Page 43 of Dirty Diana
I pick up Jasper’s heavy silver watch from the nightstand. Three twenty-seven. I shut my eyes tight in hopes that I’ll fall back to sleep. I try to focus on the sound of the rain hitting the roof. It’s no use. My body is tense and wide awake. I kick off Jasper’s quilt and pad quietly into the living room. The door to Jasper’s darkroom is shut tight, so I knock to be sure it’s safe to enter. Immediately the handle clicks in response and Jasper ushers me inside.
“What are you working on?”
“I thought I’d develop the Las Cruces roll. I had an idea that I might do a river series next.”
He stirs the paper in the developing tray, and I watch the Rio Grande appear, snaking through a canyon, its surface glistening like wet tar.
“Wow,” I say. The image is breathtaking. I rest my elbows on the counter and watch him work.
His latest roll isn’t just his usual landscapes but portraits too. A closeup of weathered vaqueros; a group of Mormon teenagers sitting on haystacks. His subjects trust him. They allow him glimpses of who they are. They give and he takes, and they’re fine to walk away from one another afterward. Nobody worries that anyone will leave too soon.
“Do you like it?” Jasper asks, shaking chemicals from the image of a rodeo cowboy lying on the ground, his hat covering his face.
“I do.” It’s my favorite yet.
“Diana?”
“Yeah?”
He studies my expression. “You’re sexy when you’re worried.”
I smile. I’m sexy when I’m laughing. I’m sexy when I’m painting or driving or drinking a glass of water. I’ve never been with someone who found me so endlessly sexy. These past couple days, I’ve been down—the combination of not getting the grant, the stress of money, and my sadness over Alicia leaving has had me in a kind of freeze when it comes to making anything. But inside Jasper’s darkroom, the outside world is far away. He lifts my chin so I can’t avoid his brown eyes. My body melts almost immediately. “I’m really,reallyworried,” I whisper. He kisses me gently until I can’t help but smile.
“I have something for you.” From the developing tray behind him, he pulls out another photo, this one of my unfinished Clea piece.
“I didn’t know you took this.”
He hangs it to dry and we both stand back, letting our eyes focusin the dim light and bring the painting into sharper focus. “I thought maybe seeing it like this, with a kind of distance, might help you figure out how to finish.” He’s right. Even in the dim light, I can see the roses are too much the focus, and the man’s expression is too stiff.
“Thank you.” I wrap my arms around his waist and nuzzle into his warm chest.
I love and hate that my body is so constantly ready for him. The immediate sensation between my legs. Sometimes a throbbing. It’s become an expected physiological reaction, like shivering in the snow.
Jasper lifts my chin and gives me an easy smile. “Are you tired?”
When I tell him, “not at all,” he replies, “I don’t think I’ve ever made love in here.”
The darkness makes me think of outer space. I show my eagerness by pulling him tighter against me. Then I move my hands to the front of his pants, unzipping them slowly and slipping my hands inside. He groans, soft and low, in my ear. Then in one quick move he lifts me up and holds my legs around his waist. He turns us in a circle and sets me down on the counter. His turn to undress me. He pulls down my pajama shorts, slowly. For a second I feel embarrassed, wishing I’d worn prettier underwear, something with lace as opposed to faded cotton. But now he’s moving his hands so slowly, so deliberately, that I almost grab the underwear and pull them off for him. But he leaves them on. I feel myself get wet. I want him inside me.
But he makes me wait, as if we have all the time in the world. He fingers the edges of my T-shirt. He slips it off and kisses my breasts. Then his lips move down my bare stomach, slowly, all the way toward my hips. He presses his hands against the fabric of my underwear. Igrab his hand, I need him to touch me. I lead his fingers toward my wetness and he smiles, aroused by my desire. He stands and undresses me completely. Then he hitches my hips farther back on the counter.
He kneels in front of me. I inhale in anticipation. He dips his head between my legs. He kisses my inner thighs, lightly, and I run my fingers through his hair, careful not to grip too tightly. His tongue makesslow circles inside me. He sucks on me and the pleasure is so intense I think I might break open right here in his darkroom. A wave of desire runs through me and he lifts his head. He kisses my stomach again as he slips his fingers inside me, moving with more urgency. I take my hands from his hair, afraid I really will pull too hard. Instead I hold the edge of the counter. And when his mouth is on me again, sucking, I’m gone. I’m not here, I’m not in the room. I throw my head back and moan as I come. Jasper lifts his head and kisses me again, this time all the way up to my neck as I try to catch my breath.
Chapter 13
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The weeks of nonstop rain have finally ended. Outside Jasper’s bedroom window the July sky is cloudless, clear and black. Jasper has been up for hours. I hear him in the kitchen making tea, with thetip-tip-tapof Pippi’s nails on the hardwood floor as she follows Jasper’s every move. Then I hear the sliding glass door to the backyard open and shut.
Earlier tonight, we celebrated. An editor from a tiny art press outside of Dallas called to say she likes the story my paintings tell and, with a little more work, could see them as a book. She’s offered to publish them. Jasper bought us pink champagne and we toasted. He looked at me so steadily and raised his glass. “Good work, you.”
I stretch and pull on one of Jasper’s T-shirts and a pair of socks. It’s still dark out, and Jasper is in the backyard with a flashlight, tryingto teach Pippi to fetch. I put on the work boots he keeps by the door and join them on the grass.
“Go on! Get the stick!” He throws it. She follows it with her gaze, then sits resolutely at his feet. Without turning he asks, “Do you think it’s because she’s lazy or stubborn or both?”
I consider Pippi. “Maybe she doesn’t get the rules of the game?” The summer air is thick and warm, but I still pull my socks up as high as they’ll go, to just below my knees.
Jasper throws another stick then shines the flashlight to show Pippi where it landed. She follows the movement of the light with her whole head, then rolls over on her back. “You’re totally useless,” he tells her, scratching her belly.
