“Yes,” I grumbled. Who in God’s name was?—
“You sure you’re okay? Because you don’t look okay.”
“I literally just said I wasn’t okay.” I muttered, opening my eyes to find a random guy silhouetted against the sun. I couldn’t make out his face. A new paparazzi? I sighed, realizing I’d have to cut him a check, just like all the others I’d bribed to back the fuck off.
“What are you doing?” He asked, standing too close for comfort.
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m taking a nap.” I threw an arm over my eyes and sighed because I had no fucks left to give. “If you’re here for a photo, that’s old news.”
“Really? Because it looks like you fell, your shit is everywhere.” He cleared his throat. “And no, I’m not here for a photo, whatever the hell that means.”
“Sure you aren’t.” I glanced at the scattered contents of my purse before throwing an arm over my eyes again.
“Do you want help with that?”
I assumed he meant the bucket. “Can’t. It’s an assignment.”
“Carrying around the bucket?” He asked, and I could feel him still hovering.
“Go away.” I demanded, relieved when he didn’t respond. I wasn’t sure how much longer I laid there, but the sun was scorching, and I finally forced myself to sit up, because if I didn’t move, I was actually going to faint from heatstroke. I groaned when I realized he was sitting on a nearby bench. “I thought you’d left.”
“Nope.” He shrugged. “Just wanted to make sure you didn’t pass out down there.” He crossed back over to me, and I tensed. “So, are you going to tell me what the deal with that bucket is?”
“Nope.” I pushed a strand of hair out of my face and stood feeling more than a little lightheaded as I ignored his outstretched hand.
“Fair enough.” He smiled and grabbed the bucket anyway.
“Put it down; you can’t carry that.” I argued, frantically grabbing for it—I nearly fell over when he let go of it and the weight swung back to me.
“Why?”
“BecauseIhave to.” I snapped. God, what was his problem? Just go away, guy.
“You have to?”
I groaned, waving towards the bucket. “I have a dead mother.” I practically shouted. “Okay? Is that a good enough reason for you?”
He grimaced. “Are those her ashes?”
“No,” I said defensively. “I’m not a complete weirdo, despite what it may look like.” Maybe I was, but I certainly wasn’t going to admit it to this asshat. I stared at him while he watched me closely. Maybe he was a journalist. If he was, he was a really bad one.
“So if it’s not your dead mother’s ashes, what’s in the bucket, then?”
I groaned, shielding my eyes from the sun. “Seriously? Why do you care?”
He shrugged. “I don’t.”
“Good, I’m glad we got that settled.” I hefted the bucket up, dying to get away from him.
He walked backward in front of me. “So, you gonna tell me or what?” He blocked my path, and my shoulders slumped as I dropped the bucket. I didnothave the energy for this.
“It’s paint. Okay? Black fucking paint.” This entire ordeal was probably going to end up on some shitty website tomorrow. Whatever.
“Well then, that wasn’t so hard.” He smiled. “I’ll just walk with you then, while you carry your big bucket of black paint.”
“I don’t even know you.” I glowered.
“I’m Isaac.” He stuck his hand out, and I didn’t shake it. “I’m in some of your classes.” Maybe he was, he did look vaguely familiar.
