Page 54 of Paint the Town, Dove
“Hey!” He yanked me close, holding my head against his chest. That rush of warmth returned, a burning fire building up underneath my coat, my skin – my bones.
“Hey,” he said, softer now. “Is everything okay? I’ve never…” he paused. “I’ve never heard you swear before.”
I looked down, pulling out hanging threads from my sweater. “You’re asking me if I’m okay when you were punched in the face.”
He laughed, but there was pain. Lots of it. “Take it like a man, right?”
“You are a man.” I felt something watery gloss over my vision. Snow maybe, uh. Flurries. “You’re more of a man than whoever lives in your house.”
He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “And I’ll continue to be that man for my mom. But I can’t if I’m on a stretcher with something far worse than a black eye.”
“I’ll never let anyone hurt you.” I meant it. It was a tattoo across my heart, forged in fire.
His eyes, green like emeralds shimmered with water… the same sheath that blanketed my sight.
He was crying.
I was crying.
And we hid away in soft murmurs until the real snow started to fall.
Chapter Sixteen
Ryden
“Never forgot who you were to me, never forgot the recipe – of the kindness you showed to me… that one December day.”
Arc & Sheild Records:‘Snowfall’
Composition By: Ryden Spectre
“Where are we going?” Scarlett asked.
“Wherever we want.” I pulled out my travel flask, a black embossed square no bigger than my palm. A gift, from the first talent scout who ever saw any good in me.
“Put that away,” Scarlett swatted at me. “You’re on the street.”
I looked around, finding an example within seconds. “So is that guy,” I said, pointing at a man leaning against the brick alley wall, beer in hand.
“You don’t know what he’s been through,” she clapped back.
I took a swig, eyeing her. “But you know what I’ve been through.”
She frowned. I could see the past swimming in her eyes. But of course, Scarlett Emory-Blake was never one to back away from what she believed in. “Doesn’t mean I condone it.”
“Fair enough,” I said, walking towards Fifth Avenue. I tucked the flask away, fingers pulsing with the itch to hold its weight.
“And what are we doing here?” Scar quirked a brow, stopping right in front of Saks.
“You tell me,”I smirked, nodding at the Prada display.
A small smile found her lips. “I was in need of a new bag.”
I held the door open for her as she stepped through, b-lining towards the mannequin holding a brown bag. Suede, I believe, the material.
“What do you think?” she asked, peeling it off the display. She held it up to her outfit, a cream turtleneck with dark blue jeans – red hair flowing like lava.
“Ma’am,” an attendant rushed to her side, hands extended in panic. “Ma’am, you can’t take things off the mannequin.”
