BLACK CRIMSON (Fairy Tale Quartet #4)

15. Camille-2

Half an hour later, with two plastic bags full of paint stuffed between our seats, we pulled into the parking lot of a convenience store near the rail yard.

Immediate trepidation filled me. “Is this place even safe?”

“Probably not,” Brick answered good-naturedly as he shut off the engine and reached into a gap behind my seat to pull up the infamous black hoodie he’d been wearing the first night I’d met him.

I sent him an incredulous glance and he pulled it on, zipped up the front, and flipped his hood over his head. “And you have no qualms at all about parking your car here, then just leaving it?”

“Nope.” He patted the steering wheel. “My baby’s got GPS, no-start anti-theft relay, and a 400-watt alarm, plus…” He plopped a white box on the dash and pushed a button on top. “A nanny cam. If anyone f***s with her after all that, well then…” He shrugged. “I’ve got insurance.”

I rolled my eyes, thinking it must be nice to be so stinking rich, while he grabbed the sacks full of spray paint and opened his door, saying, “You still in?”

“Of course,” I shot back.

This was insane and crazy, and yet kind of exciting, so I couldn’t seem to protest as I followed him from the car and off the main street, into the shadows toward the rail yard, where streetlights were rare, and darkness was abundant.

“Are you always so spontaneous and unscripted when you do this?” I had to ask as I hurried to keep up.

“Hmm?” He glanced toward me distractedly, then paused to reach out and carefully lift my hood up over my head too. “No. Never. But you insisted, so here we are.”

“What are we even going to paint on?” I asked, lowering my voice as we left behind more roads and regular city sounds.

“The first bare patch of wall we find. Like…” He slowed to a stop and pointed at an abandoned railcar that was seventy-five percent full of graffiti already. “This. This would be perfect.”

Except I think he had put a bit more thought into it than that. I glanced around, noticing we had plenty of nice, escape paths, a bit of privacy, and the canvas he’d chosen looked a bit like a learning wall because, from what I could tell, none of the other tags looked all that professional.

I squinted at it, barely able to see in this lighting. “Is it always this dark when you paint?”

“Sometimes.” Slapping his hands together, he waggled his eyebrows at me. “Now, we need to set you up with your own tag.”

My brows lifted. “My own tag?”

“Yeah.” With a nod, he widened his hands apart as if displaying an imaginary banner. “Your identifier. Your mark. Normally, we’d practice you off on paper for a couple of years first, but tonight, we’re just going to roll with it. Are you into bubbly letters or do you want something grittier and edgier that’s blocky? Or, you know, you don’t have to outline at all.”

“I…”

“And we’ll have to figure out what you actually want it to say.”

I shrugged. “Can’t I just do my initials like you do for yours?”

He wrinkled his nose. “I was thinking CamyB with no spaces and the C and B capitalized.”

My eyes widened with dread. “But couldn’t someone figure out it was me if I used my real name?”

“But how would anyone know it’s actually your real name?” he countered as he pulled the first spray can from the bag. “Besides, how would anyone know if the B stood for your middle initial or last name?”

“True.” I tilted my head and then decided, “Yeah. You know what; I think I like CamyB. That’s perfect.”

He nodded, thoughtfully studying the wall as he popped off the cap and began to shake the can, making the balls inside rattle loudly. I glanced around, hoping no one could hear that. To me, it sounded like the loudest sound ever.

“Alright, then,” he told me, giving the paint a test spray until it changed from translucent to color. Then he held it out to me. “Here’s the lime green. We’ll go lighter colors first, then layer over it with the darker. And don’t style every letter. Nothing will make you look more like an amateur. Just keep it to one flamboyant letter the first time around, I’d say.”

Nodding, I studied his face as I took the can from him. He’d turned so suddenly serious. Flirty Brick was nowhere to be seen.

I swallowed, not wanting to mess up, and as I turned toward the railcar, I seemed to choke. “Uh… I have no idea how to do this.”

Brick made an amused sound and came up behind me, wrapping his hand around mine so he could lift the can with me. “With a stock tip like this, let’s keep the can pretty close to the wall. Maybe two or three inches. And hold it straight to keep the paint coming out in a direct stream. Don't waver up or down or side to side, or you're going to mist.”

“Okay.” Licking my lips in preparation, I widened my stance and contemplated the wall.

His other hand settled on my hip, and warm breath tickled my ear as he suggested, “Move with it as you paint. Don't move your arm too far out of your center of balance, or that’ll make you mist too.”

With another nod, I glanced over my shoulder at him, ready for him to turn his nearness into s****l banter. But all he did was catch my eye and frown in confusion. “What?”

I shook my head, smiling lightly. “Nothing.”

And I turned back to the railcar, taking a deep breath. Trying to remember all his tips, I started to paint, moving slowly but not daring to pause in one spot because he took my wrist and helped me along whenever I did.

I grinned, surprised by how anal and serious he was about me doing this right. I kind of liked this side of him. When I decided to go big and flashy with the letter Y in my name, He murmured, “Hell, yeah,” in my ear. “Very nice.”

I brightened and finished the tag with a lot more pep. Until I was done and finally stepped back next to Brick’s side to see the whole thing.

“Hmm…” He tipped his head and chewed on his bottom lip as he studied my work.

“I know.” I winced as I took it all in. “It really sucks.”

“Meh. It’s not that bad actually. It’s got good bones. Just needs a few...embellishments to make it uniquely yours. Here, let me see the black.”

I handed over the can, and he immediately began to shake it as he stepped toward the wall. Then he flicked a few quick lines onto the crazy Y, which made my eyes widen in realization.

“Hey, you gave it a wicker look.”

He nodded and moved toward the beginning of the tag. “In honor of your purse, of course.”

I smiled, pleased that he still called it a purse as he underlined the C twice.

“There,” he murmured, stepping back to my side to consider the tag again.

I blinked, startled by how much of a difference those few strokes of paint had made. “You’re a freaking genius.” I turned to gape at him in astonishment.

He shrugged, still examining my tag. “Just takes some practice.”

“Then how the hell have all your pieces looked so spectacular?” I countered. “You never practice.”

“Do too,” he told me. “I practice a lot at home. There’s this wall in my garage I’ve probably painted over a hundred times with different s**t. And besides, your newspaper hasn’t found all my work out there, you know.”

“No way,” I gasped, gripping his arm. “Are you telling me you have more than twelve murals out in public for the world to see?”

He sent me an amused grin. “Technically in public,” he countered. “Yes. But most people won’t want to go there.”

Fingers squeezing around his tattoo, I insisted. “Well, I do. I want to see all of them. Right now.”

He studied me a moment before nodding. “Alright. Let’s do it, then.”

Bending down, he tossed all the cans and lids into the sacks before he stood again.

I grinned, amused by what a clean, considerate vandal he was.

And he sent me a confused frown. “What?”

With a shake of my head, I took his free hand and answered, “Nothing. Now, take me to your—”

But I didn’t get to finish the playful demand because a voice from the other end of the railcar yelled, “Hey!”

Brick and I looked over to find the silhouette of multiple people stalking toward us.

“What the f**k are you doing, tagging in our territory?”

“Oh, shit.” Brick’s hand tightened around mine before he ordered, “Run!”