Page 88 of There Are No Saints

I’m already well aware that Cole loathes his father. Despite the fact that Magnus Blackwell has been dead for ten years. And the fact that he was the Thomas Wayne of this city—his name is on a dozen buildings, including a wing of the MOMA.

“Fathers are supposed to teach and protect,” Cole says.

“Did yours?”

“He did one of those things.”

When Cole is angry, his lips go pale and his jaw tightens, sharpening the lines of his face until he hardly looks human.

He frightens me.

And yet, it’s the terror that heightens every moment in his presence. I can smell his scent, hot and exhilarating. I can see the veins running up his forearms, and even perceive the pulse of pumping blood.

I want to kiss him again.

It’s a terrible idea, but I fucking want it.

Unfortunately, I’ve got to get ready for work.

I start gathering up my brushes and paints.

“Where are you going?” Cole demands.

“Zam Zam.”

“You need to quit that job. You’re an artist, not a bartender.”

“Right now I’m both. I need the money.”

Cole frowns. I think it irritates him that I’m poor. Or that he likes someone poor. Assuming he likes me at all—obsession is not the same thing as affection.

“I’ll walk you to work,” he says.

I shake my head at him, laughing. “I’ve lived in this city for twenty-six years, and I’ve walked every inch of it. Alone.”

“I don’t give a shit what you did before you met me. It’s different now.”

“Why?”

He doesn’t answer. He simply takes his peacoat from the hook by the door and silently waits for me.

I wash my brushes and my hands, then pull on my own battered leather jacket. I bought it at a flea market in Fisherman’s Wharf, and it looks like its previous owner might have been mauled by rabid dogs.

“That jacket is hideous,” Cole says.

“Oh, shut up,” I say. “You’re spoiled.”

“If we dated I’d have to buy you an entirely new wardrobe.”

“And that’s why we’ll never date.”

I don’t know if Cole’s being serious.

I know I certainly am. I want to fuck him, not date him.

I can’t imagine being his girlfriend. He just told me he doesn’t support the concept of love. What’s that saying?When people show you who they are . . . believe them.

Never mind my lingering suspicions he might be a murderer.

---