7. Brick
1399 Words
7
Brick
Well, f**k.
My stomach churned as the Uber I rode in swayed gently and rounded a corner.
It smelled like a vanilla air freshener had exploded all over the interior, and the alcohol in my stomach didn’t mix any better with the pungent aroma than it did the constant backseat rocking. Or the memory of her words that jostled their way unpleasantly through my head.
I’m going to find the evidence I need to prove without a doubt that you’re him.
“Dammit.” With a groan, I flopped my head back on the headrest and closed my eyes, holding my belly and hoping nothing I’d drunk tonight came back up. “Dammit, dammit, dammit.”
“Hey, you okay back there, buddy?” I was asked.
I lifted my head woozily and opened my lashes, trying to focus on the back of my driver’s head.
“Just great,” I slurred. “But hey. Do you happen to have a basement?”
“A bathroom?”
“A basement,” I tried to clarify, but even I could hear the slur in my speech.
“A basement? What?” The bald-headed man whose neck was about as big around as his noggin jerked a surprised glance over his shoulder at me before facing forward again. “Uh, no. Why?” The fact that he sounded uneasily suspicious of me eased my own not-so-concerned worries about him turning into some freaking The Silence of the Lambs serial killer.
I waved a sloppy hand, answering, “No reason. Jus’ curious.”
And glancing out the window, I watched the night whiz by. At least it felt like it was whizzing. We probably weren’t really going all that fast, even though it honestly felt like we were spinning in a circle whenever I closed my eyes. And the urge to vomit rose every time I did that, so I forced my lashes back open again and kept staring out the window to keep from getting carsick.
When we passed by the museum where my piece there had been painted over by the city, a fresh wave of nausea rose.
She knew.
Camy-Camille knew my alternate identity.
That was not supposed to happen. And it kind of changed everything. Frowning, I wondered if she’d seen me tagging the pharmacy or—
But, no. Wait. She said she’d seen it after talking to me, right? Right. So she must’ve just pieced the puzzle together from there. Which meant she still didn’t know-know. She’d just made an educated guess.
But damn. It’d been a brilliant guess that happened to be right.
It probably wasn’t anything I should concern myself about, though.
I mean, if I were sober, I’d no doubt experience a little more alarm than I currently was, but at the moment, I merely shrugged and decided not to worry about it. She didn’t know.
I’d probably never cross paths with the sexy redhead ever again, anyway, so it was very unlikely that anything would come from our conversation just now.
Except the idea of never seeing her again made me frown because crossing paths with her had been kind of fun.
She gave good banter.
I bet she also gave good—well…other things.
Releasing a wistful sigh, I told the driver, “I met a woman tonight.”
“Oh, yeah?” he asked, nodding in interest. “She pretty?”
“Gorgeous,” I answered, smiling slightly. “Red hair, banging body, spicy freckles… Like the perfect dessert, you know.”
“Sounds nice. You get her number?”
“Nah.” I shook my head and went back to staring out the side window.
“Why not?” my driver asked.
Because leaving her with a curious guess was one thing, but getting closer would be too dangerous. She could figure s**t out, and then her guesses could become statements.
Which could never happen.
Besides, both Gabby and Kaitlynn had told me no.
“Too dangerous,” I answered vaguely, waving a hand to dismiss the topic altogether.
But my new friend in the front chuckled knowingly. “I know what you mean. I met a woman like that once, too.”
I’m sure he totally didn’t understand my meaning, but I glanced toward him, anyway. “Really? How’d that go?”
“I married her,” he answered cheerfully, grinning at me through the rearview mirror. “Going on thirty years now. Got three kids and eight grandchildren together to this day.”
“Huh,” I murmured, lifting my brows as if I were impressed. “Well, congratulations.”
But yeah, that wouldn’t be happening to me.
He inclined his head, graciously accepting my felicitations, then answered, “You should’ve gotten her number.”
“Probably,” I allowed, just to be nice.
“Though, I guess, if it’s meant to be, you’ll cross her path again someday.”
God, I hoped not. Because if I did, I had a bad feeling one or two of two possible things would happen: I’d end up f*****g the s**t out of her and upsetting Kaity and Gabriella in the process, or she’d discover for certain that I was Black Crimson, and only an entire crapload of problems would result from that. So I honestly prayed to God I never did cross her path again, even as I nodded, thinking it’d be nice if I did.
I really had liked her.
“Welp, here you go, man,” I was told as the car slowed and pulled to the curb.
I glanced out the window to find that I was home.
“Hope you consider me for five stars.”
I grinned up at my driver and saluted him. “Good sir, I’d give you ten stars if I could. Thanks for putting up with my drunk ass.”
He chuckled and waved me on, confessing that I was the most pleasant drunk he’d ever escorted anywhere.
Feeling pretty damn good about that, I opened the door and crawled out, then shut it behind me and just stood there a minute—long after he’d driven off—to gaze up at my dark house. It was a nice, two-story, suburban place that probably didn’t fit my character with its manicured front lawn, boring beige color, and great-place-to-raise-a-family look, but it equated all the permanence and stability I’d never had growing up as the second son of Lana Judge. So I loved it.
Pulling my keys from my pocket, I flipped them around my fingers as I ambled my way up the front walk and let myself inside. The air was cooler in here, and the interior smelled like fresh pine from the cleaning service who’d been by earlier.
The walls were stark and furniture was limited since I wasn’t big on decorating. Its only embellishments had come from Kaity, who insisted my home needed character. But she’d never been in the garage, so she’d never seen my true clutter.
Needing to go there now, I stumbled my way through the dark house without turning on any lights, and I found my way out into the attached, two-car garage, where I finally flipped a switch to illuminate the paint-splattered area, full of drawings and posters and all assortment of painting essentials.
This was where I unleashed most of my Black Crimson side, and as I sighed up at the latest piece I’d been working on, I clutched my head and hoped I wasn’t doomed.
I had definitely pegged Mayhem with the best nickname because, if gone unchecked, she had the potential to become one big ball of havoc that could land me in all kinds of legal trouble. She could ruin everything.
Staring at her face now, I swallowed thickly, praying it never came to that. And as she stared back, I winced.
I’d gotten the shape of her eyes as well as the curve of her jaw all wrong.
Studying her all night at Hayden’s had definitely helped cement her face into my brain. I’d never forget that mouth now. And it’d probably haunt me for years to come, especially since I now could never see it again.
Oh well. Putting her out of my mind was what needed to be done. I picked up a can of black spray paint and began to shake it, taking in the three-foot face of the woman I’d met twice now.
It really would be best to nip my little fascination in the bud.
Except, damn. She’d liked me too.
No one loves his work as much as I do.
I shook my head and chuckled. What were the odds that I would stumble my way across a Black Crimson groupie? It was too bad I couldn’t benefit from that.
Biting my lip with regret because putting her from my mind wasn’t what I actually wanted, I began to paint over her face, anyway, and black her out completely, hiding all evidence that we’d ever had any encounter at all. Deny, deny, deny. That’s all I could do at this point. So that’s what I’d do.
I couldn’t let her ruin everything.
- Writer
