15. Camille-1
1344 Words
15
Camille
I followed Brick all the way outside and down to a little orange sports car before I started to realize how crazy this whole plan was. And it wasn’t even the illegality of it that bothered me either. It was his vehicle.
“Is this your car?” I said, slowing to a stop in front of it as he steered me closer. “This is your freaking car, isn’t it? Oh my God, I should’ve known.”
His brow knit as he sent me a confused smile. “You should’ve known what?”
“That you’d have some fast, super-nice car. I don’t even know what this is, but I’m sure it cost more than what I make in, like, a decade.”
“It’s a Porsche,” he answered. “And don’t be ridiculous. It probably doesn’t cost any more than four or five years of your annual salary, tops.” When I sent him a disgusted glare, he lifted his brows in surprise. “I mean, honestly, do you even rake in thirty grand a year?”
I huffed out my frustration because no, I didn’t. “Just how rich are you?”
The lights on his shiny, tiny orange car flashed as he unlocked it before pulling open the passenger side door for me. Then he winked and answered, “Pretty damn rich.”
I narrowed my gaze, unimpressed. “So then why are we hanging out again?”
“Because my sisters told me I couldn’t have you,” he teased. “Are you getting in or not?”
Oh Lord. This was not me. I was so going to get my heart broken by this beautiful, engaging, charismatic and wealthy man. He was just too good to be true.
“Yeah, yeah,” I muttered, just as tempted by him as he obviously was by me. “I’m getting in.”
Huffing out an annoyed breath with myself, I slid down into the car and immediately felt as if I were being hugged by hundred-dollar bills. But dammit, his ride even smelled expensive. Like leather and a bag full of cash, plus the hint of a heady cologne I’d smelled on the driver himself.
Brick shut the door and I was briefly alone in the silence of his nice car, wondering what the hell was happening here before he opened the driver’s side door and slid in next to me, grinning in triumph as that earthy, intoxicating scent of his grew stronger.
God, he had the most enticing grin ever. I wanted to give him whatever he wanted when he smiled at me like that.
Tummy quivering with unease and limbs going stiff from how still I was holding them because I was afraid I might break everything in here if I breathed wrong, I glared back.
This was never going to work.
But then he started the engine and announced, “I’ll just pop into the store up the block and get a couple of paint cans, and we’ll be on our way, okay?”
Freshly reminded that he was my idol, and I was about to spend the evening with the Black Crimson and watch him in action, I pushed aside the nerves and nodded. “Fine with me. You really only do work with spray paint cans, don’t you? No rollers. No airbrushes. No stickers.”
“Yep, only spray paint,” he confirmed.
I nodded, intrigued by this. “How is it that you’ve never been caught? I mean, these things must take hours to complete, right?”
He shrugged. “No, not always. Depends on how much I plan it out. But I have been caught. Multiple times. I’ve just never been ratted out before. Some people think my anonymity is as important as I do.”
When he sent me an arch glance, I shrugged unapologetically.
But he was right; from the research I’d done on graffiti artists, they didn’t snitch. Which roused another question from me.
As Brick turned a corner at the end of the block, I shifted in my seat to face him. “Why do you follow some graffiti rules but not others?”
He glanced over curiously as he pressed on the gas and shot us down the block like a bullet. “I didn’t realize there were rules.”
Gripping the seat under me for dear life, I rolled my eyes. “Oh, come on. You gotta know the rules. The ultimate no-no would be to paint over someone else’s work, and you’ve never done that, so…”
“What makes you think I’ve never written over someone else’s work?”
I froze for a moment because he made a good point. Many times, he sprayed on a solid background before throwing on his piece in front of that, so he very well could’ve sprayed over someone else’s work, and the general public would never know it. But for some reason, I didn’t want him to have broken the cardinal sin.
“Have you painted over anyone else’s work?” I asked slowly, not sure why it mattered, just knowing it did.
He grinned over at me as if he was going to say yes. But then he answered, “No,” and I released a relieved breath.
He did recognize some of the rules, then. And though he wouldn’t break the biggest no-no, he wasn’t above cutting corners on a couple of the others.
“There are actually a lot of contradictions to your work,” I realized.
“Like what?” he wanted to know.
“Okay, so to begin with,” I started, ticking off my fingers. “You don’t get permission, so what you’re doing is basically vandalism and illegal, which makes it real graffiti. But true graffiti is more self-taught and mostly just speaks to other artists in that craft. But you seem to address the general public with your art, plus there’s something about your style that makes your work look more formally trained and less about just marking territory. And—”
I lifted a finger as I took a breath, getting a lungful before I continued.
He grinned. “Ah. There’s an and. Of course.”
“And you make these huge blockbuster pieces that must take hours to complete because you don’t use rollers or paste-ups or stickers or even stencils, which should rightly gain you respect among the hierarchy and get you a crown. But no other artist has ever crowned your work.”
“Probably because I don’t follow the rules and have defaced small businesses and even a private residence before, which are more major offenses in the graffiti world,” he shot back with a roll of his eyes.
“Aha!” I pointed at him. “So you do know the rules. I knew it. Though, really...” I sniffed. “Can the mayor’s house technically be considered a private residence? He’s an elected official; the citizens pay for everything he owns.”
Brick shrugged. “He seemed to think so. And to be clear, you got that connection wrong in your nifty little file. I didn’t tag his place because his daughter and I went to a public function together once. The truth is… I was pretty sure he’d looked the other way after my mother had broken a business licensing thing, and I couldn’t prove it, so I made sure all eyes were on him for a while so he’d be forced to behave.”
“Really?” I grinned in admiration. “Nice.”
He inclined his head regally. “Thank you. So...” He pulled into the parking lot of an all-night supermarket. “What’s your signature color going to be?”
My brow furrowed in confusion. “My signature color?”
“Yeah. Of paint.”
I sat up in interest, growing excited. “I get to pick out my own colors?” Did this mean I was actually going to paint something tonight?
Tossing me a grin as he threw open his door, Brick answered, “Hell, yeah. Go wild with it.”
“Oh man. I don’t know.” Biting my lip, I suddenly wasn’t sure if I dreaded the idea of tagging something or relished it. When it came right down to it, I wasn’t very much of a lawbreaker. Or an artist. I mean, I still wanted to see him in action, but… “Maybe I should just watch you tonight.”
When I glanced toward him uncertainly, he lifted his eyebrows with one leg already out of the car. “You pick the colors, Mayhem, or I will.”
Well, when he put it that way…
“Lime green and black,” I blurted, making him chuckle and lift a fist for me to bump.
“Now that’s more like it,” he congratulated. “Let’s set you up for success.”
- Writer
