Page 166 of Burning Daylight
I’ve always been able to sneak around without much issue. Ever since I was a little kid, for some reason, it’s been natural to me. It’s what makes it so easy to slink through the streets at night and paint on the sides of buildings, train cars, and the like.
But then again, back then, I was a nobody.
And I guess I’m still not entirely used to being somebody.
Ever since Paxton Calloway put my dad’s name into the mix at their press conference the other day, insinuating that the paintings were a smear campaign, there have been reporters outside, waiting for me everywhere. Frederick told me to say, “no comment,” and I have, but what Iwantto say is, “fuck everybody.”
They’re not wrong. Itisa smear campaign, even if there’s truth in it.
But the thing I’ve learned about reporters? They don’t know how tolook. They wait at the front door, or they’re watching the windows. They don’t realize how easy it is to scale a balcony or slip through the shadows from a back stairwell when you’ve been doing it since you were ten.
So, sneaking away tonight? It’s as easy as breathing.
I’m in my painting gear: dark jeans, black baseball hat, and the skull mask low on my face.
It’s late in the evening, the stars already blanketing the sky, when I get to our spot.
My heart trips and my stomach dips, and soon I see her, waiting at the edge of the cliff, the breeze blowing her black hair like it can’t help but lace its airy fingers through the strands.
She’s about twenty paces away and looks so goddamn beautiful it makes my chest ache.
“You came,” I say.
She spins toward me, a smile blooming on her face. “You called, albeit very cryptically.”
I take long, measured steps toward her. I want to savor this time, because I don’t know when we’ll get it again.
“It’s good to see you,” she murmurs softly, her eyes bouncing over my face, down my body, taking in the clothing I’m wearing. A grin lights up her face, like she’s happy to see me dressed this way. “Coming from vandalizing our town or going?”
“Going.” The corner of my mouth lifts, and I drop the backpack to my side, the rattle of cans hitting each other loud.
Her eyes track the movement, and she shifts from one foot to another before meeting my gaze. “I think I’d like to see it sometime. You in your element.”
I tilt my head. “You’ve seen me draw a hundred times.”
“Yeah, but…that’s not reallyyou, is it?”
I swallow harshly, because how the fuck is it possible that this woman who I’ve known for a handful of days just seems togetme in a way nobody else does?
Stepping forward, I spin the ring on my finger, my stomach twisting with each move I make. I lick my lips and catch her gaze, holding strong. The air vibrates between us like it’s a tightrope waiting to snap if we step the wrong way.
“I think,” I murmur, “out of everyone in the world…you might know me best.”
Her eyes flick to mine, and color rushes into her cheeks. Like usual, it slams me right in the chest. I love how soft she looks when she’s not guarding herself, and the visceralneedto keep her like this, is almost overwhelming in its intensity.
Her fingers twist in front of her and those teeth of hers bite into her lower lip. I move my touch, pulling it free.
“Don’t do that,” I say, my stomach tightening. “You’ll bleed.”
She nods, just barely. And then, “You know me best, too.”
It hurts, hearing her say those words to me when everything feels so impossible. “But it doesn’t matter, does it?”
She takes a shaky breath. Stares down at her hands, one thumb aggressively rubbing over the other like she’s trying to erase herself.
“I’ve nevernotloved them,” she says quietly. “Even when I hated what they did.”
There’s a weighted pause, but she doesn’t look up.
