Page 100 of Burning Daylight

“So, who’s got you smiling like that? You really testing out that ‘love in Rosebrook Falls’ theory?” he asks, looking pointedly at my phone again.

This time, there’s a text on the lock screen.

Little Rose:

Now you’re leaving me on read? Guess I’ll go find someone else who threatens me with dick pics then.

The thought ofanyoneelse sending her a picture of their dick makes anger lash at my chest.

Swallowing down the misplaced jealousy, I shake my head. “You know how it is.”

He nods slowly. “Let me guess. It’s complicated?”

“That’s putting it mildly.” I spin the ring on my finger. “You really want to be my friend?”

“Well, now I’m not sure. You’re kind of making me feel like it’s a bad idea.” He nods to the phone again.

I laugh, running a hand through my hair. “I promise I won’t send you a picture of my dick. Those are forspecialfriends only.”

I’mitchingto tag somewhere public.

And while there is street art in Rosebrook Falls beyond the little bit that I’ve done, it’s mainly kept to the HillPoint or to the campus on the other side of town, and I don’t want to just come out to another artists’ turf and paint over their buildings and walls. It’s disrespectful.

I wasn’t lying when I told Juliette that street artists are territorial.

But I can’t ask anyone about it, because I don’t want anyone to know that it’smedoing the art.

I wear a mask, obviously, both to protect me from the fumes and to keep anyone from knowing my identity, but it’s still risky.

Right now, I’m on the outskirts of the town where the train tracks sit unused near the base of the cliffs that line the county park. The train itself looks like it’s been sitting on this track for at least a few years. There’s rust on the metal and trash littering the ground from where others have come by.

Thereissome tagging on a few of the boxcars, but it isn’t extreme, kept mainly to the edges.

The spot I pick is a little grimy from being abandoned for so long, but it’s definitely usable. It’s not like I’m trying to make a masterpiece here, and I don’t have any stencils of my work to perfect the lines.

All I had time to do was hop on a bus to the city about forty minutes away and grab new paints.

Art is my expression, and in every other aspect of my life, I have to hold it inside, so the need feels amplified somehow right now to get it out.

They can tie my tongue, but they can’t stay my hand.

Merrick didn’t ask questions when I asked him to drop me off here; he just did it without any protest, loading up my supplies and smirking like he knew I was up to no good.

I grab the stepstool from beside me and lug the backpack of paints over my shoulder before heading to the train and dropping it all on the ground. I open the zipper and grab a few of the spray cans, black first and then a bright pink.

Next, I flip my baseball cap forward on my head, grab the bandanna I use as a mask to cover my nose and mouth, and tie it around my face. It’s a simple black with the bottom half of a skeleton showing its jaw and teeth, and the second I have it affixed to my face, my muscles relax, familiarity blanketing me.

Lastly, I slip on thin black gloves and then cover my head with the hood of my sweatshirt, slipping it over my hat until I’m covered enough where I don’t think I’d be recognized.

And then I get to work.

The sound of the can shaking and then the spray hitting steel sends satisfaction rippling down my spine, and I let myself get lost in the act, tension leaving my body with every stroke of the paint.

Two hours later, the sun has set too much for me to keep going—I forgot to pick up a light—so I grab the black paint and almost tag RMO in the corner of the piece, but I hesitate at the last second.

RMO feels too obvious now.

I paint a black rose instead with a simple R as the stem.