“Thanks, Mark. I appreciate you coming out.”
“No problem, Mr.Dillion, it's what I do.” Smiling, I grab my toolbox.
“I hope this is enough.” He hands me a small envelope, and I tuck it in my pocket.
Folding my lips down, I give him a gentle nod. “Don't worry about it, I'm sure it's fine. You have a good day now.” Shaking his hand, I tip my hat respectfully to his wife as she rocks in her chair on the front porch.
She smiles back, nodding slightly in return as she curls old, wrinkled hands around the arms of the chair. The Dillion family has lived in this town for generations. They're good people. They grow corn, and always have for as long as I can remember.
Actually, most of the town is built like this. Different families laid down their roots years ago, and very few ever leave. I don't think most of them stay just because they have no other way out, I'm sure some do, but a lot of us like it here.
Even my family has lived here for over fifty years. And I plan on keeping the tradition.
Stuffing the envelope in my glove box as I climb into my truck, I don't even count it. Whatever he can afford is fine with me. I don't just do this for the money, I do it because I actually enjoy it, and a lot of people in this town are barely getting by as is with all the big box chains starting to pop up nearby.
Closing the door, my eyes fall to the passenger seat, and I instantly think of Siobhan as she sat there the night of Ryder's wedding. I can still smell her perfume. Gardenias, that's what it reminds me of.
Everything from that night is always right there, right there in the front of my mind. The softness of her skin, the silkiness of her hair, her velvet lips against my mouth, the warmth of her pussy around my cock.
Swallowing hard, I try to shake her from my head as I start the truck and head home. It isn't so easy to shake, Sia's been there since I watched her pull away in the taxi. Every thought. Every dream. Every time I blink. She's there. I can't escape her.
I go to bed hard, and I wake up hard, too. And nothing is working to get rid of the memory her. It was supposed to be a no strings attached night, but a single thread is refusing to break free. She's tethered to my brain.
Glancing at my phone quickly, there are no new messages, no missed calls, no voicemails. Dropping it back into the cup holder, my eyes drift back to the road.
I wish I had gotten her number before she left.
That's the only mistake I have for that night. I gave her all my information, right down to my damn address, but I failed to get hers.
Pulling into my driveway, I stop at the mailbox on the street, and collect what's inside. Flipping through it quickly, all I see are bills and garbage fliers. My tires crack and pop over the loose gravel as I drive up to my house. Shutting off my truck, I tuck the mail under my arm and head for the door.
The lights are off inside, and the sky is starting to turn mop water gray. Looking up, a warm breeze skirts across my face as I hear thunder in the distance.
Climbing up the steps, I fumble with my keys, searching for the one for the front door. My boot kicks something hard, causing me to stop. There's a package on my front porch. It's wrapped in brown paper, with just my address written in permanent marker across the center.
Bending down, I pick it up, curiously flipping it over and checking it out. The postage stamp is dated for yesterday with no other markings or tags on it.
What the hell is this?
Looking back over my shoulder, I glance around. No one is there, but it's not every day a random package shows up out of nowhere at my door.
Turning on the light, I drop my mail and keys on the small table in the entryway. My fingers explore the outside of the package, tracing and squeezing, trying to figure out what it could be.
It's thin, no more than the width of a single subject notebook. Firm around the edges, but not completely solid across the surface.
Ping.
My phone goes off in my pocket. Digging it out, there's a text message from a number I don't recognize. Opening up the message, my brows dip in hard to the bridge of my nose.
Did you get your package today?
Holding it up, I look between my phone and the wrapped curiosity in my hand.
Maybe. Who is this? I text back.
Open it up, then you'll know.
Placing my phone down, I slowly pull back the taped corners. My jaw drops and my eyes shoot open as I hold something so amazing and beautiful in my hands.
She actually did it. Sia sent me a piece of her art.
My stomach jumps into my throat knowing she didn't forget me. Siobhan didn't delete my information, she didn't shrug me off and chalk our night up as one she'd rather forget. This painting in my hands is proof.
Deep earthy tones swirl across the canvas, with different shades of greens and blues. Dark gray and glistening gold streaks create contrasting layers that jump out at me.
The longer I stare at it, the more I can see mountain shapes in the background. There are textures to the paint. Thick layers over thick layers that make it look like it's climbing off of the canvas. In the bottom right corner is her signature. She signed it Sia, using the tail of the A to dot the I with a heart shape.
This is me.
Not in the sense of an actual portrait. But the browns and golds, the grays and blacks, they remind me of myself. They're my colors. These colors literally stain my skin, and the mountains around me.
It's the dirt I work in. The oil that soaks my skin. And the world that walls me in.
It's beautiful. Hitting send, I can't take my eyes off it.
I sit down in a chair at my kitchen table, and grab the paper it was wrapped in and start to crumble it up. A few loose pictures fall out on the floor. I pick them up and turn them over in my hands. She also sent me some photos of other work she's done.
One is of her in a gallery, her smile glowing as she stands next to a giant painting of a blue flower. Another is of an old woman sitting on a bench. The entire image is done in charcoal, the only color is the bright blue of the old woman's eyes.
She's talented. These are incredible.
You really like it? she texts.
I do. I'm blown away.
Sorry it took so long, but I wanted to send you something special. Something that's you.
You made this for me?
I did. It's a one of a kind. She sticks a smiley face emoji at the end.
It's perfect. I text. And I mean it.
Thanks.
When you said you like to paint, I could have never imagined this.
Is that a compliment? It better be a compliment.
Chuckling to myself, I relax back in my chair. It's not an insult. Shooting back my message, I follow it quickly. How's city life?
Boring. Lol.
I can hear the sound of her giggle. My body heats instantly, sending blood straight to my cock. I'm almost fully hard. Not that it's a change from any other day. I haven't woken up without morning wood once these past few weeks.
No matter how much I jerk off to get rid of this ache in my core, it never works. Now she's reached out to me, and my heart is racing, my palms are sweaty, and my dick is twitching.
Well let's make it less boring. I text. How about you send me a pic of the heels you have on today.
I watch the small bubbles as they move across my screen. They're going for longer than I expect, making me question if I jumped too quickly for her, and crossed some invisible line she's drawn between us.