Page 29 of Beautiful Lies
Back in high school, she used to come with me when I graffitied walls in Bushwick. Afterward, we always stopped at the twenty-four-hour diner for empanadas. She loved them as much as she loved Jimmy’s tacos, and that was saying something.
“How can you turn down an offer like that? You know you’re dying for an empanada. The spicy chorizo one … mmm.” I licked my lips and let out a low moan.
“Stop talking about empanadas,” she said. “How did you know where to find me?”
I tilted my head and studied her face. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and her face was makeup-free. Natural. Unadorned. In a hoodie, leggings, and Nikes, she looked younger, unjaded. Ava had always been stunning, with an ethereal beauty that had always felt just out of reach. “Was it a secret?”
“It’s my thing. Something I do just for me. I don’t advertise it. Which means youhavebeen stalking me,” she accused.
Stalking made me sound like a creep. I’d made it my business to know where she was and what she was doing in her free time. But finding out about her Thursday evening class in Bushwick had been purely accidental. “A few weeks ago, I came over to Bushwick to buy art supplies. I saw you coming out of the subway station.”
“And you followed me?”
“I noticed where you were headed,” I said, correcting her. I hadn’t stalked her or waited outside the building until her class was over like I’d wanted to. I’d forced myself to keep driving, honoring her wish to keep me out of her life. But I’d taken note of the Aerial Arts Studio sign on the warehouse and Googled it when I’d gotten home. “So, what do you do? Trapeze?”
“Aerial dance. With silks. You climb the silk ropes and then you do modern dance, acrobatics…” She waved her hand in the air to indicate it was all that and so much more.
That sounded so fucking cool. I’d love to see her do that.
“You can’t just turn up, Connor. Like I said, it’s my thing and if I wanted you to watch… which I don’t … you’d need an invitation. And you’re not getting one.”
That hurt. I rubbed my chest and her gaze dipped down to my hand. “You always did that,” she said softly.
“Did what?”
She shook her head a little and diverted her gaze.
“Come with me. I’ll make it worth your while.”
She looked over my shoulder, debating. Ava had an expressive face and watching it was like reading a story. I could see the moment she conceded. She pulled the elastic out of her hair and shook it loose, lavender hair tumbling down her back. Before she could change her mind, I pulled the helmet over her head and adjusted the strap under her chin, my fingers brushing against her silky soft skin. God, I wanted to touch her everywhere.
It had been a while since she’d ridden on the back of my bike, but she climbed on behind me like an old pro and placed her feet on the foot pegs. I waited for her to wrap her arms around me. When it didn’t happen, I looked over my shoulder. “Ava. Come on. Play nice.”
“I’ll hang onto the seat.”
Like hell she would. I reached behind me, clasped her hands in mine and wrapped her arms around my middle. “Hang on tight,” I said, revving the engine.
I pulled away from the curb with enough speed that she had no choice but to hang on. Too bad. I loved her arms around me, her chest pressed against my back. She was right where I wanted her. Well, not exactly, but I’d settle for it. For now.
The wall I’d bombed late last night was only three blocks away and minutes later, I pulled up in front of it and cut the engine. She unwrapped her arms and dismounted. Removing her helmet, she set it on the seat and moved closer to the wall to inspect my graffiti. I hung my helmet on the handlebar and joined her on the sidewalk, watching her face as she took it in. There was no doubt it was mine. But, if there had been any doubt, I’d signed it with my tag name: TRISTE. We’d come up with the name when we were sixteen and had thought we were so clever. Triste was French for blue, like sad.
She studied my graffiti, and I wondered what she thought of it. It was her face in profile, her long lavender hair blowing behind her like it was being swept up by the wind. In her hands, she held an anatomical heart.Myfucking heart.
Ava crossed her arms over her chest for protection. “Why do you do this to me?” She turned her back to the wall and faced me, her eyes flashing with anger. “Why do you do this to me?” she repeated.
“Baby…” I said, taking a step closer.
“No.” She held up her hands to ward me off. “You don’t get to call mebabyorbabeorAva Blue. You don’t get to play with my emotions and manipulate my heart…” I took another step closer. She planted her hands on my chest and shoved me. I didn’t budge. It pissed her off. She pounded my chest with the sides of her fists. It was almost comical, like Tweety Bird taking on the Incredible Hulk. I didn’t feel a goddamn thing. I wrapped my hands around her wrists and backed her up against the wall.
“Show me some of your self-defense moves,” I said, pinning her hands to the wall. “Hurt me.”
“Fuck you, Connor.”
I pressed my body against hers, trapping her. “Break free of my hold, Ava.”
She stared at me, her chest heaving, her gray eyes wide.
I dipped my head and found the shell of her ear, “Defend yourself,” I whispered, feeling a tremor go through her body. My mouth moved down to her neck just below her ear, and I pressed my lips against her racing pulse. She smelled like vanilla and something that was just her. Sweet and warm with a touch of spice. She smelled like heaven. She smelled like the only home I’d ever known. “Do. It.”
