked right back into the days of deployment, I straightened unconsciously, heels snapped together as I looked forward with a stoic determination. I had to literally bite my tongue to keep from shouting ‘yes, ma’am’ in response, like I had so many times.

I wasn’t in the military anymore. And this little girl certainly wasn’t my fucking commander.

“How did you know I was a soldier?”

“I didn’t,” she muttered, her brush hesitating as it trailed to the cleft between my asscheeks. “It’s just a saying I picked up somewhere.”

“You have family in the military?” I asked suddenly, hating that I was so interested in her. It made no sense, this intrigue, this curiosity. This was nothing more than a lucky way to pass the time. I was here on business.

So why did it matter where she’d learned the phrase?

Her petite shoulders rose and fell as she reached for another tube of paint. “Used to. But that’s not where I learned it.”

She said nothing more, choosing instead to clam up like an oyster in the summer sun. The conversation, it seemed, was now over, and there was no room for more discussion.

I stood still as a statue as she coated my torso and now my legs with a layer of black paint, so dark it was like being swallowed by the night.

When she had erased the existence of a majority of me, she broke out another brush, this one tiny in comparison to her original one.

Long, slender fingers curled over the bright white paint tube, squeezing it onto the palette on the stool beside her.

I watched in fascination as she added color after color, some in larger quantities, some just a drop or two, her eyes carefully measuring each one as if her life depended on getting it just right.

“There we go,” she said suddenly, and then, without warning, she stuck the tip of her brush in her mouth and tried to wet the bristles.

Frowning at her lack of saliva, she looked to me with a hopeful expression, her baleful eyes wide as saucers as the corners of her mouth curled up playfully.

“Would you mind? I need the brush to be wet for this part.”

Absolutely not. No way in hell. Not on your fucking life ? —

My lips parted, and I stuck my tongue out, inviting her wordlessly to stick the same brush that had just been between her lips, in her mouth, now into mine.

Who the fuck was I?

I let my tongue swirl around the soft, slightly damp bristles as she gathered my spit on the tip, making the whole process far more erotic than it had a right to be. My cock twitched in answer to the move, eliciting a few giggles and murmurs of approval from the crowd I’d all but forgotten about.

“What do you plan to do with my spit on that brush?”

Her eyebrows just waggled as she dabbed it in the white paint and then dipped it in purple for a millisecond. “Just wait. You’ll see soon enough.”

She was right, too. That manicured nail on her thumb curled over the tip of the paint-saturated bristles and flicked them in my direction, creating a soft, misty spray that spattered across my torso and limbs. When you looked at it objectively, it almost resembled?—

The night sky? Outer space?

“It’s a galaxy,” she said suddenly, her voice barely a whisper as the bristles dipped into some more of the purple, this time mixing with a red nearby as well. “When I’m finished, you’ll look just like the night sky in summertime. Deep, vast, and?—”

“Empty,” I muttered, realizing she’d read me for filth the moment I stepped onto her dais.

“Well, yes, space is empty,” she agreed, though there was hesitation in her voice.

“But that doesn’t mean that you and space are point for point the same.

And there’s a lot of things that are in outer space, too.

It’s not really empty, per se. It’s just got a lot more space to it than, well, you know?—”

“You’re rambling,” I pointed out, waiting for her to realize it. I hated when people felt the need to fill space with nonsensical talk. Couldn’t we all just remain silent around one another and enjoy the quiet between two consenting human beings?

“Rude,” she replied, turning back to her work with a huff. “I should have painted a unicorn on your ass.”

“I dare you to try.”

I watched in awe as she set herself back to work, my black-speckled space landscape turning to a veritable Van Gogh as planets, shooting stars, and even whole galaxies came to life beneath the bristles of her brushes.

Shapes became whole scenes, and before I could blink, she was zeroing in on my cock, of all places.

And it stood at impressive attention in anticipation of being touched.

She stopped to admire it for a moment, dragging the handle of her brush along the length to tease me, perhaps, as she lifted it and shifted it around, perhaps planning her approach or her art.

“Going to turn it into a spaceship?” I deadpanned, hoping she didn’t hear the crack in my voice as her brush was replaced by her fingers, holding my cock where she wanted it so she could apply paint to it. “Hellfire, woman, maybe warn a man first.”

“I thought you were watching,” she mumbled absently, her eyes focused on the task at hand. “And no, I’m not making it a spaceship.”

She wasn’t lying, either. The length of my cock disappeared beneath paint, becoming, of all things, a shooting star, from the looks of it.

Like a sparkler in the night, it exploded out, showers of sparks trailing down the side of my shaft from the comet trail.

She turned me around, admiring her work close-up as I struggled to contain my excitement at being ogled.

Fuck, but being an exhibitionist was hard work sometimes.

I didn’t need recognition for my tasks in the military.

I knew they’d likely get me killed, or worse, so I kept them to myself.

But when I discovered this little kink, it was all I could do to find healthy, safe ways to entertain the urges it came with.

My therapist might say it stemmed from a life living in my older brother’s shadow, or perhaps from the need to be seen that I lacked growing up.

Perhaps it was a knee-jerk reaction from the military and the anonymity.

She was a smart one, that therapist of mine. Too smart sometimes.

“There,” she said finally, straightening atop her tall heels. “All finished.”

Her slender hand wrapped around mine and led me to a full-length mirror, angled at two hinges to reflect all sides of me. It was then I saw the full measure of the art she’d turned me into.

“Wow,” I breathed, twisting this way and that to really take it all in. “This is amazing work.” You should be painting for exhibits, not for a sex club. “How long have you been painting?”

“A long time,” she muttered under her breath, her eyes falling to the floor by her feet. “Do you like it?”

I nodded earnestly, smiling genuinely for what felt like the first time in a long time. “I do. It’s brilliant work.”

Her tentative smile felt forced, like she didn’t quite know whether or not to believe me.

“Thank you.” Her brushes were discarded in a nearby bin of water to soak as the crowd clamored for her attention now that she’d finished with me.

“You’re always welcome back to participate again; you’ve got great muscle definition, and you’re a dream canvas. ”

I wasn’t sure whether that was a compliment or not. “Thank you, I think.” The paint pulled in a few spots, but otherwise, it was like I was wearing nothing but air, the feeling very much foreign and familiar at the same time. “This was an interesting experience.”

The bridge of her nose crinkled as I reached up to wipe away a speck of black paint there. I found myself wanting to make her do it again, but unfortunately, the paint had all come away with a single swipe.

“When do you work again?” I asked quietly, hesitantly, as if she might scurry away like a frightened bunny if I came on too strong. All I knew was that I wanted to see this girl again, and if that meant I had to subject myself to another round of body painting, then so be it.

“I’m here on Thursdays and Sundays every week.” Her eyes danced with mirth and mischief, and for a split second, it was like looking into my past, at a girl I’d left in my memories from another life. Innocence. Patience. Excitement. Untainted by the horrors of this world.

Trinity McCoy.

A girl I’d give anything to see again. A girl I could have nothing to do with.

My dead best friend’s sister.

“I’ll be back,” I told her quietly, with a smile and a wink. I hoped she believed me.

When the following week rolled around, I was back like I promised, waiting in the crowd with a band on my wrist. But the girl in the room wasn’t her. And the following week, and the week after that, she was nowhere to be found.

It was like my mystery girl up and disappeared, taking any trace of her existence with her.

Where did you go, my pretty little artist?

And why do I care so much about your absence?