Now the cold, sterile white complements my wild side nicely.
In the center, I’ve sketched another depiction of Ned, his devilish grin filling up the bottom half of his face, his braids resting on either shoulder. Weazy did one of his infamous jungle scenes, except the asshole added a barely dressed Asian girl swinging from a rope. The blue streak in her hair is telling.
The rest of the sketches are different scenes from San Francisco—the Golden Gate Bridge; a trolley speeding down one of the steep streets and into a pit of fire. That’s Fez’s addition.
We have so much still to do—I’ve decided I want to cover the ceiling, too—but the sun’s coming up soon, we’re out of paint, and everyone’s tired.
“Hey, Ivy.” Joker leans in next to me as I stoop to collect the empty cans. “Was that a gun I saw tucked into the back of your guy’s jeans?”
“Yeah. Probably.” I glance back over my shoulder at Sebastian, who stands like the soldier he once was by the propped-open door—we had to get some air in here; the fumes were getting to be too much. He’s been stationed by that door without complaint all night, as if he knew how important it was for me to do this, scaring away any curious wanderer with a simple look. I guess he wanted his gun within reach, just in case.
Though, that doesn’t explain why he had it lying on the windowsill last night.
I wander over to him, pressing myself up against his chest. He’s so hard to read most times; right now, he’s impossible. “What do you think?”
His strong arms rope around my body, pulling me in tight. “I think it’s perfect.”
“Does it say Ivy?”
He lays a gentle kiss on my forehead. “I said it was perfect, didn’t I?”
Yeah, I’m beginning to think that Esmeralda was right.
Ned would like my new anchor.
“I look like a three-year-old who got into an art studio,” I muse, scratching at the dried splotches of green and yellow paint that cover my skin, my clothes. They’re probably in my hair, too.
Sebastian gives me a sideways look as we wade through the sand toward the crop of rocks. It’s the very same pile at Ocean Beach that I sat at while designing his reaper. “No, you don’t. Not at all.”
His recently smooth jaw is already covered by a thick coat of stubble, and I can’t help but reach up to scratch my fingers across it now. “You going to grow that back out?”
“You want me to?”
I shrug. “I’m good with it either way.” As long as I have you.
He throws an arm around my shoulders, pulling me into him. Though that dark cloud that formed during dinner with Esmeralda last night still hovers, I’ve managed to get a few smiles out of him this morning.
“I come here sometimes, to think,” I admit, settling onto my favorite perch, which gives me a perfect view of the surfers in the water.
“I can see why.” His gaze narrows as he watches them, too. It’s six forty, and the sun is just cresting over the horizon behind us. The circles under his eyes are probably as dark as mine, but if he’s tired, he doesn’t let on. “Do you feel better about the shop now?”
“Now that I’ve vandalized it, yeah,” I chuckle.
Reaching down to pluck a perfectly intact seashell from between the rocks, he flips it between his fingers. “Now what?”
I shrug. “Now I call my cousin and tell him I want to keep it.” I sigh. “It’s what Ned would want. It’s what I want.” Oddly enough, saying the words out loud for the first time brings me a sense of peace.
“Because she was right, wasn’t she? It’s an anchor.”
I glance up to see that distant worry in his eyes. Esmeralda’s words are still lingering in his mind, too.
“One of them.”