Kissing the Chiseled Billionaire in Public

Clara

The sharp click of the stereo being switched off echoed like a gunshot through the empty, cavernous art studio. The soothing jazz music that usually anchored my midnight art class died instantly, replaced by the grating sound of synchronized, malicious giggling. I froze, my paintbrush hovering an inch above my canvas. A drop of bright yellow acrylic paint gathered at the tip of the bristles, swelled, and fell onto the drop cloth with a soft splat.

Our regular teacher was absent tonight. She was the only buffer between me and the three absolute worst people in this entire school: Chelsea, Victoria, and Darcy. Without the teacher’s watchful eye to keep them in check, the midnight class had devolved into a hunting ground, and I was the prey. The other few students in the room kept their heads down, their eyes glued to their easels, visibly relieved that the trio's venom wasn't directed at them.

"Oh my god," Chelsea’s voice sliced through the quiet room, dripping with fake pity. "Look at the little wannabe hot-shot author’s painting. Does she actually think that looks good?"

I tightened my grip on my brush until my knuckles turned white. I told myself to ignore them. I just needed to focus on the canvas and deny them a reaction. I was working on a simple still-life, attempting to paint a curved, half-peeled banana. It was supposed to be a study in shadows and yellow tones.

Darcy stepped out from behind her easel, her expensive heels clicking loudly on the paint-splattered floor. She leaned over to get a better look at my work, her lips curling into a cruel sneer. "Pfft. The painting she is drawing is absolutely horrendous. What is it even supposed to look like? A banana or a penis?"

Victoria let out a loud, obnoxious snort. "A penis?"

Chelsea actually wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, practically doubling over with malicious laughter. "You really think that’s what she is drawing? She is a virgin. She has never even seen a real penis in her entire life. How would she know what to paint?"

"It could be!" Victoria chimed in, her voice carrying across the studio so everyone could hear. "Since she is a virgin, she might be dreaming of penises and just guessing what they are supposed to look like!"

"Oh my god, Victoria," Chelsea wheezed, clutching her stomach. "That comment is gold."

I stared down at my canvas, a hot flush of humiliation creeping up my neck and settling firmly in my cheeks. My stomach twisted into tight, painful knots. I looked at the yellow shape I had spent the last hour blending. Thanks to their relentless mocking, I started to second-guess every stroke. The proportions suddenly looked wrong. The base seemed too thick. I swallowed the lump forming in my throat, picked up a finer brush, and desperately tried to fix it. I mixed a bit of brown and white into the yellow, attempting to add more realistic curves and shadows to the skin of the fruit. I just needed to make it look like a normal banana.

"Hey, look!" Darcy pointed a manicured finger in my direction. "She is adding more curves to it now! She must have heard us."

Another bout of high-pitched laughter bounced off the brick walls. My hand began to tremble. A streak of brown paint went slightly outside my pencil outline. I gritted my teeth and tried to smooth it out, my chest tightening with every breath.

"Looks like she is adding wrinkles to it now," Chelsea piped up between her fits of laughter, leaning against Victoria for support. "Maybe she thinks that will make it look more like an actual banana!"

I refused to look at them. I knew exactly what they wanted. They wanted to see me cry. They wanted me to yell, to snap, to run out of the room so they could claim total victory. I kept my eyes locked on the canvas, trying to channel every ounce of my frustration into the artwork, but my confidence was already shattered.

"Actually," Victoria said, dropping her voice into a mock-serious whisper that was still loud enough to echo. "It’s starting to look good... for a penis."

They howled like a pack of starving hyenas.

My resolve snapped. I couldn't do this anymore. I dropped my brush into the plastic cup of dirty water. The water sloshed over the rim, staining the table. To busy my hands and hide the fact that tears were stinging the back of my eyes, I reached into my bag and grabbed my phone. It had vibrated in my pocket a few minutes ago. I swiped the screen open, desperate for any distraction from the three girls dissecting my life.

It was a text message from Alistair.

*Calculating Director: Have you considered my offer? Would you like to work for me?*

I stared at the glowing white letters against the dark screen. I bit down hard on my lower lip, tasting a faint metallic hint of blood. The job offer. The unspoken proposition lingering beneath it. My parents were going away for the entire summer on their annual vacation, which meant I was going to be left completely alone in the house. I could see Alistair as much as I wanted. Nobody would know. He was my dad's boss. He was arrogant, commanding, and an absolute asshole.

But the memory of his hand pressing against me earlier this week sent a sudden jolt of heat straight to my core. I thought about the cruel laughter echoing behind me. Chelsea, Victoria, and Darcy thought I was a pathetic, untouched loser. I tightened my grip on the phone. Even if Alistair was an asshole, I would rather have sex with him than stay a virgin forever.

"Do you think Clara will ever find someone?" Chelsea suddenly asked, her voice dripping with venom, refusing to let the silence settle. "I mean, look at her. She is a short nerd, and she has zero sense of fashion. And let’s not forget she cannot even paint a banana."

"Honestly, even if someone was desperate, they would be horrified by the idea of waking up in a bed with her beside them," Darcy added, inspecting her fingernails. "She is ugly."

"Uh-huh," Victoria agreed. "Those fake lashes she is using? They look so unnatural. Like spiders glued to her face."

"Her hair is dirty, too," Chelsea noted with a disgusted sigh. "It's tragic."

The tears finally broke free, blurring my vision. I wasn't ugly. I knew I wasn't ugly. But sitting alone in a cold classroom while three girls systematically tore down my appearance, my art, and my worth felt like being buried alive under a mountain of dirt. They knew exactly how to find the weakest spots in my armor and twist the knife.

I blinked the tears away, wiping my eyes roughly with the back of my paint-stained wrist. With trembling fingers, I opened the keyboard on my phone and typed out a hasty, reckless reply to Alistair.

*Me: Yes, I will take the job.*

"Hey, what’s that?" Darcy squinted across the aisle, her sharp eyes locking onto the bright screen of my phone. "Are you texting your imaginary boyfriend?"

The hyenas erupted again, clutching each other as they laughed at my expense. I forced my shoulders into a nonchalant shrug, trying to mask the fact that my face was burning hotter than an open flame. I swallowed hard, staring at the floor, praying the floorboards would just open up and swallow me whole.

"Maybe she is texting that fat loser from the library she always talks to," Chelsea suggested, loud enough to draw the attention of the remaining students.

Hugo. They were talking about Hugo. He was a sweet guy who liked to read, and he probably had a crush on me, but he wasn't my boyfriend. Using him as a punchline to humiliate me only made my chest ache more.

Before I could form a response, my phone buzzed violently in my palm. Another message from Alistair.

*Calculating Director: You’re still awake? Do you want me to come and pick you up for your first lesson? I’m in the mood for some fun.*

My breath caught in my throat. My pulse began to hammer furiously against the side of my neck. If Alistair came here—if he pulled up to the studio in front of these miserable girls—they would finally shut up. They would assume he was my date. But the thought terrified me just as much as it thrilled me. He was much older than me. He was the CEO of my dad's company. Would he be furious if I used him as a prop? Would he get mad if I showed public affection to sell the lie?

I glanced up. Chelsea was whispering something to Darcy, both of them looking at me with undisguised disgust.

I made my decision. I typed the response before I could lose my nerve.

*Me: Yes, please come pick me up.*

*Calculating Director: Are you at home?*

*Me: No, I take a midnight art class and I’m there now. You can pick me up from here. It’s on the corner of Fulton and Langley Street.*

I stared at the screen, watching the little typing bubble appear and disappear. For a long, agonizing minute, I was terrified he was going to back out. I was terrified I had pushed my luck. Then the phone vibrated one last time.

*Calculating Director: I will be there in ten.*

I locked the screen and shoved the phone into my pocket.

"Got a hot date tonight, Clara?" Chelsea teased, leaning over her easel. "Is that why you're checking your phone so much?"

They probably expected Hugo or some other awkward nerd to show up at the door. They had no idea what was coming.

I didn't answer her. I stood up, gathered my pencils, and shoved my sketchbooks into my tote bag. I glanced at my canvas—the weird, misshapen yellow banana-penis hybrid—and let out a quiet sigh. I didn't care anymore. I left the ruined painting sitting right on the easel, hoisted my bag onto my shoulder, and marched straight toward the exit.

"Running away?" Chelsea called out, her voice echoing off the doorframe as I grabbed the handle.

"Not running," I replied without turning around to look at her smug face. "Leaving."

I pushed the heavy door open and stepped out into the cool night air. The streetlamps cast a harsh yellow glow over the cracked pavement. My phone vibrated in my pocket the exact moment the heavy metal door clicked shut behind me.

*Calculating Director: I’m outside.*

I looked across the empty street. Parked directly under the glow of a streetlamp was Alistair’s car. It was a sleek, black, obscenely expensive high-end sports car. Its polished surface gleamed like black glass, making the dirty midnight street look instantly glamorous. It was a machine built for power and dominance, exactly the kind of car you would expect a ruthless, elitist CEO like Alistair Kincaid to drive.

Before I could cross the street, the heavy door of the art studio swung open behind me. I heard the sharp intake of breath. The three bullies had followed me outside, eager to continue their torment, desperate to see my supposed imaginary date fail to show up.

Instead, they stopped dead in their tracks.

"Look at that car," Darcy whispered, her voice stripped of its usual mockery, replaced entirely by pure, unadulterated shock. "Clara wasn’t kidding about having a date tonight."

Chelsea quickly recovered her venom, though her voice wavered slightly. "Yeah right. Like she could ever land anyone who drives a car like that. He's probably just lost."

Is that right?

A smug, deeply satisfying smile spread across my face. I adjusted my tote bag on my shoulder and started walking purposefully toward the black sports car. I was halfway across the street when the driver's side door swung open.

I froze in my tracks.

Alistair stepped out into the streetlights. He looked like he had just walked off the runway of a high-fashion show. He was impeccably dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit that hugged his broad shoulders and narrow waist. The crisp white shirt underneath was unbuttoned at the collar, giving him an air of dangerous, effortless elegance. He looked at me, a charming yet unmistakably mischievous smile playing on his lips.

"Art classes, huh?" his deep, gravelly voice carried across the quiet street. "Is it so you could one day release one of your dirty books with pictures?"

I clenched my jaw, fighting the urge to snap at him for the blatant tease. I really wanted to tell him off, but I could feel the intense, burning stares of Chelsea and her goons drilling into my back. I could hear their frantic, hushed whispers carrying through the night air.

"No way. That’s the guy she has been texting. He is... he is..." Darcy stuttered, completely unable to form a coherent sentence.

"Rich and hot," Victoria finished for her, her voice trembling with an unmistakable mix of awe and raw jealousy.

"And tall," Chelsea added. Her usual arrogant drawl was entirely gone, replaced by a hollow tone of absolute shock. "Very tall."

"He must be a relative or a friend or something," Victoria snorted, desperately trying to rationalize the situation. "There is no way. That guy looks like someone who should be on the cover of a GQ magazine. He is way too hot and well-dressed for a nobody like Clara Arden."

Alistair’s sharp blue eyes flicked over my shoulder, locking onto the three girls huddled on the sidewalk. He took in their wide, gaping expressions and their slack jaws. His lips twitched upward into a wicked, devilish smirk that sent a shiver straight down my spine. He knew exactly what he was doing.

"Well," Alistair drawled out, his deep voice smooth as velvet, drawing their horrified attention even further. "Aren’t you coming?"

My heart began to pound against my ribcage like a jackhammer. The blood roared in my ears. I took a deep breath, pushing down my fear, and turned my back on the gaping girls. I stepped toward Alistair with a breezy, arrogant confidence I didn't know I possessed.

"Of course," I said smoothly.

I closed the distance between us and seamlessly looped my arm through his solid, muscular one. I could feel the heat radiating off his body through the fabric of his suit. But holding his arm wasn't enough. I needed to make a statement. I needed to issue a direct, undeniable challenge to Chelsea and the girls who had spent the last hour tearing me to shreds.

I made my move before I could talk myself out of it. I stood up on my tiptoes, tilting my head back to meet his surprised gaze. I reached up with my free hand, my fingers wrapping firmly around the sharp line of his handsome jaw. I pulled his face down to mine.

Surprise flashed in his dark eyes, but I didn't give him a single second to process what was happening. If I hesitated, I would lose my nerve. I pressed my lips firmly against his in a deep, passionate public kiss. His mouth was warm, firm, and tasted faintly of expensive mint and raw power.

The synchronized, hushed gasps from the sidewalk behind us rang out through the quiet street. It was the sweetest, most satisfying music I had ever heard in my entire life.

I kept my lips locked against his, my heart racing out of control, secretly praying that Alistair wouldn't get furious at me for using him like this.