I’m not an artist I’m a fucking work of art
The longer Jack was around Eloise in any kind of serious capacity, the more he felt the whiplash of her ever oscillating thoughts. Was she afraid or cocky? Horny or shy? Keen to share or wanting to clam up? Fucked if Jack knew. So he remained laying back on the bunk, letting her have whatever weird moment of self confidence that she wanted, in the meantime scoffing at her impression that he knew her - all of her - as a result of his magic.
”It doesn’t work like that,” he said. ”I only get surface thoughts and feelin’s, so if you don’t want me knowin’ your deepest and darkest, don’t think about ‘em.” Would she do just that as a result of his warning? Not his issue.
She was right though, in that they would have to come to an arrangement. Sitting up at last, Jack let out a sigh. ”As far as the crew are concerned you’re shacked up with me now.” That should take care of her jealousy about the other women on the ship. ”Tomorrow, you can come with me and learn about Torchline properly.”
”It doesn’t work like that,” he said. ”I only get surface thoughts and feelin’s, so if you don’t want me knowin’ your deepest and darkest, don’t think about ‘em.” Would she do just that as a result of his warning? Not his issue.
She was right though, in that they would have to come to an arrangement. Sitting up at last, Jack let out a sigh. ”As far as the crew are concerned you’re shacked up with me now.” That should take care of her jealousy about the other women on the ship. ”Tomorrow, you can come with me and learn about Torchline properly.”
