Page 26 of Daddy's Lesson
I wanted a beer, but remembered that Zoe didn’t drink. “Water is fine.” I wasn’t thirsty, but I wanted a few more minutes to scope out her space.
I followed her to the kitchen. Another sterile, designer room. This one was all beige and copper with hints of green in a windowsill herb garden, a basket of fruit that I wasn’t sure was real or not. A pitcher of fresh flowers graced the center of a table in an adjoining dining room.
It was more Zoe-esque than the living area, but still cold and lacking in comparison to the warm, vibrant, artistic woman she was. I watched as she glided around the space, opening a cabinet, grabbing a glass, filling it with ice, then water from the dispenser on the front of the fridge. Our fingers brushed when she handed me the glass. The touch was electric. I took a step back and forced myself to remember that I had goals here other than to get my dick wet and make my college-boy dreams come true.
Sipping the water, I poised myself in the doorway between the kitchen and dining area, and caught a glimpse of a large plastic shopping bag that looked familiar. My eyes narrowed as I stepped into the space and approached it.
Just as I thought, it had the logo of the craft shop we’d visited over the weekend, and the contents were untouched. “Zoe…” I said, with a warning tone in my voice.
“Yes, Daddy?”
The lilt in her voice was teasing and innocent, and her footsteps were light behind me as she approached. I felt her breasts brush against my back as she entered the room and heard the hitch in her breath as she caught sight of what I was looking at.
“Zoe…” I turned to face her and took one of her hands in mine. “It doesn't look like you’ve touched your art supplies.”
Her gaze met mine before it flickered, and she trained her eyes on the floor. “That’s because I haven’t.”
“Little girl… what is the rule we made about creating?”
“I… I… can’t.” Tears sprang to her eyes. “I told you I haven’t in years. This stuff…” She waved her arms around to indicate the bags of art supplies. “It doesn’t help if I can’t… I can’t…”
“How do you know you can’t if you haven’t tried?” I wanted to take her in my arms and wipe her tears and tell her it was okay, but I’d made the rule for a reason. It was important. Zoe was an artist, and artists needed to create.
Instead of wiping her tears or going in the opposite direction and throwing her over my knee, I dug in the bags, pulling out large bottles of paint, expensive brushes, and two canvases. I didn’t bother with easels or paint trays or any of that yet. I just laid the most basic of supplies out on the table and waited.
I guess maybe I thought she’d see them and feel inspired. Or even if she wasn’t, maybe she’d pick up a brush and dip it in a bit of paint, then touch the brush to the canvas, and after a while she’d be painting, and remember how much she loved it and how deeply it was a part of the fabric of her soul.
What I didn’t expect was for her to take one look at my display and burst into tears, but that’s what happened. “I… I can’t!” she sobbed. “I know you want me to—hell, I want to—but I can’t. If I even look at paint, or think about painting… this happens.” She waved her hand in front of her face, pointing at her tears.
“Oh babygirl.”
Fuck the art. I gathered her in my arms, and she gasped for breath.
“I feel so… stifled,” she sobbed into my shirt. “I’ve thought about painting more in the past two weeks than I have in years. I feel the urge, but… when I think about getting everything out and actually doing it… the desire goes poof.”
Honestly, I could see why. Her everyday environment wasn’t a very inspiring one. She lived here, but it wasn’t her. It wasn’t home. It didn’t feel like anything but bad memories. No wonder she felt stifled. Letting go of her waist, I picked up a brush and popped the cap on a bottle of teal acrylic paint. I didn’t worry about a mess or dropping paint on the floor as I upended the bottle and dripped a blob onto the brush.
I felt Zoe watching me and caught her gaze holding it.
“Lennon, what… what are you doing?”
A blob of paint fell onto the pristine tile floor. Bright teal against perfect white marble. It was an improvement.
I smiled. “Do you own this place or rent?”
Her gaze sharpened as it caught mine. “Own,” she said cautiously. “If I rented, I wouldn’t still be here.”
“You probably should redecorate,” I agreed, unable to keep myself from smirking. I picked up a bottle of red paint and repeated the same process I had with the teal, with Zoe suspiciously watching my every move.
“Lennon, what are you doing? I don't want to paint right now. I thought we were going to—” She sidled up to me, hooking an arm around my waist and leaning in like she wanted a kiss. I dragged my finger through the blob of paint on the brush and smeared it onto her nose. The expression of surprise on her face was golden.
“Lennon! What are you—stop!” she cried, when I smeared a matching mark onto her cheek.
“I… I… oh, you!” She stomped to the table and grabbed the bottle of paint.
I hid a smile. Setting down my paintbrush at this point in the game was a risky move, but it had to be done. Laying it on the blank canvas, I smeared the remaining paint from my finger next to it and slowly unbuttoned my shirt. Next came my loafers and jeans until I was standing in nothing but a pair of purple boxer-briefs watching Zoe gape at me.
“What in the world?” she gasped.