Page 9

It didn’t help that he told me pointblank what he did.

That he tracks down people who don’t want to be found and he’s paid well to do it.

I just assumed that he was working for the kind of people who made sure that his jobs were erased in the end by the most unsavory means.

I thought a person like that couldn’t possibly have a heart.

In one sense, that made him the right man to help me disappear and keep me alive.

In another, it made him the kind of shadowy beast that clings to the night and feeds off people’s terror.

I never stopped to think that what he was doing could have been on the right side of the law, or at least the right side of a moral argument.

I never really stopped to think at all, and that… hurt him. He’s lost whatever manic emotion drove him out here to attack the grass with absolute savagery.

He looks like he can breathe again, and oddly, I can too. Relief snaps through me like static sparks flaring in a dark room on my next breath.

“The red is a base.” I offer the words as a white flag, a truce of sorts, and most of all—an unspoken apology. “You need a base before you can build anything else. I did say it can be painted over.”

A line appears between his brows, deep and anguished. The sun doesn’t change position in the sky, but shadows flicker over his strong features. It’s so strange how this man is a mass of contradictions. He defies logic simply by existing.

There’s a good chance that my brain is completely fucking addled by information overload and possibly some form of heatstroke. I was out here tanning for far longer than I should have been. It’s fucked my hormones too. I can’t stop focusing on how shirtless Dravin is.

Because I’m wearing his shirt.

We need a subject change. We meaning Dravin and myself. Meaning my brain and my body. “If you want to blend in here, you should get some tattoos.”

Slowly, the rest of that manic mowing fever bleeds away. “Where?”

“Tramp stamp. Definitely. And then a lion and a compass somewhere. Probably some roses. And buy a fucking bike if you’re in a biker club.”

His bark of laughter shocks the hell out of me. It’s a rough sound at first, like his voice, but it changes, the cadence morphing to something lighter and more musical, the same way the way the lawnmower engine chugged until it found its purr.

“We’ll go somewhere else,” he says when he sobers.

It’s irrational as hell, but I almost miss his smile.

“I need time to arrange it. Until then, you’ll have to make do.

” He’s looking less and less like flower murder is on the menu for this morning and I don’t want to provoke him into finishing off the yard.

“No, just… Okay. Yeah.”

That’s not enough. I’ve been horrible and if I can’t apologize now, I need to find a way to do it in the future. Marcus wouldn’t have wanted me to treat this man badly and make his life hell, which is what I’ve been doing, at least for the few weeks that we’ve been here.

I came like a prisoner, and I’ve remained that way. I’ve held any and every crime against this tiny little northern city. It’s my fault that I haven’t seen it as anything more than an ugly stain, when in fact it’s lovely.

“I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try.

With the women, at any rate.” Maybe they’re not so bad.

They might be biker babes, but they’re probably not as coarse as the men.

I can’t exactly trust Dravin’s opinion of not so bad.

I might have made assumptions, but that’s all I had to go on, and just because I feel bad right now, doesn’t mean that I’m entirely wrong. I still have to protect myself.

I don’t know anything.

That’s the problem.

If I’m going to get through this, maybe it’s a problem that I have to rectify.

I might get out of this alive, but what kind of person will I be?

If I ever want to find my way back to who I was before Marcus died, then I need to start reclaiming my life.

I thought that was escaping and making my own destiny, but there are smaller, more important ways.

I need to heal my heart. Find my compassion and empathy again. Do more than go out and buy a whole horde of art supplies with a bank account that a man I told myself I hated had set up for me. I need to do more than slap red paint on all the canvases and sit there for hours staring at them.

I used to have a huge circle of friends, a massive network of people I knew and loved, and a vibrant life. I was always out doing something. I loved being a part of anything bigger than who I could be just on my own. I had a support network. I had a community. I’ve missed that. I’ve missed me .

Dravin’s stayed silent this whole time, watching me sort out my shit in my head.

“Uh… I’ll make you a deal.”

He doesn’t look like he’s in the mood for bargaining, but he doesn’t protest either.

“I’ll attempt to try and be more… uh… agreeable.” How very archaically proper. Would you like some tea with that? “If you’ll agree to model for me.”

Damn! Where did that come from?

He looks at me like I’ve totally lost the plot, and maybe I have. “Model?” He tests the word like he’s never heard it before and can’t comprehend the meaning.

“With clothes on.” Damn it. Seriously?

Great. If it’s not bad enough that he’s already half naked and I’m swathed in his clothing, now I’m picturing the rest of him nude.

In an artsy way. His legs would definitely be as sculpted and muscular as the rest of him.

He for sure has an ass of steel. Tattoos?

Probably not. As I pointed out, he’s decidedly lacking in that area.

Piercings? Don’t even go there. There’s no blaming the sun for the heat that invades my body now.

I am the sun. It’s inside of me. More scars?

From an artistic standpoint, I find so much beauty in the imperfect.

It’s a thousand times worse when I have to flick my eyes back to Dravin’s face and feign normalcy, like I wasn’t just thinking about his dick being pierced.

How did I even get from despising this man to letting my brain go crazy like this?

Right. His t-shirt, the way he pinned me to the wall, his ferocious energy and aura overwhelming all my already frustrated senses and then this masterpiece showcasing of his whole body slicked up sun kissed out here.

“And while you’re doing that, you can tell me something about my brother.”

He frowns, that hard crease cutting through his brow. I have the craziest urge to smooth it away. As an artist, of course. “Most of what I know of Marcus has to do with things I can’t talk about.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“There are reasons that people don’t talk about what they’ve seen. It’s just something that shouldn’t be done.”

“I’m sure you could tell me things about Marcus that have nothing to do with that. You were like brothers. You don’t get that way with someone just because you’re training with them or going into dangerous situations.”

What would I know about it? Marcus was notoriously evasive about even the smallest details. He wanted to protect us, but maybe he was trying to protect himself too. It makes it worse than ever that I refused to know him when he needed me most.

He was still the same person who sent most of his money home every single month.

The same brother who before he ever left or graduated worked two jobs to help out.

Before he was old enough to do that, he made a game out of collecting scrap metal and cans and bottles—anything that we could do to make a little bit extra.

At the end of the month, when the money was all gone and we’d have to go to food banks, he’d make it seem like an adventure.

I wish I had taken the time to look for that version of my brother when he returned as someone else. Surely, there was still goodness in there.

I don’t realize that I’ve said that last bit out loud until Dravin’s face changes.

The whole thing softens. “I was out two years before Marcus. I don’t know what happened during that time.

It might have been a slow process. It sneaks up on you and changes you without you even knowing.

I can’t tell you why he came back the way he did, but I can promise that he never planned it to be that way, and he never would have wanted you anywhere near that life. ”

My cheeks are pinched and itchy. I have no idea why until I lift my hands and my fingertips come away soaked.

“Maybe I’m the one who should tell you stories while I attempt to paint,” I snort, going for self-depreciating, but my voice is thick and nasally, clogged with tears.

Something dark shadows Dravin’s face. He purposely turns around. “Would that help you paint again?”

A jolt of something completely foreign stabs me in the chest. “I don’t know.

” Maybe nothing can. The thought would have been terrifying a year ago, to lose that part of me that was such a huge piece, bordering on comprising almost my entire life, but now it’s alarming just how much it doesn’t frighten me.

It seems so low on the list of priorities, after losing my mom, Marcus, and myself.

“I don’t know what will help, but I need to paint again.

” I should be quiet. I don’t know why my mouth won’t cooperate.

“Marcus paid for me to go to school all those years. He had money he could have used for himself, but he spent it on me instead. He made my dreams possible. It would be a huge waste. It’s already a huge waste. ”

Somehow sensing that what I need is space and quiet, Dravin walks over to the mower. He flips it on its side and starts picking out massive clumps of grass with his bare hands like there isn’t a blade under there sharp enough to cut one of them off.

“It made him happy to know that you were happy. Even if you never painted again, it wouldn’t be a waste.”