Page 43 of Broken

Garrett:

Get fucked

I put the phone away. He’s putting on a show, I’ve always been able to see through him. He might say he doesn’t want to go for a ride, but I will talk him round. It’ll do me good too.

A familiar bike catches my attention and I slow my stride. Glancing around, my brows shoot up in surprise.

Calli is sitting on the floor, her legs crossed and a sketch pad in her hand. She glances up at a building opposite the park, then makes some quick slashing strokes with her pencil.

She draws? What the fuck? No wonder she was attracted to my artwork. Walking away before she sees me is the best idea. But I’m intrigued. What is she drawing?

Fair’s fair right. She looked at my shit. Why can’t I see hers?

At first she doesn’t notice me, but the longer I stand there, she realizes someone has stopped. I’m far enough back not to be able to touch her, or scare her.

When she turns, her lips part and she drops her pencil. Okay, I get it. The last time she saw me, I’d had my tongue down her throat and my hand up her skirt. Then I split with no explanation.

The last time I sawher, she was fucking her hand and calling my name.

Her pencil rolls on the slight incline, and I move my boot to stop it from getting further away. Calli watches me bend down and pick it up. It’s a mechanical pencil, not a regular drawing pencil. My eyes go to the pad.

Jesus. She’s drawn a perfect rendering of the building across from her. She’s added to it, making it a couple of stories higher, giving it a more modernist look, which makes it a lot more interesting.

That is serious talent. I didn’t know she could draw, let alone create something so technical.

She closes the book, her cheeks pink as she gets to her feet. My eyes go to the pad again, which she is now clutching to her chest. Like she’s protecting it. Or protecting herself?

“Fair’s fair,” I say, and hold out the pencil.

She licks her lower lip and glances away. Jesus, what would it be like to press my mouth against hers and taste that tongue again? Her lips twist as she fights with herself over what to do. I get it, we’ve never had the best relationship, but it’s more awkward than before.

Calli lets out a sigh, then relinquishes her tight hold on the pad. She takes a step closer and holds it out. Setting down my bags, I take the pad and flip through it.

Page after page of landmark Baltimore buildings fill the pad, all with additional flourishes or extensions, all perfectly drawn with an expert eye for design, and technically perfect.

She is more than a barista. Lucky and Katja suspect there is more to Calli’s history. The evidence is here in my hands.

Closer to the back of the pad, there are different images, softer ones. Ideas more than actual buildings. And at the very back, a building I don’t recognize at all. I lift my eyes and meet her gaze. Calli hasn’t said a single word. She handed over a huge part of herself showing me this.

I’m not sure why. Guilt maybe? She should be mad as hell at me, but she isn’t. Although her hand is wringing through the fabric of her skirt.

Passing back the pad, I glance at her things near the bench. She has a bag from the same art supply store as me.

I almost laugh. We’re so fucking different, but the same in other ways. These drawings are professionally done, years of training, honing this craft.

A million questions run through my mind, but I have no right to ask. We’re staring at one another in silence. This is weird as fuck.

“I didn’t think you ever took time off,” she says.

“I’m not a robot.”

“No,” she casts her eyes away.

If she is thinking what I’m thinking, then hell no, I’m not a robot. There is no need to be an ass. She’s friends with my friends. Maybe we won’t ever hang out, but I should at least try to ease some of the animosity and weirdness between us.

No other woman would get this kind of reaction out of me. I am who I am and don’t change for anyone. What the fuck is it about her?

“About the other day.”

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