Page 136 of Should the Sky Fall

Dawson pretends to study his nails. “It’s your call.”

Cal begrudgingly relents. Maybe if the painting goes mysteriously missing…

“Thanks for coming, guys!” Jo waves at them as they collect their paintings.

“Thank you,” Cal says. “Can I use your bathroom?”

She hooks her thumb over her shoulder. “Through there and to the left.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll wait outside,” Dawson tells him, taking Cal’s painting from him. “Your dick will be safe with me.”

“Stop saying dick. It’s not a dick.”

“Member? Manhood?” He waggles his brows. “Mighty tool?”

Cal looks at him with mild horror. “Was there any alcohol in that kombucha?”

“God, it’s so easy to wind you up.” Dawson strides off, cackling the whole time. Well, at least he’s having fun. That’s all Cal wanted, after all.

It can’t have taken him more than two minutes to use the bathroom, but when Cal goes to look for Dawson outside, there’s a man with him. He’s standing way too close to him, saying something Cal can’t hear.

And Dawson looks scared.

“Not interested,” Cal hears him say. Dawson shows the guy his left hand. “And I’m married.”

“That’s not a disease, you know?” the guy says in a suggestive, slimy voice, and grabs Dawson’s elbow.

Cal’s vision tunnels.

“The answer is no.”

“Oh, come on! Don’t be such a p—What the fuck, man!” the guy yelps when Cal grabs him by the collar, spins him around and slams him against the wall. He grips the lapels of his jacket, pinning him in place.

Words arise from the deepest part of his body. “Do. Not. Touch him.”

“Jesus, chill, will you? We were just having a nice chat.”

“That’s not what it looked like.”

“Not my fault he’s an uptight little bitch.”

Cal’s lips curl over his teeth, and he pulls his hand back, making a fist.

“Cal, no!” Dawson grabs his arm, not allowing him to punch the disgusting excuse of a human in the face. To make up for it, he lets go of the guy’s jacket and wraps a hand around his throat.

His eyes nearly bulge out of his skull, and he rasps out, “Are you fucking crazy?!”

Leaning in until Cal’s face is the only thing in the guy’s line of vision, he growls, “Leave. Him. Alone.” He tightens his grip ever so slightly for a second, and lets go.

The guy pulls in a gasping breath, nearly tripping in his haste to get away. “Jesus. Fine! Not worth it, anyway. Fucking psycho.” Then he takes off.

Cal spins around, cupping Dawson’s face and checking for harm. “Are you alright? Did he hurt you?”

Dawson gently claps his wrists, looking at him in shock. “I’m fine. God, Cal, you gave me a fright. You could’ve got hurt.”

“I can handle myself.”