Page 19 of Tanner

I shake my head. “No, sorry. I love looking at art. I hate making art. I never feel like I can create what I see in my mind.”

“What do you see in your mind?”

“Have you seen those little graffiti-like paintings popping up around some of the run-down buildings? I’d love to create something like that but bigger. Remember that tenement I was telling you about? The one I see outside my classroom. Sometimes, I look up and wish there were a huge mural there. I want my students to see beauty where others see destruction.” I glance over at him and then feel embarrassed. “It’s silly—”

“It’s beautiful,” he states.

I tug a stray hair behind my ear. “Not everyone thinks so. My ex-boyfriend thought it was a stupid idea. He hates that I work there. He hates this neighborhood. He hates that I stay late to tutor for free and that I buy supplies for students whose parents don’t bring them in. Aaron always thought I should be teaching at a private school. He said I was too weak to be working in an inner city school. Apparently, there’s such a thing as caring too much.”

“Fuck him.” Tanner crosses his arms, his toned forearms on display.

“Yeah. Fuck him,” I say sarcastically.

“You curse like a ten-year-old.”

“I don’t curse often.”

“I can tell,” he says with a smirk.

I place a hand on my hip in defiance.

“You’re cute as hell.”

As if to make the matter worse, I roll my eyes. Yes, I curse like a ten-year-old and roll my eyes like a teenager. Maybe I do spend too much time with my students. “How is one supposed to curse?”

He unfolds his arms and saunters over to me. Each step is determined, and as he draws near, I think he might kiss me. Instead, he stops—close. Oh-so close to the point that his chest is touching mine. The sensation sends prickles up my spine.

I look up and watch as his lips part, and his teeth skim his plump lower lip.

His hand snakes behind me toward a table. When it reappears, he has a brush in it. “This is how you tell the world to go to hell.”

I raise a brow. He leans back toward the table and grabs a small can of red paint.

With a nod toward the sheet pinned to the wall, he asks, “What do you say?”

I’m not an artistic person. The most creative thing I’ve ever done was decorate my classroom door for a holiday competition, and even then, my students helped me. It’s why I chose the fifth grade; there’s barely any in-class arts and crafts involved. It’s math and science and social studies and—

Why is Tanner opening the can of paint?

With the can now open, I stare at the brilliant, crimson color. It’s rich like blood, and it makes my own feel like it’s swimming wildly through my veins.

I take the brush from his hand and make my disclaimer. “I’m not any good.”

“Do you think Jackson Pollock was any good?”

I glance at him. “Who?”

He laughs, so I step past him and walk up to the large sheet. I have no clue what to do.

Tanner pulls a stool up beside me and places the red can on top. Sensing my hesitation about this experience, he takes my hand that’s holding the brush and lifts it up to dip it down in the can. When he raises my hand back up, the brush is coated in red.

“It’s dripping—” I start to say when he grabs my elbow with his other hand and forces my arm to flick forward with good force.

The paint flies in the air. Some lands on the floor, but mostly, it goes on the sheet in front of us.

Did I mention I hate to make a mess?

My focus is trained on the floor that is now decorated with red splatters. I even got a little on my brand-new dress. I go to put the brush down when rock music starts playing a deep guitar riff that plays two chords and then pauses before strumming again.