“You’re good.”
I laughed. “Don’t sound so surprised. I do this shit for a living, you know.”
She gave a rueful smile.
“Sorry. I guess I thought you painted flames on bikes and stuff like that, but this is real art. How did you learn how to do it?”
“I picked things up here and there,” I said. “Although for the record, depending on the design, what you see on motorcycles is real art, too. Not just anyone can do that.”
“Sorry,” she said. “Didn’t mean to insult anyone.”
“No worries, I understand. Just wanted to clarify,” I said, wondering what she’d look like naked and covered in paint. Pretty fuckin’ good, probably. “So I took a bunch of art classes when I was in juvie. They were pretty basic, but the teachers always seemed to reach out to me—I learned a lot from them. Then I took some more classes when I got out. I mostly just sketched down in Cali. They didn’t have art classes or anything.”
“Well I really like them,” she said, and I felt my pride swell. Okay, something was swollen—no need to get into specifics.
“Thanks,” I told her, heading toward the stairs. “My place is up here. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s quiet.”
I hadn’t had the apartment long enough to get it truly dirty, thank fuck. Not that I worried too much about impressing anyone, but for some reason I didn’t want her thinking I was a total pig.
“So, this is it,” I said, flipping on the light. Mel looked around, and I wondered what she thought. It wasn’t big—just a small living room and kitchenette under the eaves. There was a separate bedroom and bathroom behind us, too, but considering I’d been living in an eight-by-ten cell for the last year with two other guys, it felt like a palace to me. “The studio space below is what really sold me . . .”
“It’s great,” she said, turning back toward me with that shy smile that went straight to my cock. “I mean, it’s a dump, but it’s yours and I like it.”
I burst out laughing and she joined me, wandering over to sit down on the couch.
“Nice,” she said, running her hands across the faded, dirt-brown upholstery. “Vintage. I’m pretty sure I saw this at the Idaho Youth Ranch thrift shop last week.”
“I will neither confirm nor deny that. You want something to drink? I have water and beer.”
“How about a beer?” she said. I grabbed a couple cold ones and came back to sit next to her on the couch. It felt good to have her here. Good and weird and wrong, all at the same time.
“You want to watch a movie or something?” she asked, nodding toward the TV. I had a decent one, too. Giant-ass flat-screen—homecoming present from the club.
“Sure,” I said, reaching for the remote. I didn’t have cable, but Ruger had set up some kind of box thingie for me so I could stream stuff. “Whatcha in the mood for?”
“Not horror,” she said quickly, and I laughed again, remembering that first evening I’d spent with her at Pic’s house. She’d been so young and scared and vulnerable . . . I’d wanted to eat her up.
I still wanted to eat her.
“I can’t believe that you and Puck were supposed to be watching over me, and then you put in a slasher movie. That’s not how you make a girl feel safe.”
“No horror,” I agreed, although the thought of holding her for a couple hours while she was scared shitless appealed way more than it should. Watch it, asshole. “How about Star Wars?”
“You like Star Wars?”
I shrugged. “Everyone likes Star Wars. You know, I’m pretty damned sure Han Solo was a biker.”
She giggled. “A space biker?”
“See, when you say it like that it sounds stupid.”