“It was torture,” I joke, watching him walk back toward the canvas he’s been perched in front of for hours. Picking up his brush and palette he goes back to work, looking seriously gorgeous. He said he wanted to paint a picture of me, and when we woke up next to each other this morning there was a glint in his eye. Without so much as a word, he pulled me from the mattress into the cold morning air and deposited me on a battered chair in the center of the loft. From here I can see everything and so I’ve spent the last few hours looking at each of his pieces in detail. They really are quite remarkable. Reminding me that it must be about lunchtime, my stomach growls its protest.

  “I’m hungry,” I say to him.

  Emerson looks up at me and gives me the ‘one more minute’ gesture before going back to the canvas. He hasn’t let me see what he’s been doing and to say I’m curious would be an understatement.

  “Let’s talk,” he says, maintaining his focus on the canvas. “Tell me all your hopes and dreams.” He continues moving paint across the canvas.

  “All of them?”

  He ponders my question for a moment before answering. “No, just the big one.”

  I roll over on the beanbag so that I’m facing him and let out a sigh. “Well, I read about this bridge in Paris once. Pont something—”

  “Pont Des Arts.”

  Excitement runs through me. “Yeah. That’s the one. You know about it?” It shouldn’t surprise me; Emerson knows about everything. He’s grown up with the world at his fingertips and his knowledge knows no bounds.

  “Sure I do. Couples who fall in love travel there to attach a padlock engraved with their name to the bridge, throwing the key in the River Seine. It’s an iconic romantic gesture.” He smiles.

  I roll onto my back. “Yeah,” I look down at my chipped nail polish. “I don’t even care about putting a padlock up, I just want to see all the locks. To stand in a place surrounded by so much hope, so much love. But I’ve never even left Las Vegas . . . and I probably never will.” Sighing, I pick at my thumbnail.

  He stops painting, carefully setting down his materials, rubbing his hands on his shirt before he comes to lie next to me and silently reaches over to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “I like you, Presley. I like you a lot.”

  I bite my bottom lip, hoping to keep myself from smiling. Words escape me so instead I put my arms around his neck before lifting my lips to meet his. The kiss is gentle and brief, but it conveys everything I want it to.

  “Someday I’ll take you to Paris,” he whispers.

  He means well, but his words have ruined the moment for me. I roll away from him. “Don’t.”

  He puts an arm over my waist and tries to pull me back to him. “Don’t what?” he asks when he realizes I’m not budging.

  I pull myself farther away from him, my eyes focusing on the wall ahead of me. Unable to look at him for numerous reasons, my tears being the first of those reasons. “Don’t make promises that you have no intention of keeping.”

  I feel him get up from next to me and he appears in front of me. Plopping down on the floor next to the beanbag, his eyes meet mine for a second before he takes my face in his hands. “I know you’ve been let down. I know people have lied to you, and you’ve experienced more disappointment than one girl should, but I promise to only ever make you smile.”

  Warmth spreads through my body and a tear slips from my eye. “Promise?” I ask, despite not wanting to. I know that with that one word, I’ve shown every inch of my vulnerability; that I’m just a girl. A girl with hopes and dreams. Just craving to be loved.

  Emerson smiles and gently kisses my forehead before leaning his onto mine and looking deep into, not only my eyes, but my soul too. “Promise,” he declares. “Even if it kills me.” I lean forward throwing myself into his arms and allowing him to hold my heart as well as my body.

  He kisses the top of my head before returning back to his painting. “I’m almost finished. If you’d just stop distracting me for a minute . . .” He’s teasing me, dipping his brush into the paint and smirking.

  I roll my eyes and continue to shift around in my spot. Boredom has hit and I can’t stand to be here any longer. While him painting a picture of me is sweet and all, it’s also boring as hell. I grow antsier by the minute and Emerson keeps looking at me with a stupid grin on his face. If I didn’t know any better I would think he’s enjoying watching the boredom eat away at me.

  I put my arms over my face and groan. “I can’t take this any longer,” I say into my arm, muffling my voice.

  “Okay, okay, I’m almost there. Let’s play our game.”

  “Tit for Tat?” I question, even though it’s the only game we ever play. He nods his head, indicating for me to take the lead since he’s too busy painting to be bothered to really think. One of the good things about being the one asking the question is that it gives you the opportunity to find out information you’re curious about, without it seeming like you’re prying—even though you actually are. The most important part of the game is finding the right question to ask. There’s something that has been on my mind, and while I wonder if the subject might be off limits, I ask anyway. “Tell me what happened after your son died?”

  His hand stops moving and his eyes dart to me. Even from across the room I can see his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallows hard. Worried that he’s about to freak out on me, I panic to find the right words. “I mean, if you want to talk about it. It’s just . . . I mean . . . I know it happened and all, but how’d you handle it?”

  Directing his attention back to the canvas, he continues to make quick, short brushstrokes. “Not very well. It’s not something I like to think about, and definitely not something I want to talk about.” He pauses and takes a deep breath before standing up and walking toward the back of the warehouse. My heart races thinking that I’ve offended him and he’s getting ready to kick me out, but instead he comes back with his hands full, a canvas in each fist. He turns them to me, revealing dark pictures that I can’t even make out what they are. “These are the first paintings I ever did. Right after Sebastian died I started painting. I didn’t know what I was doing, but making a mess felt good and I liked it. That was four years ago. Then my parents got me this place—Mom didn’t want me messing up her house. Anyways, I painted . . . and when I wasn’t painting I was going after girls.”

  Suddenly I didn’t like where this story was going. The problem with the game arose when you started to get answers you hadn’t intended on receiving. It wasn’t even as if I could get mad about it; I’d asked the damn question, so now I had to deal with the answer. Even if the direction the conversation is taking twists my gut into knots.

  “My girlfriend, Sebastian’s mother, grew tired of my playboy ways and broke up with me. That only fed my madness. I sought comfort from girl after girl, hoping to feel something for someone.”

  I contemplate what he’s saying and I see my opportunity to ask the question I’ve been dying to know, even though asking it will open myself up to giving him information that I’ve been holding on to. With a deep breath, before I lose my nerve, I spit it out. “So how many girls have you been with?”

  He looks at me with raised eyebrows, setting the paintings down on the floor. “Is that something you really want to get into?” he asks quietly.

  Swallowing hard, I nod.

  “To be honest, I eventually lost count. Time for the Tat . . . what about you?”

  There it is: the question I knew was coming. I left myself wide open for it. I worry my lower lip with my teeth before letting out the air I’ve been holding in. “Yeah, about that . . .” I trail off, hoping that he’ll just jump to the conclusion on his own.

  “Nu-uh, that’s not how this works, Presley.” His eyes look right at me, deep in my soul. “I want to hear you say it.”

  Defeated, the words pour out of me. “I’m a virgin.”

  Emerson

  Her words echo through my head over and over again. A virgin.

  A virgin?

  I guessed she was slightly sheltered, and definitely a little naive, but I certainly wasn’t expecting this.

  Swallowing the nervous lump in my throat is difficult considering how dry and pasty it is. Somehow, I manage to swallow while smacking my tongue off the roof of my mouth like it’s coated with peanut butter.

  She shifts nervously across from me. “Say something, Emerson.” Her words are pleading, and her voice quavers.

  “You took me by surprise,” I manage to croak. It definitely isn’t smooth and I instantly wish my words back.

  Her eyes drop from mine and her lips press together in a firm line.

  “That came out wrong,” I whisper, more to myself than to her. I know that she heard me once she starts biting at the skin around her nails. I set down the canvases I’m holding and join her on the beanbag, sitting so close to her that our knees touch, sending shockwaves through my whole body. “I’m sorry this is so awkward. I don’t want it to be. Can I try again?” I smile at myself. Talk about naive.

  She looks up at me through the dark curtain of her hair. “Why bother?” she asks meekly.

  “Because now that I’m able to form a coherent sentence, I’d like to react the way I actually feel.”

  Her eyebrows pinch together creating the cutest little bump between her eyes.

  “Tell me again,” I say confidently.

  “I’m a virgin.”

  “Good.” I lean forward and wrap my arms around her. “Just another last first that gets to be mine.”

  IN THE PAST, CHRISTMAS HAS always been just another day for me. We never had a tree or time to actually celebrate; it’s a busy time of year for everyone, especially the girls who work for Big Earl. There’s something about the holidays that makes desperate men that much lonelier and the brothel is always full to the brim with them looking to numb the pain; therefore, Momma was never around. This year was different. I had time to put up a tree—not at Menses Mansion, but at Emerson’s warehouse—and I slowly find myself getting lost in the spirit.

  I’m no longer the Grinch. Instead of having a heart too small, it actually swells with pride.

  And feelings.

  So many feelings.

  Lying under the tree, my fingers entwined with Emerson’s, I gaze up through the decorated branches. It’s nothing special, just a small fake tree, but it’s my first, and it’s ours. “The lights are so pretty,” I mumble, not really directing my comment at him. I’m just stating the obvious.

  “I told you you’d appreciate the lights.”

  Slowly, I turn my head to him. He’s already looking at me with that sly smirk on his face. “You think you’re so smart.”

  “If you’d just admit that I was right all along I’d let up and just let you be happy,” he teases.

  I reach across my body and slap his chest playfully. He scoops me up into his arms and begins an onslaught of relentless tickling. “Say uncle,” he laughs. “Admit it! I was right and you shouldn’t have been so stubborn.”

  “Never!” I choke out between fits of giggles.

  The smile never leaves his face. He’s reveling in torturing me and I can’t say that I hate it all that much either. “You shouldn’t have pushed me away for so long, should you, Presley?”

  My sides ache from the laughter and tears are starting to form at the corners of my eyes. “No,” I admit. “I should have never fought you like I did.”

  He stops tickling me immediately, and gazes down at me.

  His brown eyes speak to me, and even though we’re just fooling around the air becomes thick with tension. “I knew from the minute I laid eyes on you that you were trouble. My life was shit, and I was scared that you would break me even more than I already was . . .”

  “But . . .”

  “You haven’t broken me at all.”

  Puzzled, his hand brushes the hair out of my face. “I thought I just did,” he jokes.

  “No. You haven’t broken me at all. You’ve put me back together.”

  His lips crash down onto mine so fast that I don’t even have a chance to think anything else, let alone say it. While our tongues explore, my hand travels up his back before eventually resting on his neck. I attempt to pull him closer, trying to taste him better, but it’s impossible.

  We gasp for air as we claw at one another. The room fills with want and need as his hand slides up my side, leaving a smoldering trail behind and a moan escapes from my lips. Emerson groans in response as he pulls away from me. With his thumb he wipes the corner of his mouth before scruffing his face with his other hand. “You drive me crazy, Presley.”

  Feeling slightly self-conscious and definitely a little hot and bothered, I sit up and stare at the floor. “I’m sorry,” I start to say, but before I can finish he grabs my chin, forcing me to look him in the eyes.

  “You don’t have to be sorry. I just don’t want to get caught up in the moment. I know that you’ve guarded yourself for a reason and I want to respect that. I’m not just going to take something away from you because I can’t think straight.”

  I pout as he puts distance between us and he wipes his forehead. “Presents,” he says, his voice cracking. “Let’s exchange presents.”

  Panic-stricken and emotional beyond belief, I feel like crying. I swallow the feeling and watch helplessly as he gets up and practically runs to the door where he placed a brown paper bag earlier. “I didn’t know we were going to buy for each other.”

  Grinning, he holds the bag out for me. “I promise I spent hardly any money. It’s nothing really. Just a small little something that I thought you’d like.”

  I reach out and take the bag. I’m hesitant at first, but curiosity gets the better of me and I open it and take out the small leather-bound journal. “What’s this?” I ask, feeling like it’s more than just an empty journal.

  “That book in your hands has my poems in it.”

  “Your poems?”

  “Yep. I’m terrible at it, but at least I try. It’s got every single one I’ve ever written.”

  “Do you mind if I look?”

  “Of course not. That’s why I gave it to you.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t know how you’ll feel about me actually reading them in front of you.”

  He sits next to me, curling his arms around my waist to pull me closer to him. I take a deep breath and fan through the pages. The words fill every page with his tiny box writing and I actually gasp at the sight of it. He shakes his head before propping his chin on my shoulder. “Did you think I was lying?” he asks.

  “No, I knew you weren’t, but there are just so many.”

  “I told you, I’ve been into poetry my whole life.”

  I stop flipping through the pages and stop somewhere near the middle at a poem entitled The Darkness. The page before has been torn out, leaving behind a tattered seam. My fingers run over the rough edge. “This one is missing.”

  “It wasn’t important,” he says quietly. “Are you going to read or what?”

  Smiling, my eyes start taking in his written words.

  Darkness reaches deep within.

  I want to somehow find the light.

  Each day that passes takes me further in

  Yet every day I wake, continuing the fight.

  Why I bother? You might ask.

  To find the one hiding behind that mask.

  The mask of cascading brown hair,

  Shutting the world out for a reason unknown

  Darkness is throughout the air

  And the light is the key for us to no longer be alone.

  My hand travels to my mouth, somehow hoping to conceal the shock. But it’s no use because the reaction is written all over my face. I turn to face him, my eyes certainly glistening with the emotions I’m feeling. “Is this about me?” I ask without thinking.

  Emerson nods. “I wrote it the first day I saw you. There was something about you. I couldn’t ignore it.”

  I close the journal and clutch it to my chest. A goofy grin spreads across my face. “I love it. It’s the best present I’ve ever had.”

  It’s the only present I’ve ever had, but he doesn’t need to know that. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters anymore. Emerson is it.

  The sun.

  The moon.

  The only light I’ll ever need.

  SPENDING SO MUCH TIME WITH Emerson is easy, and somehow it gets easier with each day that passes. Our relationship is moving forward and I know it’s real. We can be in the same room together and just . . . be. Never feeling the need to fill our time with mundane and meaningless conversation just to pass the time, just being near each other is enough. I have to admit that not being alone is nice for a change. He never asks why I never want to go to my place. And we spend every minute we can together.

  With our backs propped up against the wall of his room, next to his bed, Emerson stares at the movie he’s been watching for the last hour. It’s an old black and white film, but I’m disinterested and I busy myself by reading the poetry that I’ve grown to love.

  Today, like most other days, my poison is Ralph Waldo Emerson. I can’t read Emerson’s actual handwritten poems unless I’m alone because I can never predict my emotions. I’ve stopped reading his words in front of him solely to save face, but that’s neither here nor there.

  Emerson nudges me with his elbow, bringing me from my unimportant thoughts, and I giggle. “So, what are you doing on New Year’s Eve?” he asks.

  I stop reading my book and look at him and shrug. “I dunno. I’ve never done anything on New Year’s Eve before.”

  He gasps, feigning exasperation. “My my my, Miss Presley. You’ve never lived until you’ve partied on New Year’s Eve.”

  It must seem odd to him that I’ve never done much of anything, but he never presses, and I’m thankful for it because I’m not ready to share with him. Not yet. Possibly not ever.

  I laugh. “Well then, I guess I better start living.”

  He kisses me lightly on the forehead. “I think you already have.”