“That’s not true,” she giggles.
I fear it might be. “Indulge me.”
She toys with a lock of her hair, and leans in closer. She’s flirting with me. And as I bring her hand away from her eyes but don’t let it go when it’s resting on mine on the stone wall, I’m flirting back. Which is the craziest thing I’ve ever heard. When do I flirt with women? Especially young women the same age as my niece.
“People write stories based on books they like. Sometimes taking the story forward into the future, or the same characters in different settings and situations. There’s a special website for it and everything. And I draw pictures of those stories, or from the original books.”
“Will you show me?” I’m so entranced by this girl.
She winces and hides, tilting her face away again.
“Go on,” I murmur, and she nods.
I reluctantly drop her hand so she can search in her purse for her phone, then lean over her shoulder, our faces almost touching to see the little images she brings up.
I’m not sure what I expect, but when the first appears, I breathe in. It’s so good. The composition is perfect, the detail elegant, and the colours exquisite.
She flicks straight past it.
“These are kinda early, and not that good.” She scrolls past several more. They’re obviously hand-drawn digitally. “This one is okay.” She pauses.
“And these are…” I point at the female character with brown hair and the male with black hair and tattoos. Almost like us.
I slide my gaze sideways and look my fill at Ruby as she explains about the story, and zooms in on details of the picture. Then seamlessly, she’s showing me another drawing, and I’m torn between gazing at her, and at her pictures.
Except I’m not. I only want her.
I’ve leaned in, and so has she. Our closeness is undeniable. The night air is warm and fragrant, but the hint of orange is from Ruby’s hair. I know because I’ve been catching it in my nose all day, ever since she collided with me and my arms closed around her.
I shake my head, both in denial of what I see and a reminder to myself that I cannot have this girl. She isn’t for me.
Instead of kissing her, I ask, “How did you end up cutting hair when you’ve so much more artistic talent?”
7
RUBY
Being with Dante in the darkness should be scary. I don’t know what his job is exactly, and I guess it’s something I should disapprove of. The fact he won’t tell me, and the speculation I heard, indicate it’s not innocent.
I don’t care. Whatever he is, I want him.
He sees me in a way no one else ever has. He’s interested in me, and has listened as I’ve over-shared my art hobby.
He hasn’t taken my hand again, but he’s close enough that we’re sharing breath and my heart is beating so hard.
I shrug one shoulder slightly. “I’d love to make covers as a job, but it’s really tough to get jobs.” I can’t help the wistful tone in my voice. “I’m a hairdresser because my mum was, and she wanted me to follow in her career. The bit I like is helping people feel good about themselves. It’s not actually about the hair. It’s giving them something they can feel proud of.”
“You’re a good person,” he says, almost sadly, sighing, and shifting away.
I want to beg him to come back, but I stash my phone into my purse. He’s gazing out into the shining black and flickering lights on the lake when I sneak a glance sideways at him. Hisundone collar gives a tantalising glimpse of tattoos that snake downwards, and his strong neck.
“Plus, we didn’t have the money for me to go to university or anything like that. It was a choice of ‘start from the bottom as a hairdresser’, or work as a shop assistant, really,” I add, trying to be cool and unaffected by him.
“That was your mother who was with you? The woman who fled at the first sign of trouble?” He doesn’t sound impressed by my boss.
“Ha. No.” I sigh. “Two years ago, my mother sold her business, and I was sort of part of the package.”
“What?” he says, low and dangerous.
