“Still forgetting things,” I say. “Keys. Conversations. The usual.”
“Pitfire. I’m sorry, Sisk, it’s not fair.”
“Yeah.”
I know I threw away a dream leaving the ballet, but standing here, I’m not so sure it was a mistake. Yes, there’s a guy waving a spray can like a weapon. And yeah, there’s a girl crying while her friend tries to comfort her, just smearing paint all over her hair. But then I look at the walls, and I see it.Real shit.Someone painted a blue heart cracked open, leaking black tar. Another piece shows a gun shooting the word “hope” right into the concrete. This is Tar City. As fucked up as it is, we’re all down here in the dirt together,and the way we fight to breathe is its own kind of beautiful.Do I miss dancing? More than anything, but I’d be lying if I said I belonged anywhere else.
The sound of someone puking nearby shatters whatever good mood I was trying to build. I hold my nose.
“Five minutes!” someone screams over the music. “Best piece wins!”
I watch the two guys hurry to add their final touches, their chests puffed out, and nudge Lou with my elbow. “Left or right?”
He knows what I mean. I’m not asking him to judge the art—the pieces are actually sick. I’m asking him to play our game. He doesn’t even hesitate.
“Oh, that’s easy. The one in the ripped t-shirt. He’s got that ‘I just got out of bed and I’m still this hot’ thing going on.”
I squint, tilting my head. “Nah. I’m going with the tall one. All that intensity. He’s probably pissed about his dad’s disapproval. You can tell he needs someone to take it out on.”
Lou snorts. “You and your tortured artist fetish. I’m giving ripped t-shirt a solid eight. Tall one is a six, maybe a six-five if he knows how to use those hands for more than just art. I mean, look at the horse’s ass. That’s a man who pays attention to detail.
“Fair,” I concede. “But ripped t-shirt is trying too hard. Points deducted. Tall one gets a seven for authenticity. Plus, I bet he’s the type to bend you over the hood of his car and make you watch your reflection in the chrome.”
Lou leans closer. “Speaking of being bad, you ready to move on yet? Because I bet I could find a volunteer to help you forget all about your ‘self-work’ in about thirty seconds.”
“I’m good.”
Lou grabs my shoulders, turning me to face him properly. He looks me up and down, then shakes his head with a dramatic sigh. “No. You are not just ‘good.’ You are a fucking vision. That top, those tits, you are on fire tonight. Now own it. I bet Jax would drop to his knees if he saw you right now. So stop moping.”
“Hey, you broke the rule!” I say, forcing a lighter tone.
“Shit. Sorry. He who shall not be named.”
I can’t help but smile.
A girl I recognize from somewhere walks by, tapping a little plastic bottle against her palm. She stops near us, her eyes a little too wide. “Anyone need a boost?”
Lou groans. “Pass.”
I take the bottle.
“Sisk.”
“Relax, grandma. It’s not an ash pop. And it’s not poison.”
“You don’t know that. Think of Millie.”
“It’s half the size of a vitamin. And this has nothing to do with Millie.”
“You should know better.”
I turn the tiny pill between my fingers, then shrug. “Bad decisions keep things interesting.”
Lou sighs as I swallow it dry. “I hate this city.”
“But I’m back.”
That makes him laugh.
