Nate Part 4

"I think I’d rather have you teach me how to use this thing! We can save the Coke for later." Isabela smiles, pointing at a cardboard box full of paint cans thrown in a random corner.
I raise my eyebrows in shock:
"You want to learn how to spray-paint?" I ask, shocked, blinking at her, still processing her words.
"Uh-huh... You make it seem like the coolest thing in the world." She shrugs, tossing her golden hair back, smiling in a way that makes her face almost angelic. She looks like an angel dancing in the flames of hell, asking to get burned. "But it's not like I’m gonna start being a delinquent. I just want to feel the thrill you talk about."
"Damn, you're gonna love it," Ian butts in, grabbing a green paint can from the box and skating away, his long, curly hair flying as he rolls across the dusty floor. "It's almost as good as weed."
"Besides being delinquents, are you all addicts too?" Isa laughs, but when she notices Bianca spray-painting the word 'Bitch' in pink on one of the walls while staring straight at her, her face twists in fury. "Your sister is kind of obsessed with me!"
"Who wouldn’t be obsessed with you?" I compliment, trying to ease the tension, offering my open palm, which Isa accepts with a smile.
I guide her, hand in hand, toward a pillar, laughing as Bianca rolls her eyes, seeing her cheap provocation being ignored. I’ve given her the cold shoulder, yelled, fought, nothing works. She won’t stop messing with Isa until Little Sun punches her. And I know it’ll come to that—Isabela's gonna lose her patience eventually. And no, I’m not getting involved when that happens.
Isa and I stop near the jukebox and the small makeshift lounge with the sofas, standing before a pillar covered in old graffiti. I pull a red bandana from my jeans pocket and hand it to her. Isabela blinks at the piece, narrowing her brows but raises her slender hands and accepts the fabric.
"The fumes can be harmful, so it's better to cover your nose and mouth. Like this..." I put on a black bandana, tying it behind my head, feeling the fabric muffling my voice and breath. "See?"
She nods, then starts to mimic what I did, leaving me mesmerized by how the red contrasts beautifully with her skin. I’d seen how stunning she looked in front of that crimson piano, as red as the desire that floods me when it comes to Isabela, but now I realize this color truly suits her.
Isabela looks at me, only her eyes visible outside the fabric, and by the way they narrow and wrinkle at the corners, I know she’s smiling. I lose myself in her eyes as I shake the can to start using it. My chest tightens and heats up, my dick turns into a rock to the point of pain, my whole body inflamed by the fact I’ve never looked at anyone as perfect as this girl.
"First, you gotta shake the can, like this." I demonstrate, and she starts mimicking me shyly. "Put some muscle into it!"
Little Sun is smiling with her eyes as she tries to be quicker with the movements.
"Ah, so romantic, almost like a replay of *Titanic*, except it’s the ‘cheap’ version with Rose as a wannabe and Jack as a delinquent-in-training," Bia says.
"Go find something to do, Bianca!" I order over my shoulder, seeing her flip me the middle finger while sipping on a can of beer before taking the joint Marcel just rolled, sitting on one of the sofas. He’s got this eccentric vibe. One quick glance at the guy and you know he’s trouble. He’s the tallest of the group and has bright yellow-dyed hair, always wears sagging pants that show his underwear, and even has tattoos on his face.
"Let her be..." Isabela says, too radiant to care about my sister bugging us. "So, what now?"
"You press the nozzle, and the paint will..." I start to explain, but Isabela sprays a jet right onto my white t-shirt. "Not on me, Isa!"
"My bad... I barely touched it, and it came out." She laughs, turning back to the wall.
I watch her unleash a stream of paint on the surface, getting so excited she jumps a little, making the hem of her dress sway. I glance over my shoulder to see if either of the vultures that are my friends are ogling her. And to my relief, they’re too busy passing the joint around to notice.

Damn, the truth is, this is a terrible place to have brought Isabela. I don’t want her drinking or trying anything, she doesn’t deserve this messed-up life we lead. And she might get mad at me, but she’s not going to try this crap and she’s not coming back here. I brought her this time, and never again!
I watch the drawing she’s making, and my lips curl automatically, because the red, smudged lines from her not knowing how to use the paint properly form the shape of a sun. Then she adds two little eyes and an upward curve inside it.
Isabela drew a “smiling sun.”
"Is that you, Little Sun?" I ask, getting close enough that my shoulder brushes against hers, the only thing besides handholding that she lets me do. Even though this shoulder touch seems like nothing, to me, it’s everything.
I feel her gasp when she senses my contact, but she doesn’t pull away. Isabela takes off her bandana, and I take the chance to remove mine as well.
Isa turns her face toward me, looking at me from the side. She bites her upper lip and blinks her lashes, then nods.
"I’m happy right now. My cheeks even hurt because I can’t stop smiling."
Her cheerful words make fireworks go off in front of my eyes. I really want to kiss her. I want so badly to feel the taste of her lips that I sometimes dream about it, and many days I wake up hard and relieve myself thinking about her.
"If I could do something to make you happy, what would it be?"
Isabela asks, staring into my eyes with curiosity.
Her question sends a wave of adrenaline through my body, making me combust with nervousness and anxiety. A thousand things flash before my eyes, thousands of words whirl in a crazy waltz in my mind. But I know I can’t be cocky and ask for a kiss. So I say something I’ve been dying to do: "Let me touch your hair."
Little Sun blinks at me, seeming like she didn’t quite understand or is just shocked by my confession. She’s not wearing makeup for the first time since we met. She’s blushing, red as an apple.
I imagine I should have asked for something else, but the alternatives would’ve been a kiss, for her to be my girlfriend, for her to tell me what’s going on at her house, or for her to never leave my side. Touching her hair was the most zen option.
I start to turn to grab a cigarette from one of my friends, but Isabela grabs my hand. Her eyes are filled with an intoxicating intensity, locked onto mine, as she begins to guide my hand slowly up to a lock of hair that falls beside her cheek. When my fingers touch the softness of her blonde strands, she closes her eyes. Her chest is rising and falling wildly, and I feel her warm breath brushing against my forearm.
Isabela is nervous, but she lowers her hand and lets me touch her hair unsupervised. And I’m so happy that a few silly tears start to glimmer in my eyes. She... she... is letting me touch her hair. It feels like I have a piece of the clouds between my fingers.
"Are you crying?"
"No... It’s the dust. It triggers my allergies," I lie as I sniffle, but I can’t take my fingers away from her incredible, soft, beautiful, and perfect hair. She’s trusting me, and she let me feel the texture of her hair, like I’ve wanted to for so long.