The Right Kind Of Wrong Girl. A. C. Meyer

nothing between us, dude.” I protest feeling downhearted. “We’re just friends.”

      “Uh-huh, I know… it’s crystal clear that she’s hitting on you and you’re into her.”

      “She may turn me on, but she’s still growing up” I reply feeling my body react to the smooth swings of her hips as she dances. “But you know I don’t do dating nor want any of this shit.”

      “Neither does she” Leo replies, making me nod in agreement. His words make me remember a conversation we’ve had, a couple of months before, when she told me about her parents’ fake marriage and her own lack of faith in love. “But that doesn’t mean you guys can’t hook up once in a while.”

      Those words have an impact on me, stimulating a series of mental images that I have no idea where they came from. Our lips together on an urgent kiss, her naked body against mine. I shake my head trying to erase them from my mind. Bad idea, Rafael.

      We change the subject when Cesar, a friend from the beach, arrives. The party is still going as the evening progresses. Malu spends the night going from group to group, talking to everybody, making everyone laugh and interact to each other. However, from time to time, as usual, we exchange looks, strokes, caresses. I can’t deny we have a strong connection. It’s like a magnetic field is always bringing us together.

      By the end of the evening, I take her home, as I usually do when we go out together. I don’t like letting her go back by herself, especially at night. Malu’s absent-minded and always this close to let something happen to her because she’s not paying attention to any prospect of danger. We are pretty high on beers and capirinhas – a Brazilian national drink. Lucky us we live close to the beach, so we can walk home.

      We walk through the neighborhood streets, holding hands, laughing and talking. Halfway through, she let go of my hand and hold me by the waist. Her soft and warm body makes her even more desirable to me.

      “You didn’t even give me a gift, Rafa,” she says making a funny face.

      “Your gift is at my place. I wouldn’t take it to the beach so you could lose after drinking too much, would I?” I reply, making her laugh even more.

      “I’d never lose anything that came from you.”

      We enter her building and take a lift to the seventh floor. There, I watch her while she gets down in front of her door, holds the doormat up, and takes a key from beneath it.

      “What the hell?”

      “What? My key…”

      “Under the doormat? Fuck, Malu! Someone can find this key and get inside!”

      “Better than taking it to the beach and losing it. Where was I supposed to keep it if I didn’t take any purse?”

      “At the same place you kept your phone?” For the first time, I realize she doesn’t have any purse and her cellphone isn’t anywhere to be seen. Maybe she lost it? “Where’s your phone?”

      “Right here.” She sticks her hand in her cleavage and pulls out her phone, which was hidden between her breasts. That vision wakes up my whole body and makes my breath even heavier.

      “I don’t want you keeping your key down there anymore. You must take it with you. If you don’t have any purse, hold it in your hand until I get there. I’ll keep it in my pocket for you. Or ask anyone else you trust.”

      “You’re too bossy. You don’t even kiss me but want to give me orders?” I can’t tell if it’s her daring tone, her raised eyebrow or the vision of her in that white dress. Maybe it’s mixture of all of that with a lot of caipirinhas that impels me take her by the waist, hold her in my arms and press her against the wall, stealing a passionate kiss from those red lips.

      Waiting for no permission, my tongue invades her mouth, provoking, punishing and arousing her desire. I can feel her pressing her body against mine even more, throwing her arms around my neck, kissing me back.

      I can’t tell how long we stayed there, lost on each other’s lips, until a low moan coming from her throat tells me it was time to stop what we’re doing. The next step would be going to bed and I know Malu has no experience. She told me that herself and I’m the right person for anybody’s first time. I move my lips away from hers and realize that I was holding her hair really tight and that her body completely pressed against mine.

      “Don’t you ever leave your fucking key under the doormat again, Malu. Do you hear me?” My voice sounds low, irritable by the fact she’s not worried about her own safety, and hoarse by all the excitement from that kiss. She smiles and nods in agreement. I let go of her and take the key from her hands. When I open the door, I push her inside, handing the damn key back, strongly recommending her to close the door and lock it after I leave.

      “Bye, Rafa.” She says good-bye leaning against the door, her lips swollen by that kiss.

      “Happy birthday, nut-head.”

      Chapter three

      “My life used to be whisky, tears and cigarettes.”

      Pink

      Malu

      When I arrive home, slamming the door after passing, I see my eyes on the mirror, surrounded by mascara smudges and puffy for crying so hard. That is the last time I shed tears for them. This bond is definitively broken after what happened today.

      Going back home is always extremely hard. I don’t even know if I can call going to the house of those who brought me into the world as going home, since that big house has never been a real home for me. The Honorable Judge Eduardo Figueiroa Bragança and socialite Mrs. Lucia Bragança, a.k.a. my parents, are not the definition of real parents. They’ve been married for many years in a sort of family agreement, once they’re belong to the elite of our small hometown high society.

      My parents’ house is a mansion that, for me, feels more like a dungeon. Impeccably arranged with everything exactly in the right place, that house is extremely oppressing for a free spirit like myself. My parents are cold, indifferent, distant. The only kisses and hugs I remember came from the nannies or housekeepers who, surreptitiously, tried their best to give me a normal childhood. Maybe that’s the reason why I’m so physically needy nowadays. I’m a tactile person, someone who likes taking, touching, holding, speaking through my hands and very fond of human affection.

      When my brother, who’s two years younger than me, was born, I believed that finally I’d have someone to whom I could give all those things exploding in my chest. I figured he’d be someone to share feelings with me and be my friend. My mistake.

      Eduardo Jr. – God forbid calling him Du, Dudu, Edu or any other nickname, which would mean the end of the world for him – is almost a small replica of my parents. He used to study very hard and, by the age of fifteen, he was admitted in one of the most applied to colleges in the country. All he wants is being a judge like my father, while I hate law and dream of studying and living from my art. Obviously, the perfect couple wouldn’t allow that. I had to come to Law school, with grades barely making through the semester and skipping more classes than watching. I feel trapped like a convict on the death row, who can’t catch a glimpse of solution to that problem.

      In big city, I live in one of my parents’ properties and, obviously, they support me financially so I can graduate and, in the future, follow a career they’ve chosen for me.

      Concurrently, I paint. As no one pays me a visit, I turned one of the bedrooms in an atelier where I spend hours and hours of my day finding happiness. I paint faces, landscapes, abstractions which come to mind while I sleep. As I must report my expanses and my parents would never allow me to spend money with dyes, canvases or brushes, I work at a bar in the evenings, waiting tables from Thursdays to Sundays, using the rest of the week to paint or, when