Drift (Lengths) Read online

  She looks at me.

  Then back at Isaac.

  Then back at me.

  Her eyes go wide. Her lips curve into a smile, which she reigns in quickly.

  “Are you kidding?” She slaps Isaac on the arm like they’re old pals. “No one in the art department talks about anything but you and your new works. All I hear is that your architecture series is going to blow the art world up. The chapels in particular. That’s the rumor, anyway.”

  “I’m very flattered, but I’m afraid your friends may have misled you. My work is still emerging, and I have much to learn before I’ll be at a level where I can make any difference in this current art world,” he says and we all stand and blink while my dopey sister smiles like an idiot.

  “What the hell is with you, Cece?” I hiss too low for anyone else to hear clearly, feeling exactly the way I did when Jimmie Salomas came to ask me on a date in seventh grade and Cece just stood there, rocking back and forth on her Minnie Mouse sneakers, smiling like the damn Cheshire Cat.

  “Nothing. At all,” she answers in her normal booming voice. “Oh, hey Caro, how rude of me. I never made introductions. You must have heard about Isaac Ortiz. The artist from Spain.” She holds her hands out, like she’s presenting a buffet to a starving woman.

  Caro’s big eyes go cartoonishly wide. “Mr. Ortiz. What an honor! I saw an exhibit of your father’s when I was just a kid with my father in Chicago. I was just…so overwhelmed. It was gritty and real and…like you could just feel the passion pulsing off the canvas.” Caro is moving her arms and hands while she talks, so it looks more like interpretive dance than conversation.

  Isaac’s smile is suddenly tight as a drum. “Of course. I remember that show. My mother and I were so glad to be able to live in Chicago for a few months while my father did some work at the art institute. It was a beautiful time.”

  I look at the tight line of his jaw and the muscle bunched up high on his cheek. His expression doesn’t match his words at all.

  “You know, I heard reports that there were cougars prowling this area,” Cece announces in—what I can only pray—is the evening’s weirdest segue.

  We all stare at her. Caro blinks hard, still caught in some dizzying world of modern art memories, I guess.

  “Cougars? Don’t you mean mountain lions?” I correct like I’m talking to a preschooler. Sometimes, with Cece, it feels that way. “And the last attack was months ago, wasn’t it? Has something happened on campus?”

  She shakes her head, her eyes gleaming impishly. “No. It was definitely cougars. And they’ve been spotted. With prey in their sites. They haven’t pounced yet, but I think everyone is pretty sure it’s only a matter of time.”

  I see the moment Caro gets the inside reference that’s gone totally over my head and bites back a giggle. I glare at the two of them, acting like fools drunk off a little cheap champagne. Isaac’s eyebrows are knotted low on his forehead, I’m sure wondering if something has been lost in interpretation.

  Only the fact that my sister is a damn tipsy half-wit.

  “I thought your big plan was to stand in front of the monitor,” I nudge, pointing where there’s a crowd lined up. A huge crowd. Watching with a buzz of excited interest.

  It’s just the same video on a loop. Right? I wonder what the sudden intense fascination is.

  I stand on my toes, just in time to see my sister’s naked ass smack in the center of the screen.

  “Cece!” I cry, lunging for her like if I can cover her here, no one will see her nude on the screen.

  She bats my hands away, laughing. “Lydia, calm down. It’s art!” She points and I see the small screen version of her, naked as a crazy ass jaybird, twirling around in circles, her dark curls bobbing around her shoulders.

  I cover my eyes with my hand, and Caro and Isaac laugh. I don’t mean for my temper to snap, but it does. I grab Cece by the elbow and drag her away from the crowd.

  “You are a damn professor, Cece. This kind of crap might have flown when you were a student, but now? It’s embarrassing,” I snarl, extra hot because she’s giving me those sad ‘Lydia is just too uptight to get it’ eyes the youngest Rodriguez siblings throw my way constantly.

  “It’s art, Cece. This piece is being considered for a traveling exhibit sponsored by the Getty. How could I not agree?” She shakes her head like she feels sorry for me.

  My sister, whose ass is on display for the entire university to see is feeling bad for me.

  “How could you never, ever consider how what you do, how the mistakes you make can haunt you forever, Cece? One slip-up, one minute of lost focus, and every fucking thing you worked so hard for is gone. In an instant.” My eyes well up with tears that I refuse to shed in the middle of this gallery.

  “You are blowing this hugely out of proportion, as usual,” Cece slams back, pointing at me. “You’re so busy making sure every single thing you do is so perfect and controlled, you never give yourself the chance to just live!”

  “You know what? I’ve ‘lived,’ and you know what I got for it?” I look right at her, begging her to understand without my having to spill my biggest embarrassment to date. How can I tell her that my huge failure, the one I may never come back from, all happened over an affair that was never any good to start with? “I got nothing. I got screwed over.”

  Cece snorts and crosses her arms tight over her chest. Over her shoulder, I can see her image, lying nude on rocks as waves splash up and around her. It’s very ethereal. Goddess-like. Gorgeous. But it’s also vulnerable.

  And vulnerability doesn’t scare her nearly as much as it should.

  I guess because she’s never felt the stripped pain that hits when your vulnerability double crosses you and smacks you behind the knees, shrieking with laughter as you nosedive into the dirt.

  “Stop projecting your life onto me.” Cece balls her fists and squeezes her eyes shut. When she opens them, there’s nothing but sadness, deep and wet, pulling me under like the cool, still waters of a bottomless lake. “You know the saddest part? I almost didn’t invite you out tonight, because I was so afraid of how you’d judge me. But we had this moment with Mami and Papi, and I thought, ‘Ah, here’s that time everyone talks about, when sisters stop fighting all the time and finally become friends.’ I’m honestly sorry I was so wrong.”

  Before I can explain, before I can tell her that I’d been hoping for and working toward exactly what she just described—friendship, deep and true, with my sisters—she stalks over to Caro, and they disappear into the crush, where whoops of congratulations soar up to the industrial ceilings.

  I’m shivering.

  I feel gutted and alone, but I shouldn’t. I’m so used to this. To being labeled an interfering asshole when I try to help. To have my sister think I’m looking down on her, when that couldn’t be further from the truth. The problem is, I have no idea how to tell her I love her and want to protect her from the stupid, shameful mistakes I’ve made. Whenever I open my mouth, I wind up offending someone I love.

  My parents love to brag about how smart I am, but I would trade a solid handful of IQ points for a little dose of the kind of social skills other women seem to have naturally.

  I turn when I hear a throat being cleared. Isaac is standing, his suit fitted to his body like a perfect, gorgeous dark grey glove. “Are you alright, Lydia?” he asks softly.

  I wipe the tears that burn the sides of my eyes with my wrist. “Ugh. Fine. You know, sibling stuff.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m afraid I don’t. I was a lonely only child. Though I wanted siblings badly.”

  I snort. “They’re kind of like that nursery rhyme about the little girl with the curl. When they’re good, it’s wonderful. When they’re bad?” I look at him, but those clear green eyes are clouded with confusion. I’m sure he doesn’t know anything about American nursery rhymes or the labyrinth of complications that come from having beautifully naive sisters. “It doesn’t matter. You know what would be great
? Some air. I definitely need some air. Would you care to join me?”

  He nods and puts one strong, warm hand on my elbow as he leads me passed the crowd that’s exclaiming over my sister’s genius.

  I put one foot in front of the other and wonder if I’m being my usual stick-in-the-mud self, upset over something that isn’t a real issue. Maybe this is all just me projecting my own screwed up, uptight, butt-hurt situation onto my sister.

  Isaac finds an empty table in the corner and pulls my chair out. He gets two more glasses of champagne and sets them down. I take a quick sip, not sure if the drink is going to make all the feelings swirling through me calm down or storm more erratically.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks after a few long seconds of pensive quiet.

  I shake my head, but go ahead and ask, “Do you think the fact that my sister was, um, naked in that video was a bad idea on her part?”

  His smile is partially sheepish, and I realize that it’s odd to ask him about my naked sister. “I may be speaking from a unique perspective. I’m an artist first and foremost, Lydia. I’ve been sketching the nude body since before I understood all the ways it could be most beautiful. The artist who made that video, Salomina Corsit, is a very brave one. She’s doing incredible work, and—though it may be shocking visually—she doesn’t do what she does to shock. She does it to crack open things some people would rather have hidden away. She brings them to the light.”

  I rub my thumb over a smudge on my glass. “It’s not that I don’t…like…nudity. I guess the ‘bringing to the light’ part is the strange thing for me. Maybe it’s conservative of me, but I feel like some things have their place in the shadows.” I watch his eyebrow quirk up and rush to explain. “Not because they’re embarrassing or shameful. Because they’re intimate. Vulnerable. And exposing them to the light might shrivel them.”

  He slides his hand across the table. Those long, strong fingers curl around my wrist and splay out over my knuckles. When I’m finally able to look up from our twisted hands, I see how hungrily his mouth twitches when he looks at me.

  “I think the way you feel is beautiful. And I agree that some things are best left behind closed doors. But your sister did not look ‘about to shrivel.’ She looked like she came alive. I imagine because she trusts Salomina.”

  I try to tug my hand back to break his spell over me. He holds tight for second, then lets go suddenly. It makes me wish for more from him immediately. “Trust is a tricky thing. It can bite you hard when you least expect it to.”

  “It’s a risk,” he declares, smiling like we’re still flirting.

  I wish we were.

  I finish my drink and stand. “I should probably see if my sister is ready to go.” At that moment a loud cheer goes up from inside.

  Isaac stands next to me, his long body almost too close to mine and inching closer with every labored breath. The two of us are tucked away, hidden in this quiet corner insulated from the crowd. He brushes a piece of my hair back from my shoulder.

  “The film runs on a forty minute loop. I think we left when it was about ten minutes in. We probably have half an hour.” There’s a rushed hitch to the last statement, and my mind stretches and rubs against what I could do with Isaac for half an hour.

  Not that I would. Or will. But I could. If I were brave enough.

  Or dumb enough.

  And, as if my brain wants to prove just how completely it’s turned to mush, I find my hand reaching out to press against the crisp white cloth of his dress shirt. I plant my hand hard, until I can feel the heat of his skin and the thump of his heart under my palm.

  “Your heart is beating fast,” I observe stupidly.

  “That makes sense. I’m excited,” he whispers, one hand on my hip, pulling me impossibly close.

  “Is it the art?” My fingers follow the line of buttons up and down his shirt, pausing at each one.

  “No.” He draws out the word and his fingers tighten on my hip until the sequins bite through the under layer of my sexy dress and into my skin.

  I slide one finger into the space between two buttons, running it along his overheated skin. “You feel hot.”

  “Maybe I have a fever,” he suggests, ducking his head low and letting his lips almost brush my neck.

  The way my spine tingles and my heart ricochets, I’m scared for his almost touch to become an actual one.

  “You seem healthy to me.” I flick a button open and scissor my fingers in the opening, peering into the gap in the stiff white cloth, teasing myself with a quick look at what’s definitely forbidden territory.

  “It comes and goes,” he says, sucking a breath between his teeth then I let one fingertip, than a second and third coast over his skin. “I’ve noticed it gets worse around particular stimuli.”

  I cock an eyebrow and let my fingers graze in a lazy circle. “Stimuli? Sounds very scientific, Professor.”

  His thumb rubs over the rounded bump of my hip. “It is. I’ve been observing the issue, and it’s very specific. I’ll be perfectly normal, steady heart rate, cool temperature. And then I’ll catch sight of this one specific thing, and my body goes crazy.”

  He brings his other hand up and presses it over mine, knotting our fingers together as we both keep track of the jackhammer thud of his heart.

  “Maybe you should avoid whatever it is that’s making you go so insane,” I suggest as he pulls my hand from the gap in his shirt and pulls it up to his lips.

  Those perfect, strong lips. Those lips I want to stop almost touching me and press against my skin. Hard. Over and over. Dragging and feasting on me.

  I pull in a quick breath. Damn. That champagne must have been a lot stronger than I realized. I never do things like this, think things like this.

  Well, not in public.

  And not since I was in high school.

  If we were in his bedroom and we were both seventeen…very, very naughty things would have been happening.

  “I can’t,” he says, my fingers about touch his lips and rejolt me with a shock of the powerful electricity that seems to hum when we’re skin to skin.

  “Why not?” I pull my hand back to steady myself for the feel.

  “Because I’m already addicted to your beauty,” he says, twining my hand and his behind my back and walking me the two steps that erases any space between us.

  I can feel him from my chest down to my thighs. He’s hot and hard and…very hard. I can feel how ready he is, and I know he feels it from me too. For a second, I don’t care that we’re adults, or that I’m in public, at a swank art show. I want him, damnit, I want him the way I haven’t wanted anyone or anything in a long time.

  Just when the desire makes me grind my hips into his and lick my lips, a familiar voice smashes the moment and leaves all the desire stripped. Deep, sickening humiliation takes its place.

  “Cece!” I cry, yanking my body from Isaac’s embrace. There’s an instant short-circuiting, and I’m shocked at how dull and flat the world looks when I’m not in his arms.

  “I think we’re heading back now,” my sister says, giving me a look so full of accusation, I feel like my skin is on fire.

  Strange. Cece is usually the least hung-up about public displays of affection out of all of us. Hell, I caught her making out with our great-aunt’s lawyer’s son…at Great-Aunt Marjory’s funeral. I try not to read too much into her look, but something nags at me.

  “Some people had plans to go to a dance club,” Isaac says.

  I relax. Cece never says no to dancing. If there’s an opportunity to shake what she’s got, she will, happily.

  But my sister shocks the hell out of me by shaking her head. “Sorry. Not for me tonight. You should go if you want, Lydia.” She examines her fingernails as she says it, like she’s throwing down a dare.

  Caro clears her throat. “Right. Well, it was so nice meeting you, Mr. Ortiz.”

  “Isaac,” he corrects, catching her hand in his and shaking. “It was ni
ce meeting you both. Congratulations to both of you on your artistic debut.”

  Cece gives a small smile and turns. I look at Isaac, and I feel like I’m in the Sahara and he’s a tall, icy glass of water. Which makes it that much harder to walk away.

  “It was wonderful to see you, but I need to go with my sister.” Not sure what to do to say goodbye, I fall back on the handshake.

  A little bit of a weird formality, considering I was just pawing his half-naked chest.

  He pulls my hand to his mouth, just where it was before we were interrupted. He grips my fingers and drags his lips, soft and warm, over the knuckles, his thumb flicking softly against the inside of my wrist. He pulls my hand back slowly.

  “When will I see you again?”

  “Class,” I choke out.

  “That’s too far away.”

  “I’m not good for your health,” I remind him.

  “I like to live on the edge.” A smile curves over his lips. “I enjoy risk.”

  I stand on my toes and kiss him, softly, just to the side of his lips. I feel like I walked up to the threshold of paradise and took a deep breath of its sweet smell…

  Just before I slammed the door shut forever.

  “But you know I don’t. We went too far tonight, Isaac. I have to go.”

  I walk away from him, telling myself with every step that what feels good isn’t always right, what happens too fast and under the influence of too much champagne is best left alone. I watch him stuff his hands into his pockets and smile at me before I turn around and catch up with Cece and Caro.

  His smile says he knows I’ll be back.

  The scary part is? Whether I like it or not, I have a feeling he’s right.

  7 ISAAC

  It felt like it would be pretty easy to arrange something else with Lydia. I figured I’d be able to bump into her again on campus. Look her up and find her number so I can call and ask her out.

  I could see if I could worm information out of Samantha or Cece. But Samantha has been little more than hostile since I disappeared with Lydia at the art show. When the group went out dancing, I declined. If she thought her petulant face would change my mind, I’m afraid she doesn’t have any idea how to catch me or any reasonable man for that matter. Nothing turns me off a woman faster than pouting.