The Pull

Chapter 18

We weren't meeting with the client until the next morning, so we basically had the larger part of the afternoon to explore. We were to meet up in the lobby by seven p.m. for dinner and I had my mind set on getting a better view of Shoreditch. The rest of the gang went for more traditional sights like Big Ben or Piccadilly, but I really didn't care for that. I just wanted to sit in a café somewhere and watch people go about their everyday life, maybe stumble on some nice little shop or gallery, or just walk around the streets soaking it all in. I prepared myself by putting on a pair of sneakers and off I went. Dressing up could wait for dinner time. It started promising as I passed this amazing little hipster café serving only brunch all day (whoever came up with that idea was a full-blown genius), with friendly staff, and the walls brimming with colourful art. I went in for a coffee to go but ended up staying a while just looking at the art. "They're nice but I have my head stuck on these wonderful paintings of a woman's body I recently saw." I practically jumped an inch at the sound of his voice from the left of me. How did he always manage to sneak up on me like that?! Then it dawned on me: what he'd just said. Blushing I turned to see Ben's profile, standing next to me looking at the same wall of art as me

"Ben, seriously. Do you want me to have a stroke or what is it with you startling me whenever you get the chance?

"Sorry, but it's really not my fault that you are so easily distracted." He paused. "So, those paintings. They were of you, were they not? Did you make them?" I cringed a bit. It was somehow more embarrassing to know he'd seen paintings of my naked body than the fact he'd seen my actual naked body. 

"Yeah. It's a hobby, or something like that. I just paint bodies and faces, nothing else."
"Mhm. This body in particular. Do you have more of such paintings?" He turned to me and looked me straight in the eyes.

"I, hrm, no. Or, yeah, I mean, I do use my own body as a reference a lot but that's just because I... know it better than other bodies?" Oh my God I am just the stupidest of them all aren't I!? 

Without a single trace of humour Ben leaned in and said:
"I'd like to see them someday. Those other paintings. They do, after all, portrait a body that I have a keen interest in." 

If that wasn't flirting I'd eat my hat, any hat for that matter. All the damn hats in London – and these people took their hats seriously, there was a lot of them. So, this was the mode du jour: flirty. I would never get this man and his mood swings. But... I realised I just wanted to go with it. It was so stupid, and a bit demeaning, but right now I didn't care this guy went from hot to cold faster than a light switch – I just wanted more of the flirty Ben. It made my blood hotter, run faster, and it sure was a healthy kick of dopamine. 

"I didn't know you were an art critic too, mr Campbell." I raised a brow. 

He had a glittering in his eyes when he answered.
"Oh I don't know about critic, but I do like art. I especially like art that gets under my skin a bit. The kind when you know you shouldn't want it, but you still do. Because its intoxicating. And smart. And beautiful. And frustrating. An enigma of sorts." What in the world was going on? I completely lost my cool and just stared at him. He smiled back at me.

"Come on, Rachel. I'll show you some of my favourite spots here." He held out his arm for me to take and I was just too shaken to not do it. Like one of those mannequin arm-puppets I followed him out of the café.

"Ben, you are by far the most confusing man – person – I have ever met. Do you do it on purpose, or does it just come naturally to you?" I glanced at him as we walked side by side down the street. He chuckled. Damn him.

"I may not be an open book all the time but do you really feel there is any confusion about me caring for you? Because if so, I apologise. Let me correct that right here, right now: I care deeply about you, Puck. I find you to be an amazing person that I am glad to have the privilege to be around." My heart fluttered at his words. But if I were to be completely honest, I also felt something else: disappointment.

You silly cow.

I loved every word he just said, and it really meant a lot to me to hear them. But a part of me wanted him to say something else, or at least something more.

I want to rip your clothes of and lick every inch of you. I want you to say my name again and again as I make you come. I want to suck those amazing tits while I'm deep inside you. I need you under me right now.

Yeah, something like that. No. Exactly that because that's what I wanted him to do. I was a horny idiot while he was talking about caring about me. I was so messed up. I really should try to get this man out of my system somehow. I decided this wasn't the time to come straight with my dirty thoughts anyway, so I said:

"I really feel grateful for you being there for me at a low point. It meant a lot to have your support."

"Of course. You will always have that, for as long as you wish for it. But Puck. Being attacked isn't a 'low point'. It's a trauma. And traumas just don't go away on their own, they need to be processed. I think I figured as much out about you that you tend to want to do stuff on your own, and you are mad strong for it, you are. Just... accepting help isn't taking a risk. I sense it may feel that way to you, and I fear the reason for you thinking that goes far beyond the betrayal Mark put you through, but still: dare to lean on others once and a while. I think you will find they will stand firm." 

I guess I should have seen it coming, him being a mind-reader and all, but I apparently am a slow learner because it yet again caught me off guard. I felt like I was melting somehow. My limbs were not, as he put it, standing firm, not at all. He really had a way of getting inside my head.

"I... I have trust issues. And there are things about me that... I prefer people not knowing. So, yeah. Most of the time it's less complicated than dragging others into my mess." I don't think I had ever been that bluntly honest with someone about myself before and I unwillingly sucked in a sharp breath at the shock of it. What was going on with me? Ben's hand caught mine. At first, I thought he was just going to squeeze it and let go, but instead he intertwined his fingers with mine and held on to me. We walked like that in silence for a bit. I think Ben knew my feelings were in a mess, that me confessing that had rattled me. I don't know if he understood the magnitude of me sharing such a thing, but I sensed he did. 

"Here we are." Ben suddenly stopped and I followed his gaze. And then I saw it.

"A face?" A bubbly laughter escaped me. In front of me, on the terracotta-coloured wall, was a man's face sticking out his tongue at me. It was like the face had emerged from the wall like some Harry Potter stunt. 

"The street artist is called Gregos, a French guy. He put these faces all over Shoreditch and Camden. They are self-portraits. With you doing a bit of those yourself I thought you'd appreciate it."

I got the hint and dodged it.

"You mean there's more than this one?"

"Oh, yeah. Like fifty more or so. This one is supposed to be an insult to Sarkozy, the late President of France. Guess Gregos wasn't a fan." I loved it. All of it. Ben's apparent need to give me a slice of his beloved London. The face with closed eyes and a tongue sticking out. The people around us. The smells, the air, the sounds. 

"It's amazing," I simply said with a smile going from ear to ear. His face showed nothing short of complete satisfaction.

"Wanna see some more? There's a Banksy not too far from here."