She’d like to get drunk off that mouth. She’d like a lot of things. It was strange, and a little worrying, to realize that while she was rapidly sobering up, her thoughts weren’t getting easier to control. At least, not when it came to him.
“You were saying,” she nudged him, “about the trip. Go on.” Also, please take your hand off me before my uterus explodes with lust. Actually, does the uterus even feel lust? Note to self: learn more about own genitals.
“We went to the National Gallery. Before that trip I never realized art could be a job. In my world, jobs were awful. They chipped away at you and made you miserable, deep inside where no warmth could touch. You only did them because you’d starve and die if you stopped. But that trip . . .” He shook his head and she saw the echoes of wonder in his expression. “It changed everything for me.”
He was quiet for a moment and she watched him with a new kind of hunger. A hunger that came from an unfamiliar place, that had nothing to do with his vitality or with his beauty, but with the ordinary things about him that were starting to feel like oxygen. This hunger was urging her to sneak inside his head and devour everything she came across. But that would be a little creepy, possibly violent, and probably illegal, so she settled for asking questions.
“What’s something you want to do but haven’t yet, something that would affect you just as deeply as that trip?” Something like my list?
“Why?” he asked teasingly. “You gonna make it happen? Because my birthday isn’t till June.”
“I have a strict socks-only birthday present policy.”
His eyebrows shot up. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means the only birthday presents I give to people are socks.”
He snorted. “Sounds like you.” Then, just as she began to think he’d avoid the question, he said, “One day I’m going to MoMA. New York.”
The Museum of Modern Art? She wasn’t surprised. Nor was she surprised that he’d phrased it so decisively. I’m going. It wasn’t a dream: it was a reality he hadn’t gotten around to yet.
Fired up, she said boldly, “I’m going to New York, too. Not for the museum; I just want to go. As part of my list.”
“You’ll love it.” He was wonderfully, achingly earnest, excited for her, not a hint of doubt on his face. He thought she would do it. The confidence he wore like a cloak was covering her, just as surely as his jacket. “Everything’s instant,” he said, his voice a mixture of awe, fondness, and bafflement. “It’s all sharp lines. It’s fucking wild.”
“You’ve already been?”
“Oh, yeah.” His hair fell in front of his eyes as he nodded, and the urge to push it back was so strong, she had to curl her free hand into a fist.
Of course, if she was brave, she’d reach up and do it. He touched her all the time. But he was confident in his way, and she was learning to be confident in hers. She asked another question. “You were there, but you didn’t go to MoMA?”
His easygoing smile turned flat. “I went with my ex. We didn’t get around to it.”
She wondered if that ex was the blonde from the pictures online, the one with the shark eyes. Before she could think of a polite way to ask—or a subtle way to pry his deepest, darkest secrets straight from his head—they were interrupted. Which was probably for the best, since she’d been mentally shopping for futuristic brain scanners like a villain in a superhero film.
A tall, thin man in a black turtleneck came to hover a few meters away from them, huffing loudly and throwing pointed looks like knives. Chloe had noticed more than a few people shooting them suspicious or disapproving glances, but this wasn’t as easy to ignore. Red turned his head, very slowly, toward the man. She couldn’t see the expression on his face, only the long fall of his hair. And, of course, she saw the other man’s reaction to that look. The way he blanched and scurried off like he’d seen a wolf headed his way.
Red turned back to her, rolling his eyes. “Nothing changes.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“You know,” he laughed, “I used to think you were a snob. But when it comes to this stuff, you’re just oblivious, aren’t you?”
“You thought what?” She tried to look horrified. “Gasp, et cetera. I can’t believe you thought I was a snob.”
“Neither can I. You’re just a cute little hermit who hisses at sunlight.”
She laughed, because it was funny, and felt warm, because it was fond. But once her amusement faded, she couldn’t stop herself from pointing something out. Or rather, she didn’t want to stop herself. “I’m not completely oblivious. I am black, you know.”
His eyes widened theatrically. “Shit, are you? I had no idea.”
She snorted.
“Of course I know, Chlo. And I realize you must . . .” He trailed off, as if he wasn’t sure how to finish that sentence.
Which was fine, because Chloe knew exactly what she wanted to say. “The thing is, Red . . . some of us have so many marginalizations, we might drown if we let all the little hurts flood in. So there are those, like me, who filter. I think you’ve noticed that I filter a lot. It’s not some inbuilt shield made of money. It’s just something I’m forced to do.” She shrugged. “And that’s not to discount the differences between us that fall in my favor. It’s just an explanation.” The fact that she’d even bothered to tell him this said something dangerous. It said that he might matter a little bit. But, hopefully, he wouldn’t realize that.
His hand came to rest on her shoulder again and stayed there until she looked him in the eyes. His expression was . . . unexpected. Contrite, gentle, slightly amused. She understood that last part when he said wryly, “I’m an arse, aren’t I?”
“Not especially, but I feel as though I should take any opportunity to call you one.”
He chuckled softly. “Fair. Chloe, you don’t need to explain shit to me. I’d say it’s more the other way around. Though I’m grateful that you did. Listen . . .” His voice changed, becoming slightly uncertain. “I’ve got, uh, baggage? When it comes to class. And, in my head, I keep putting it all on you. But I’m sorry about that. I’ll stop.”
Sorry. He’d barely done anything wrong. He’d given her a slightly negative feeling caused by a series of implications based on practically nothing. Which wasn’t to say those feelings didn’t matter; only that it was rare for others to take them seriously. Yet here he stood, watching her with actual remorse. Something in her softened like warm butter.
She lifted her chin and made her words as crisp as she could. “I suppose I forgive you, then.”
He laughed. “Not your fault you’re a princess, after all.”
“And it’s not your fault you’re in constant, tongue-tied awe of my sophistication.”
He spluttered, choked, and then they were both snickering together like unruly children. She almost forgot they were in the middle of a gallery, until a cultured baritone cut into their laughter.
“Red. Still charming the ladies, I see.”
The huffy turtleneck wearer was back, accompanied by the man who’d spoken. He was in his forties or fifties, dark-skinned and classically handsome, wearing a suit so sharp, it should be kept away from infants and waterbeds. He had a shiny white smile and twinkling eyes, and his clear pleasure at seeing Red was giving Turtleneck heart palpitations.
“Julian,” Turtleneck spluttered indignantly. “These are the individuals I told you about. I’m quite certain they aren’t guests of the—”
“Go away, Tom.”
Turtleneck Tom blinked. “Well,” he said ominously. He was quivering with indignation. Nobody cared. He stormed off.
“Redford Morgan,” Julian grinned—Julian Bishop, the gallery owner, Chloe presumed. Interesting. “You’ve not changed a bit. I know you secretly enjoy making my guests nervous.”
“Ah, fuck off,” Red said cheerfully, and dragged Julian into a hug. There was a collective intake of breath around them as the guests waited for Red to stab Julian, or shoot him,
or perhaps rip out the other man’s throat with his teeth. When nothing much happened, aside from Julian laughing and hugging Red back, the crowd slowly began to lose interest.
The two men clapped each other on the back and threw insults. “I heard you were home. I mean, I heard you, stomping around in those boots like a giant.”
“Sorry we can’t all be pocket-sized. Wish I was little like you, but . . .”
Julian, who was all of two inches shorter, rolled his eyes. “How’s your mother?”
“Same as always. Can’t do fuck all with her.” Red’s voice, always warm, became a blanket by the fireplace in winter. He loved his mother. Chloe probably should’ve guessed, what with the tattoo on his knuckles, but now she heard him and she knew. “How’s your dad?”
“The same as always. Incorrigible. Where have you been?”
“Avoiding you, aren’t I?”
“So it seems.” Julian turned serious as the two men stepped apart.
“Nah, come on,” Red said. “I’ve been busy.” His easy charm was dialed up to ten, his smile slow and confident as ever, his broad body relaxed because he was comfortable in his own skin. Except, for once, she didn’t believe it. For once, he seemed to be performing. She was absolutely certain that he was utterly uncomfortable. She remembered how quietly edgy he’d been at his flat, when he’d put his art in her hands and tried to pretend the moment wasn’t ripping him open.
She knew Red’s disappearance from this world had started about eighteen months ago. Now the question clanged in her head like slow, heavy church bells. What happened eighteen months ago to make him feel like this?
“Hmm. Will you introduce me to your friend?” Julian asked, twinkling in her direction. Someone should cover those pretty eyes of his. They might cause an accident.
“This is Chloe,” Red said. “Chlo, Julian.”
She nodded. “Hello.”
“Hello to you, too,” Julian murmured, taking her hand. He didn’t shake it. He kissed it. His lips were firm and the kiss was light. She didn’t want to smack him for it, nor did she find herself battling the urge to climb him like a tree. And so she didn’t pull away.
Red didn’t seem to approve, narrowing his eyes at his friend. “Leave her alone,” he said, and put an arm around her shoulders.
“Why?” Julian grinned.
“She’s a lady, she doesn’t like shady art dealers. Do you, Chloe?”
Chloe said, very seriously, “I try not to judge people.”
“That’s bullshit,” Red said. “She’s being polite. She thinks you’re obnoxious and your eyes are too small. Tell him, Chloe.”
“You have lovely eyes,” she said to Julian, quite sincerely.
“I told you, she’s a lady. She can’t insult you to your face, but she’s thinking it. Anyway, we’re in a rush. I just popped in. We have to go.”
Julian snorted. “So soon?”
“We’ve got a hot date at McDonald’s. Don’t want to miss it. She gets pissy without regular carbs.”
Well, that was technically true.
“Wait a moment,” Julian said, and produced his card, smooth as silk. “Since you apparently lost my number . . .”
Red looked slightly guilty as he stuffed the glossy rectangle into his jeans pocket. “Yeah, sorry about that, mate. I’ll ring you.”
“It doesn’t have to be about work. I want to know how you’ve been.”
Red paused, then said again, “I’ll ring you.” Because it hadn’t been true the first time. He dragged Julian into a one-armed hug, then caught Chloe’s hand and led her out of the room the same way he’d led her in: with too much determination to resist. They passed Turtleneck Tom on the way out and Red actually growled at the poor man. He growled! Chloe tried not to be thrilled, but it happened anyway.
They broke out into the crisp dark and he didn’t let go of her hand.
“So,” she said. “You know the owner.”
Red shrugged his massive shoulders, speaking simply, a restrained energy she couldn’t name winding through each word. “Used to spend a lot of time in there, looking around, wondering how it all worked. Had no one to tell me. Then his dad—that was Julian Bishop the Second. His dad’s the first. His dad asked me one day if I had any questions. He helped me a lot.”
“That’s lovely,” she murmured as they wandered up the cobbled alleyway. Ahead, she saw a glimpse of city lights glinting like jewels in the dark. The rain had become moisture hanging in the air, and the cool, wet scent of it cleared her head. But even without the buzz of alcohol, she felt brave. Funny, that. “Julian Junior seemed rather nice.”
“He’s a twat,” Red muttered. “Kissing your fucking hand.”
“Why shouldn’t he kiss my hand?” she asked, because she was an attention-seeking little monster, hunting gleefully for evidence of jealousy.
He snorted, his breath a white cloud in the cold air. “First time I shook your hand,” he said, “you acted like I’d electrocuted you.”
Ah. He’d noticed. Well, subtlety had never been her strength. “I felt as if you had,” she admitted.
He turned to look at her. He was shadowy, his hair catching most of the low light, his eyes difficult to see. But she felt them burning into her, impossible to escape. “Did you, now?”
* * *
“Don’t take that the wrong way,” Chloe told him quickly.
Red would love to take it the right way. The same way he suddenly wanted to take her: all the way to bed. A sparkling energy had hummed between them all night, too powerful to ignore—lust and chemistry turned intoxicating by delicate, newborn trust.
He was almost positive Chloe wanted him the way he wanted her, but that didn’t mean she intended to do a damned thing about it. In fact, she definitely didn’t; she kept making that clear. And he wouldn’t push. He couldn’t be that guy. So he let her comment pass, changing the subject, resisting the bait she hadn’t meant to throw out.
He cleared his throat and asked, “Are you drunk?” because she wasn’t wobbling anymore, and because it was as unsexy a subject as he could think of.
She flashed him a smile that was both grateful and embarrassed, then cocked her head as if testing herself. “I don’t think so.”
“Good.” When they emerged from the alley, he pulled her toward the Day Cross, a random stone monument to no-one-knew-what, tucked beside the old cathedral. “You want to sit down before we walk back?” He had no idea how long she could comfortably stand, but he wanted to talk for a while, and he kept remembering the little chair in her kitchen. She seemed fine, but then, she seemed fine all the time . . . and yet she was in pain all the time, too. When it came to looking after Chloe, that pretty face of hers couldn’t be trusted.
She was suspicious, as if his offering a seat on a local monument was all part of some evil plan. “On the steps?”
“Oh, sorry. For a second there, I forgot you were classy as fuck.” He wasn’t being sarcastic.
“Actually, I got over my aversion to sitting on the ground a couple of years after I got sick. Needs must, and all that. But, er . . . you don’t mind?”
He fought a frown that wasn’t for her, but for whoever had made her feel like sitting in the street with a friend was some big sacrifice rather than just another thing people did. “No, Chloe. I don’t mind.” But he did remember, now, how shitty her old friends had been. How shitty a lot of people must be to her, the way she acted sometimes. He’d seen how people treated his mum, after all, because she was diabetic. Like being unwell was a crime or a scam or a self-indulgence.
Whether she admitted it or not, what Chloe really needed was a decent fucking friend. And what Red really wanted, badly enough to surprise himself, was to give her that. To show her every kindness she should take for granted. To make her smile and laugh and feel like herself.
The way she did for him.
They sat down, and everything around them seemed to slow, grow quiet, fade away. This side of the monument faced another narrow,
cobbled street, not quite an alley but as poorly lit as one. The churchyard was behind them, and farther up were the old Galleries of Justice. In the day, this street would be full of schoolkids on trips and historically minded tourists, but right now it was deserted. They were alone in the center of the city, like a heart that didn’t know who it beat for.
Quietly, Chloe said, “I think Julian would exhibit your work.”
He shrugged. Pushed his hair out of his eyes. Drummed his fingers against his thigh. The knee of his jeans was wearing out again.
“Do you disagree?” she asked.
“Nope.” The p popped like a gunshot. He sighed at himself and tried to sound like less of a miserable, defensive fuck. “I just . . . don’t think I want that.”
Her shiny shoes had ties that wrapped around her ankles. He watched the bows float up and down as she tapped her feet thoughtfully, her words coming slow but certain. “You don’t want anyone to exhibit you. You don’t want to be in galleries or museums at all, do you?”
It was a relief, like exhaling after months of holding his breath, to hear the way she said that. No incredulity in her voice, like he couldn’t possibly manage it. Just quiet interest, like she trusted him to do shit his own way.
He trusted himself to do shit his own way, too. That was a dizzying realization.
“I’m an independent artist,” he said with a faint smile. “You’re making me an online shop. I’ll work with collectives and all that. I don’t need places like Julian’s.”
“Anymore,” she finished.
If she asked about the past right now, he would tell her everything. It was on the tip of his tongue. She’d shown him hers, with the list and the fiancé and the filtering. Now it was his turn. And he didn’t even mind, because she felt like the kind of person you could say anything to.