TAKE MY HAND

2

VIOLET

I press the brush gently against the pale white canvas. Blue wisps of paint sprawl across the canvas, the different shades creating an entire world separate from my own. I smile to myself and dip the brush into another color, my brain firing with a million ideas at once. The quiet buzz of the fluorescent lighting in the warehouse I call my studio keeps me from flying off into the scene I paint.

This is every night. It's painting and a glass of wine. My hair is in a bun and my face is clean. You'd expect me to be relaxed, for the paint to sooth my nerves and let my shoulders rest. But I'm not. And it can't.

All I can think about is the boy who took me home last night. I let him in without asking if he wanted to come in or not. They always want to come in. He was a blonde. I usually don't like blondes, but then again, blondes don't usually pound me into my mattress like he did. I can't stop remembering how his lips felt on my neck and tracing the hickeys he left. I can't stop the shiver down my spine when I imagine how he felt between my thighs. The worst part is that I won't be calling him again.

Not because he did something wrong. That just isn't the drill. At least not for boy like him. He was too nice, too gentle. For me at least. The ones I call- not that I actually do call them- are darker. More complex. Not in a Ted Bundy way, they're just imperfect. They have regrets and trauma. Like me.

"Knock, knock."

I don't look up from the canvas and continue to blend the colors. He's come in unannounced enough that I'm used to it.

"I thought I took your key when I deleted your number," I say, my voice tired.

"Is that why you haven't been answering my calls?" Phillip asks, his expensive shoes echoing off the metal walls as he steps towards me.

"It's one reason why," I answer. I use the other end of my paint brush to push hair from my eyes and force myself not to take a look at him even though I so badly want to. He lets out a long sigh.

"Violet, you know you can't keep me away for long," He groans, running the tip of his finger down my spine.

"I can try," I murmur, trying to ignore the shiver running through my body from his touch. He chuckles low, seeing right though my walls.

"That's a pretty picture you got there, dollface. Isn't that where I took you after your birthday? How old were you turning?" He says, kissing down my exposed neck.

"Twenty-two," I whisper, holding the paintbrush tighter. My eyes fall closed and it's harder and harder to fight off the voice in my head saying he's wrong.

Phillip does this a lot. Enough for me to know that deleting his number and taking away his key to my studio is a fruitless gesture. He's like a parasite. Except rich and handsome and experienced. Plus he gives really good head. And all I have to give back is knowing that this is all I'll ever be to him. A twenty-something that he can stick his dick into when he's too lazy to find something real. Not that he'd want to anyway. Three divorces later, you can't blame him for just wanting a fuck-buddy.

"Have you eaten?" He murmurs, his fingertips pressing into my back soothingly. I tap the rim of my wine glass with the end of my paintbrush.

"Yep," I smile, glancing at him. He takes the glass and finishes it. He shakes his head slightly and sighs.

"You need actual food, you know? Not just bar food from random guys and wine," He tells me, walking with the wine glass to my sink to wash it out.

"Well you just finished my wine so-"

"Violet," He scolds, his tone dropping.

"Yeah, I know," I sigh, washing my brush in the cup of water next to me. He makes his way back over to me, pulling off his suit jacket with precision. "I'll make myself a real dinner later. With broccoli and protein and everything."

"You do that, Violet. Until then can I have my way with you?" He steps closer, his eyes playful. The breath hitches in my throat and I glance over at him. He kisses my cheek and takes the tray of paints and my brush, setting them on the table next to us.

If I ever told Phillip to stop- and I meant it- he would. Except I don't tell him to stop. He's the standard to which I hold every boy. Because in truth, that's all they are: boys. Phillip is a man. He owns a suit and a tuxedo and knows the difference between them. His house is clean and stylish. He knows where the clitoris is without having to fumble around for the entire night. He's easy and safe and consistent.

So I let him have his way with me.

My shirt comes off first. His rough hands pulling it off me like a toddler opening candy. I get his suit jacket off quickly and start unbuttoning his shirt when he pushes me down to my knees.

"Suck," He demands, his voice dropping several octaves. My voice hitches in my throat every time he says it.

My thin fingers shake as I pull his belt open and unzip his pants. His breathing becomes heavy and his greedy fingers tangle themselves in my hair, pulling it out of its bun. I pull him from his boxers, his over-average length always making me blush when I first see it.

He groans something I can't hear so I look up and start to ask, "What was that?" but he shoves his dick in my mouth before I can get a word out. I act quickly and cover my teeth, my tongue flattening itself out on the underside of his shaft. My gag reflex is practically non-existent at this point, a gentle reminder of the innocence I abandoned for him.

"Fuck, dollface. You take me so fucking good," He groans, his hand pulling my hair into his tight fist. And he's right. As much as I'd like not to admit, I'm a fucking pro. He wouldn't come back night after night if I wasn't a ten-out-of-ten fuck. I wouldn't let him back in if he wasn't either.

But the truth is that I'm Amy Winehouse. And he's just a bottle of vodka.