The undead brat is more complicated than Cody expected. More likable—which Cody will never admit out loud, because the feeling clearly isn’t mutual. But that trip to Lawrence’s apartment was… fun. Cody liked glimpsing different facets of Simon. Considerate in his deception, clearly aware that Erica was a solitary woman letting two strange men into her apartment. Quick-thinking and clearly open-minded, running with the boyfriend story.
Weirdly adorable, with his teary red eyes from the garlicallergy.
Admitting a werewolf killed his brother felt like defensiveness, vulnerability, not hatred. Like the moment he claimed they were boyfriends and tucked his icy hand into Cody’s.
Time passes. Cody’s sandwich disappears, but the paints lie untouched. Simon stares at the wall as promised. With every moment, Cody wants more and more to know what Simon is thinking about.
He wants Simon to stop hiding below ground. Maybe sweeping the problem under the rug is the right answer, but Cody’s never been that kind of person. He can’t fix something he can’t see.
“Can you tell me what happened to your brother?” Cody asks, breaking the silence.
Simon goes rigid. Then he moves only his head to glare. “You’re supposed to just let me brood about that.”
Cody shouldn’t say that Simon is too cute to brood. He shouldn’t even think it. “Sorry. We can establish brooding protocols if you like.”
Turning to the wall again, Simon falls silent for long enough that Cody thinks the conversation is over. Then he inhales to fuel a dramatic sigh and rises to his feet.
“It’s not like it’s a secret.” Simon picks up a paint brush and points it at Cody. “I’ll tell you what happened—if you paint a wall for me.”
Chapter 11
Simon
Simon delights in Cody’s consternation. Like he’s been ordered to strip naked and run to the road and back. No—that might have been less disconcerting for poor Cody.
“Don’t be shy,” Simon says. Sweetly, because he enjoys being an asshole.
“I’m not a painter.” Cody’s brow knits. “I’m just going to ruin your wall.”
“Mortals,” Simon sighs. “So afraid of illusory permanence. If you paint it badly, I’ll simply paint over it.”
Someday. Maybe. Simon doesn’t like finishing his projects. It’s never the right time, and no home lasts forever.
Cody takes the paintbrush warily. His body heat breathes against Simon’s fingers. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Which wall do you want me to paint?”
Simon’s hand tingles with proximity. “This room is fine. Pick a blank spot.”
He retreats to an armchair, where he leans. Casually. Not because he’s still so tired. He feels better now than moments ago. The question about Francisco knocked him off balance, so he knocked Cody off balance in turn. A conversational trick Simon learned from Dima, though Dima didn’t know he was teaching it. Simon feels more secure as Cody frowns at the murals.
Secure and curious. This isn’t a test, exactly. Simon’s just interested in what Cody will do.
Appearing to reach a decision, Cody crouches by the paint. Blue flakes onto his fingers as he unscrews the first tube. Next is green, poured into the tray right on top of the blue. Cody mixes them together, and the rich colors disappear into each other like a shadowed pond. The brush bristles are one inch wide. Too large for detail work, too small for covering space.
Cody’s hands are rough and oversized. The paintbrush looks like a toothpick.
Simon accepts his own terrible taste—Cody’s hands are nice. That assessment doesn’t mean anything, as long as Simon remembers those fingernails can sharpen into claws.
“You don’t have to tell me anything,” Cody says, rising with the tray and brush. He might even think he’s sincere, but reluctance thuds clearly in his heartbeat.
Simon lifts his chin in challenge. “Paint the fucking wall, wolf.”
“Sure thing, bloodsucker,” Cody says with a grin, and sets down the tray at the closest blank patch. Between a broken windmill and a convenience store, each rendered in blurry impressions. Memories.
Simon had imagined a table there, where someone might sit with coffee and paper. He never decided who to draw. A bit hypocritical mocking Cody for hesitation, perhaps.
Ten years of indecision break when Cody touches the brush to the plaster. A firm line down, pause, then across. Up. Across, six inches by six inches. Cody fills in the square without lifting his brush, then dips for more paint and starts a new square.
Another, a foot above. Another, overlapping.
