BLACK CRIMSON (Fairy Tale Quartet #4)

3. Camille-1

3

Camille

The first thing I need to say before anything else is this:

I was Black Crimson’s biggest fan. Full stop. Period. End of statement.

Like, no one loved him more than I did. I was sure of it.

The city’s best-known graffiti artist had been gifting our streets with masterpieces of epic proportions for about two years now.

I’d first become aware of him after his third mural had hit the side of an old movie theater building, and it made the headlines of the paper where I worked.

The Evening Vigil was the biggest newspaper in town, which should sound pretty awesome and glamorous, I know, but alas, my job wasn’t quite the editor-in-chief position I’d always dreamed of getting. Heck, I hadn’t even made it into the writer-of-a-small-uncredited-article-on-the-second-to-last-page position yet.

And honestly, I would’ve been pleased with a fact-checking spot, which was the lowest-ranking place in the editing department.

Except no, I hadn’t even managed that accolade. And so I worked in sales as an ad agent, talking on the phone all day to sell advertising space to businesses for promotional slots so the paper could make money.

But, you know, my foot was in the door. And I was ready to apply for the first opening in the editing department that came up. So...

Enough talk about me.

Back to Black Crimson.

He—and I only called him he because I already felt totally in love with this person, and thus, as a heterosexual woman, I just felt more comfortable labeling him he, even though his true gender was completely unknown at this point.

The point was…

The street artist known as Black Crimson seemed to speak straight to my soul with every showpiece he delivered. He only worked in the spray paint medium and kept it strictly to three colors: black, white, and red. The image-half of his two-part murals always showcased some modern-day fairy-tale retelling, and the text-half had a famous quote that was somehow tied into the picture.

The quotes he chose could be silly or deep, but they were always meaningful and enlightening, and I somehow felt as if he’d written them directly for me. Every time.

His signature initials—B.C.—plus his black and red color scheming ways was how my paper had decided to coin him Black Crimson, which I personally thought they could’ve done a better job of, but now that he’d been Black Crimson for so many months, the very name had become synonymous with extracting a big, dreamy sigh from me.

Because seriously…

Black Crimson. (Yes, cue the sigh there.)

I thought of him as this wild, unobtainable unicorn of a creature. The man was simply a legend.

So when I came face-to-face with a new piece of artwork from my favorite spray-painter on an old brick pharmacy I had passed almost every day of my life, I jarred to an astonished halt, forgetting to breathe for a few meaningful seconds. It had been plastered under a wide overhang awning that had kept the bricks dry from the storm and was just…there.

It was so stunningly there. A masterpiece of urban perfection.

With a white background, he’d crafted the silhouette of a cityscape in black with one feminine figure in a red-hooded cloak drifting between the buildings. Above that, the quote read:

Sometimes when you lose your way, you find yourself.

I’d definitely be looking up who’d written that quote later, but for now...

I marveled over the mastery that was Black Crimson’s world. His strokes were big and bold and yet somehow elegant and flowing. It was like the perfect mix between wild and sophisticated.

It was, without a doubt, a Black Crimson original too. People had tried to imitate him, but no one had ever gotten it quite right before. You could just tell which were his and which weren’t. He had very distinctive lines and details.

I had an entire portfolio on him with pictures and articles of his work, including times and places they had shown up around town.

For some reason, it felt as if it should all make sense or add up to something that would eventually lead me back to the source.

From the outside, the quotes and fairy tales and places he chose seemed totally random. But I knew—because I felt it deep in my bones—that they were all somehow important to him.

And if I could simply connect the dots, they’d lead me back to the face behind B. C.

Until then, however, I shook my head, still trying to recover my breaths because this mural was new. It hadn’t made any papers yet, and more importantly, it hadn’t been here when I’d passed by on the street when I’d driven home from work only a few hours ago. And it had recently finished raining, so it had to be, like, new-new.

Like I was the-first-person-to-see-the-finished-product new. In fact, I could still smell the paint, it was so fresh.

Holy hell. If it was that fresh, then...

Slowly, I reached out a trembling hand to touch the fall of the woman’s cloak. Then, pulling away, I turned my wrist to check my fingertips, only to find them smudged with red.

“Oh my God,” I breathed, whipping my head up and glancing around.

If he’d just finished, that had to mean he was still nearby, maybe even close enough for me to catch him running away.

Man, if I caught a glimpse of Black Crimson, my day would be complete. Forget the need to finish my werewolf s*x scene, I’d have to tell everyone I knew about this, and I’m talking about all four people!

Mind already leaping twenty steps ahead to me actually meeting Black Crimson in person and gaining an exclusive interview with him, which not only prompted me into the editing department but got me a weekly front-page byline, I began to race down the street, looking everywhere as I ran. But the block was dead.

The amorous hitman who’d checked out my butt in flannel pants seemed to be the only person out and about tonight besides me.

Wait a second.

The hooded, amorous hitman?

“No way!” I hissed, slapping a hand to my forehead as I remembered the dude I’d run into.

Hey, creepy stranger. You got a little white stuff. Right here.

It had been paint I’d seen on him. White spray paint.

And hadn’t I caught mists of red and black on his hands when he’d given me my cheese?

“Whoa,” I breathed.

Black Crimson had not picked up my grandma’s package of apology cheese for me, had he?

“Black Crimson picked up my cheese for me,” I echoed the thought aloud, feeling suddenly dazed and disoriented. “Black Crimson dubbed me Mayhem. Oh my God! Black Crimson checked out my ass.”

This was too good to be true.

If I could honestly find out who he was—a secret no one in the entire city had been able to uncover—my career would be set.

Before I could think my actions through, I took off running back around the corner and down the next block to the place where we’d had our encounter.

But, of course, the hooded jogger was long gone by the time I got there.

Huffing and puffing and resting my hands on my knees to get my wind back, I panted, “Dammit.”

I’d been so close too. I’d talked to the guy, literally ran into him, and smelled him, for crying out loud. How could I get so close and then completely lose him?

Sighing dismally, I straightened and jogged back to the graffiti art he’d left behind, wondering how he’d been able to throw it up so fast. No wonder why he was freaking famous; he was like a ghost. His work seemed to materialize out of nowhere with little or no time for him to actually paint it.

A handful of people had gathered by now, all of them taking pictures and gossiping about how fast they also thought the piece had appeared. Meanwhile, this odd little burst of anger ignited inside me.

I wanted to shoo them away and tell them I’d seen it first; this was my art.

But that was absurd. It didn't matter who’d seen it first or took the first picture or even loved it most, it was the world’s masterpiece now. Black Crimson had given it to all of us.

I swallowed down the nip of possessiveness and crowded in with the rest of the others to take as many shots of the mural as I could get. Then, I took pictures of the buildings around it, and the street signs and shop windows, and I hurried down the block because I hadn’t forgotten that I still needed to get to Gran’s sometime tonight.

But as I walked, I started to text like crazy, immediately contacting my girls in the book club.

Sidenote: I really liked the sound of that.

My girls.

Though honestly, I’d only known these women maybe three or four months, tops—probably not quite long enough to make life-long bonds with them yet—although I was working my booty off to get to that place.

Yeah, yeah. So maybe I was a little desperate for some friendship.

The point was, they didn’t seem to mind my sporadic, off-the-wall quirkiness, and so they were the best friends I’d ever had.

They hadn’t even balked when I announced we were going to start a book club together, and better yet, they hadn’t naysayed me when I’d picked out the first handful of books we’d read. They were completely fine with the fact that I’d chosen only happily-ever-after novels to discuss.

So I had decided which day we’d first meet, and then—

Okay! Alright. I could see where it looked like I was going with this, but I swear I wasn’t typically such a micromanager. It was just that someone needed to boost us into gear. Life was—you know—livelier when all four of us were together. So I’d given us a reason to get together.

Regularly.

And so I group-texted my big news to them first.

CAMILLE: You guys will never guess what just happened to me!As I chewed on my lip, waiting for the first person to respond, I paused at the corner of the block, waiting on a red light, and began to type in my answer.

We’d only had one in-person book club meeting together since its inception, and it had gone—well—let’s just say it had gone unexpectedly.

But it had definitely been lively, which was what I knew it would be, so…

Score one for me, I guess.

Another block later, no one had answered yet.

Everyone in the group, except me, had significant others, and all three of their relationships were fairly new, so it would make sense if they were otherwise occupied. The lucky bitches.

But geesh. Couldn’t one of them reply, at least?

And speaking of significant others, the three of them were tied to each other because of their significant others. Kaitlynn was dating Isobel’s brother. And Gabby was married to Kaitlynn’s stepbrother. The only thing that would complete the pattern would be if I hooked up with Gabby’s brother, except Miguel was only ten, so that wasn’t going to be happening anytime soon, meaning, I was definitely the odd woman out.

Not that it had begun that way.

In the beginning, Gabby hadn’t even known Kaitlynn’s stepbrother. But then—at the very first book club meeting, in fact—she had dropped this big bomb, telling us she was frigging married to him. None of us had even known she’d been seeing anyone.

And thus, an unexpectedly lively book club had progressed.

Kaitlynn—who was typically the sweetest, most-forgiving doll you could ever meet—lost her s**t.

She was not happy about all the secrets, which had caused Gabby to break down crying in apology, which was freakily out-of-character for her too. So Isobel and I were left, gaping at each other in concern, not sure what to do.

But in the end, Kaitlynn calmed down enough to listen to Gabby’s story, which—okay—was kind of crazy all on its own and didn’t really explain too well why she hadn’t just had the nerve to tell us she’d even met Kaitlynn’s stepbrother, but whatever. She’d never been good with the sharing emotions thing.

It all ended with Kaitlynn and Gabby clearing out the hurt feelings and promising to never keep anything from each other again.