I can smell the peppermint on his breath, and it’s all I can do to stop from reaching out to run a hand along his strong jaw. The voice in the back of my head yells at me not to get too close. I ignore it.
“Come tagging with me tonight,” he says, voice low. “It’s like nothing else in the world. I think you’ll like it.”
I hesitate. My first inclination is to say no, like I’ve done every other time this week, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t eager to spend time with him again. Especially if it means watching him work. His art comes alive, and if the new piece is anything like the woman on this building, I would love to be there when it’s born.
I shouldn’t agree to this. I don’t trust myself to be alone with him. My curiosity and my logic are fighting, sending arguments back and forth faster than I can think.
“I’m interested,” I admit.
Guess my curiosity won out.
“Awesome.” He drums his knuckles on the counter. “I’ll swing by your building around ten. Meet me out front?”
“Okay,” I hear myself say. Am I actually agreeing to this?
Oh my god, I am agreeing to this.
Before I can change my mind, he nods his head at my anorak and says, “Wear that thing.” Then he winks and is out the door.
My heart suddenly catches up to speed and jolts into high gear.
I’m going tagging tonight.
8
A t ten o’clock , I’m stand in front of my building with my hood up, wondering what the hell’s gotten into me.
Even though it’s not that cold, the constant damp chill of the air still seeps into whatever opening it can find and makes me shiver. At least I’m telling myself that’s why I’m shaking a little. It’s got nothing to do with nerves. Nope. Nothing at all.
I came to Portland to disappear, to leave attachments and memories behind. Yet here I am, about to forge new ones and do something that will make me become visible again.
This is a mistake.
Besides, Ezra’s late.
I stamp my sneakered feet against the ground to get some feeling back into my toes and walk toward the front door to the building. My fingers have barely touched the handle when a figure in a hoodie and a leather jacket comes around the corner and heads straight for me.
My hand drops to my side. No chance for escape now, and suddenly I don’t feel like I need to anymore. Ezra’s eyes are downcast and his grin could light the entire street. What does he have planned? I want to know what makes him smile like that, so I can store the knowledge away for future use.
He pulls the strap of his backpack up his shoulder and I hear the muffled clink of spray paint cans inside.
“Sorry if I made you wait,” he says. “I was running low on blues. You ready for this?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I say, my voice catching.
Ezra’s eyebrows draw together. He reaches out and brushes my shoulder, his touch sending a rush through me “It’s okay if you want to bail,” he says softly. “I won’t take it personally. I’ll miss your insight, but I don’t want to push you into doing anything that’s going to make you uncomfortable.”
Oddly enough, that hardens my resolve. I tilt my chin up. I want to see his work. I want to see him work.
My curiosity is stronger than my fear. And it’s not just his art luring me in. I smile up at Ezra. Under his gaze, a boldness I haven’t known for months kindles inside me. I like this feeling. I like him . I keep trying to turn away, but he’s impossible to resist.
“I’m good. Let’s do this.”
“Right on.” He takes my hand and before I know it, we’re running for the nearest bus stop, where we hop on the first bus that pulls up.
I scan my pass while Ezra digs in his pockets for his fare. When we move down a grab a rail a ways away from the few other passengers, I lean in and whisper, “Where are we going?”
He reaches out to steady me as the bus takes a hard turn. My breath catches in my throat. His body is solid, made of lean muscle, pressed
“Come tagging with me tonight,” he says, voice low. “It’s like nothing else in the world. I think you’ll like it.”
I hesitate. My first inclination is to say no, like I’ve done every other time this week, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t eager to spend time with him again. Especially if it means watching him work. His art comes alive, and if the new piece is anything like the woman on this building, I would love to be there when it’s born.
I shouldn’t agree to this. I don’t trust myself to be alone with him. My curiosity and my logic are fighting, sending arguments back and forth faster than I can think.
“I’m interested,” I admit.
Guess my curiosity won out.
“Awesome.” He drums his knuckles on the counter. “I’ll swing by your building around ten. Meet me out front?”
“Okay,” I hear myself say. Am I actually agreeing to this?
Oh my god, I am agreeing to this.
Before I can change my mind, he nods his head at my anorak and says, “Wear that thing.” Then he winks and is out the door.
My heart suddenly catches up to speed and jolts into high gear.
I’m going tagging tonight.
8
A t ten o’clock , I’m stand in front of my building with my hood up, wondering what the hell’s gotten into me.
Even though it’s not that cold, the constant damp chill of the air still seeps into whatever opening it can find and makes me shiver. At least I’m telling myself that’s why I’m shaking a little. It’s got nothing to do with nerves. Nope. Nothing at all.
I came to Portland to disappear, to leave attachments and memories behind. Yet here I am, about to forge new ones and do something that will make me become visible again.
This is a mistake.
Besides, Ezra’s late.
I stamp my sneakered feet against the ground to get some feeling back into my toes and walk toward the front door to the building. My fingers have barely touched the handle when a figure in a hoodie and a leather jacket comes around the corner and heads straight for me.
My hand drops to my side. No chance for escape now, and suddenly I don’t feel like I need to anymore. Ezra’s eyes are downcast and his grin could light the entire street. What does he have planned? I want to know what makes him smile like that, so I can store the knowledge away for future use.
He pulls the strap of his backpack up his shoulder and I hear the muffled clink of spray paint cans inside.
“Sorry if I made you wait,” he says. “I was running low on blues. You ready for this?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I say, my voice catching.
Ezra’s eyebrows draw together. He reaches out and brushes my shoulder, his touch sending a rush through me “It’s okay if you want to bail,” he says softly. “I won’t take it personally. I’ll miss your insight, but I don’t want to push you into doing anything that’s going to make you uncomfortable.”
Oddly enough, that hardens my resolve. I tilt my chin up. I want to see his work. I want to see him work.
My curiosity is stronger than my fear. And it’s not just his art luring me in. I smile up at Ezra. Under his gaze, a boldness I haven’t known for months kindles inside me. I like this feeling. I like him . I keep trying to turn away, but he’s impossible to resist.
“I’m good. Let’s do this.”
“Right on.” He takes my hand and before I know it, we’re running for the nearest bus stop, where we hop on the first bus that pulls up.
I scan my pass while Ezra digs in his pockets for his fare. When we move down a grab a rail a ways away from the few other passengers, I lean in and whisper, “Where are we going?”
He reaches out to steady me as the bus takes a hard turn. My breath catches in my throat. His body is solid, made of lean muscle, pressed
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