Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
She is a wizened old gypsy and I think she makes her potions late into the night. Once or twice I’ve run into her selling her good luck charms in the supermarket car park. Once she winked at me and said, “There’s a Prince waiting for ya, little one.”
Yeah, sure he is, but I was afraid she was going to ask me to buy one of her charms so I just flashed her a polite smile and hurried away in the opposite direction.
I chain my bicycle to the metal railing outside my caravan and unlock my door. I switch on the lamp and everything feels strange. My cozy little home looks shabby and claustrophobic. I go into the bathroom and look in the mirror.
There is paint on my face and hair, and I look a terrible mess, but it is my eyes I am drawn to. I hardly recognize them as mine. They are very bright and my pupils are much larger than I’ve ever seen them. Shocked and confused, I quickly undress and shower. Under the cascade of warm water my hand strays between my thighs.
I cannot stop myself.
I close my eyes and circle my clit. I think of him, those magnetic blue eyes staring into mine as his fingers slip into me. “Autumn,” that commanding voice calls, and I climax quickly with a hoarse grunt.
I pour shampoo on my palm and rub it into my hair. Then I bow my head and let the water pour over me. How strange. The throbbing need for him is still not gone. My body remains as unfulfilled and unsatisfied as it was before I masturbated. I know doing it again will not do the trick either. The only way to quench this… this intense hunger is to allow him into my body.
Something I’m never going to do.
I switch off the tap and get into my toweling robe. I should dry my hair, but I can’t be bothered. A few steps later I’m in my tiny kitchen. I have no appetite, but I boil some water and make myself a bowl of ramen noodles. Then I settle on the battered couch and quietly slurp it down.
Afterwards, I pull my crane blanket over me, and think of him. Those eyes. As if he could look right through me and into my soul. I find my hand straying once more between my legs, but I stop myself. I should go to sleep, but I know I won’t be able to. Not until I get him out of my mind.
I force myself to think of my painting, of my father, my mother, my brother, my to-do list, my laundry…
Half an hour later, I still cannot stop thinking of him or repeatedly replaying our bizarre encounter in my head. Nothing made sense. His appearance in the shop. His insane offer for my painting. My reaction to him.
I grab my phone and text my best friend, Sam. She is a night-bird like me and is almost certainly awake and surfing the net.
Are you awake?
We grew up together and we were always inseparable, six months ago I came here to paint, and she went on to Atlanta to study something technical to do with computers. What exactly my turpentine soaked brain has never quite been able to grasp.
As soon as my phone rings, I snatch it up and launch into my story. I tell her everything that happened at the store. For a few seconds, after I stop talking, there is only silence from her end.
“Sam?” I call.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m here. I’m just thinking.” Sam is the opposite of me. She doesn’t rush in where angels fear to tread. She thinks about her every move carefully.
“Okay, have you finished thinking?”
“Maybe you’re a better artist than you think,” she says.
Sam is a total sweetheart, but I can’t help rolling my eyes at her naivety. “Oh please. He offered a hundred thousand bucks for a painting that is not even finished yet.”
She laughs. “Perhaps he has so much money he can afford to throw lots of it at anything he fancies.” She pauses, then adds dramatically, “Or maybe you’re what he fancies.”
“What man do you know offers a hundred thousand to sleep with a paint-splattered woman?”
“Maybe he’s kinky.”
“Can you please be serious?”
“If I was a man with lots of money, I’d pay that for you,” she pipes up loyally.
“Thanks, Sam. I feel incredibly valued right now, but can we please step back into the real world for a minute?”
She laughs. “Fine. Have it your way. Personally, I think very rich people are mad. Who knows? Maybe, he really liked your painting, but how could he possibly hang it up next to his Van Gogh and Monet if it was only a thousand dollars? His friends would laugh over their caviar and cocaine when they came over to dinner. This way he can boast that clever him found this unknown artist in a tiny little artist town who is really hot right now and he found her first.”