Chip went scarlet.
“I know what he meant,” I reassured. “I paint in my spare time when I’m not teaching first grade or working on my post-grad.”
He sat forward in his chair. “Can you draw anything you look at? I have a friend who can do that.”
“I wish. I’m more of an abstract artist, though I sometimes paint landscapes. But I love drawing caricatures.” Taft blinked at me. “You know, like cartoon impressions of people. Hang on.” I reached into my backpack and pulled out a marker pen, then grabbed a napkin from the holder, hesitating for a moment before sketching a quick doodle of Chip, capturing his mop of unruly curls and wide, eager eyes. When I turned it around, Chip’s eyes widened even further, and the table erupted into comments.
“Oh, that’s totally you!” Taft said, elbowing Chip in the side.
Arnaud leaned forward eagerly, tapping the table. “Now me, mon ami! You must capture my devastatingly ’andsome features.”
Walker watched quietly, never demanding one of his own. I felt oddly at ease as I quickly sketched the others in turn. Arnaud’s cocky smirk, along with the Band-Aid over his cut, Taft’s thoughtful eyes, and Bob’s bullish features. The arrival of coffee and crullers temporarily distracted everyone, pushing the sketches aside as hands eagerly reached for cups and pastries. The crullers vanished alarmingly fast. I’d barely taken two bites of my maple-glazed one before noticing the plate was empty except for crumbs. Walker’s glazed crullers disappeared quickly, the speed almost impressive, while Arnaud and Bob wolfed theirs down in a way that suggested they hadn’t eaten in days.
And there I was, having thought these guys would be anything like the bullies I’d known in school: cold, ruthless, and aggressive. Instead, they were a bunch of testosterone-driven teddy bears, each with their own set of vulnerabilities carefully hidden behind muscle and bravado.
Finally, I glanced up at Walker, pen poised. “Your turn.”
He gave a slow, challenging smile, leaning in even closer. His brown eyes caught the warm glow of the coffee shop lights. “Make it good, Finn,” he said. His deep voice made my pulse race and my cheeks flush slightly under the intensity of his gaze.
What the actual fuck?
I started sketching, my pulse quickening as I carefully traced the strong line of his jaw, the confident slope of his nose, and the faint, teasing curve of his lips. His eyes never left my face, making it increasingly difficult to maintain my composure. When I finally finished, I glanced up, feeling more exposed than expected.
“Done,” I said softly, pushing the napkin toward him, unsure whether my rapid heartbeat was due to nerves or the closeness of his presence.
“Ah, Finn, you have made a silk purse from the ugly ear of the big pig!” Arnaud announced.
“Fuck you and the ugly-eared pig you rode in on,” Walker said, which made no sense, then he took the drawing from me before folding it carefully and putting it in his pocket. “Mine,” he murmured.
If only.
FIVE
Walker
Weirdness.
My head was filled with it. Rolling away from the sun glaring through my window the next morning, I plucked the napkin with the cartoonish impression of me from the nightstand to stare at the sketch. Finn really did have talent. Much more than I could claim. I studied the drawing, wondering if this was truly how he saw me. Did he think I was attractive? I mean, seriously, this could be a sketch of Patrick Schwarzenegger.
I’d looked at my mug in enough mirrors to know I was not this good-looking. What generally stared back at me from a looking glass was some fucked-up version of a paranoid kid trying to keep meaty fists from landing on his baby sister.
The napkin floated back to the nightstand as I caught the not-so-light tread of Harper stepping up to my door. She knocked like a marine gunnery sergeant. Barked out orders like one too.
“Hey, you have a therapy session,” she shouted through the door. How one little woman who barely came up to my chest and weighed a hundred pounds with her combat boots on could be so damn loud was a question for the ages.
“I’m up. Make some coffee.” I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and waited.
“I’m not your maid, you know,” Harper snapped back, then left. She would make coffee. Mine was undrinkable. So yeah, she totally had the coffee situation in hand. I kicked off the covers, pulled on some sweats, and took a second to gently fold the napkin into a tiny square and tucked it into my wallet, right between a condom and lube packets. Opening the door, I picked up the aroma of dark brew and maple oatmeal. As usual, Harper was singing along to some punk rock slash darkwave slash goth rock.
No one had ever been happier than Harper Jean Walker when theWednesdayseries debuted. My sister had been a dark goddess ever since she was old enough to apply black lipstick. Dad hated all the goth crap, which made her embrace it even more. We’d not get into the many nights he’d lashed out at her for looking like a zombie slut, and I’d taken the blow meant for her. No point digging that shit up now. I could save it for the team-appointed therapist and tell him. He lived for that kind of trauma.
After a fast piss, I washed my hands, rubbed my fingers through my hair, and called it good. There was no reason to shower. I’d come home and wash off the session in a long, hot bath. Sometimes, old memories stick to your skin like leeches.
She was bouncing to an old Sisters of Mercy song, and I reached for her phone to turn down the music. Deep brown eyes, the same shape and color as mine, flew from the hot water she was pouring over her bowl of instant oatmeal.
“Dickhead move,” she said, then shoved the bowl at me.
“We’ve been here for like a month, and the neighbors have already given us shit about the noise.” I nudged her bony hip with mine. She smiled with pride. “Yeah, no, don’t smile. We’re supposed to be walking a straight line here, Sprite.”
