Chapter 4

Puzzled, I asked, “Arter?” He spoke in riddled that made my head feel as foggy as a damp autumn morning in November.

“Artist,” he explained. “In South Miami that’s what we call artsy fartsy paint stained people like you.”

My ego inflated with his words. The artist living within me was extremely thrilled. He assumed I was a purebred artsy person without even accessing my works of art. Because of this, I forgave his rudely arrogant behavior. Taking a friendly tactile approach, I asked questions. “You’ve lived in Miami? What’s it like?” Anticipating a smart-ass answer, I quickly added, “Besides being hot!”

He motioned for me to move over, so he could sit beside me on the log. I was a tad uncomfortable with our close proximity to each other, but there was little I could do about it, especially since there wasn’t another log around and the rest of the area was covered with blueberry bushes.

“I was born in Japan, but grew up all over the United States. Dad’s a pilot with the Navy. I mean, he was a pilot. He’s retired now. And we live in South Miami and its totally rad.”

He offered me a cigarette. I refused politely. “No thank you, James. I don’t smoke.” Calling him Javelin seemed too personal, yet calling him James seemed too formal. But I settled on the latter.

“Don’t call me James,” he said, angerily fanning out his match. “Javelin. Let me hear you say it.”

Eyes cast downward, I softly repeated “Javelin.”

“Was that so hard?” He asked. I shook my head, still refusing to look him in the eyes. Javelin took my chin and forced me to meet his eyes. They were chesnut brown. We stared at each other. As cliché as it sounds, I felt an electrical current course through my skin where his fingers made contact. Ignoring its intensity, I refused to move. Trent’s touch never had that effect on me. Javelin’s eyes travel to my lips. Rapid wisps of air escaped from them and I prayed he didn’t notice the effect his touch had on me.

In the same movement, he released my chin and pulled my sketchbook from my limp fingers. He said, “You would probably love South Miami. Arters are on every corner. Mimes and magicans are too. Lots of girls in bikinis on roller skates.” He laughed and flexed his arm, “Surfers with muscles. Always something to do there. It’s never boring.”

I sighed, “It’s boring here most of the time.”

“You’re right about that.” He looked over my sketches. “Nice drawing of the lake. Its named after my family.”

“I know.” Feeling generous, I said, “You can have it, if you like.”

“For real?” His look of surpise cast a softness to his sharp face that appealed to the artist within me. My fingers ached to pick up my pencil and sketch his face in rapid fire movement. His smile made me flush. “Cool,” he said. Then added, “Thanks. I dream about the lake sometimes.”

“You do? Good dreams, I hope.” My dreams were of flying. I couldn’t recall ever dreaming of anything else.

“The ones where Grandfather takes me fishing are. But sometimes I dream I’m trying to swim across and can’t. I drown and sink to blackness. Those, I hate.” His hand shook as he took a drag from his cigarette.

“Why are you here?” I asked, changing the subject because it not only chilled him, it gave me the creeps too. His shaking hand unsettled me and I didn’t want to venture too far into his psyche.

“Grandfather’s not well. My Great-aunt Mary called Dad. Sinche I’m out of school for the summer, Dad decided we should come from an over-due visit.” He ground his cigarette into the dirt with his shoe. “I’m stuck here for the summer.”

“I hope your Grandfather’s condition isn’t too serious. He doesn’t get out anymore,”I said with a trace of kindness.

Javelin stood up and stared down at me, putting me at a disadvantage. I had to lean back to look up at him. He was composed of steel and muscles. My eyes traveled the folds and planes of his body, before reaching his face. And I took in every inch of him. A flash of desire consumed me, and with this desire came a confusion so great that it tore apart the budding woman from the child within me—and Javelin knew this.

“Have dinner with me tonight?” He asked with a knowing grin. My heart fluttered rapidly in my ribcage. I almost said yes, but then I remembered something very important and not easily ignored.

“I can’t,” I faltered, “I..I’ve got a boyfriend.”

Javelin’s grin grew wider, “So? What’s your point? I’m not asking you to marry me. Dinner only.” In his low dangerous voice, he added, “And maybe a kiss. Or two.”

I stood up abruptly. My sketch pad was a thin barrier between our bodies. “I have to go,” I said. He didn’t move and I was thrown a bit off balance with the backs of my calves pressing into the log.

“Not yet,” he said. With a smooth motion like that of a cougar, Javelin captured my face between his hands. I was his prey and had no will to escape. He kissed me. He tasted like peppermint and cinder. His kiss transcended me to the pits of lust, awakening feelings that I intuitively knew Trent never would. I wanted to put my hands under Javelin’s shirt and touch the brawn that lurked there. I wanted to feel his hands on my bare skin, sending their electrical current to the secret places within me.

He relunctantly broke the kiss. Both of us were breathless and at a disadvantage. Against my lips, he whispered, “I knew you would taste like blueberries, Blueberry Girl.”

There was one aspect of myself that made me my mother’s daughter—the ability to diffuse an uncomfortable situation with politeness. “Do you still want the sketch I made of Lake Bow-Ridge?” I asked in my best palor voice.

My question brought back the bored arrogant boy I had originally met. “No. You keep it and frame it, for when you get married to your precious local-yocal. Think of me and the kiss that woke up the tiger inside you.”

He florished a bow and then disappeared into the woods.