“Damn, man. This is sweet.”
He guns it like he’s in a car commercial for a few blocks, showing off the famous fast acceleration. When I look back over at him, he’s not holding the wheel.
“Ahh shit.”
He reaches over, squeezing my leg. I shove his hand. “Don’t you need to…I don’t know…like shadow it or some shit?”
Luke laughs as the wheel turns itself. “Nah.” His eyes move over my face slowly, and his faces takes on a thoughtful tilt. “You got a car, V?”
“Yeah, and when I take it out, I have to drive myself.”
He looks amused, but he starts steering the car again.
“You sweating it, New York?”
I rub my face. “Yeah. I’m a lover of the Tesla—theoretically.” I laugh at myself.
“Ye of little faith.”
I snort.
He’s grinning as his right hand finds my left one and his fingers slide between mine.
“Warm.” He squeezes, and his eyes move over my face again. “Tired.”
“You’re tired, too. I can tell.”
“How?”
I move our joined hands toward his face, extending one finger. “Just under your eyes…gets puffy.”
He smiles slowly, looking impressed. “You’re not wrong about that.”
“I think you don’t sleep well. You fell asleep…after, in the cabin that night. On my little boat that same night, you were drifting. Had the puffy thing going on your yacht, too. The morning we parted ways.” Also in a YouTube video once. I don’t mention that, though. No reason to come off like a stalker.
“It’s true. I’m a crummy sleeper.”
“When you travel, does it fuck you up more?”
“Yeah.” He hangs a left, and I notice the streets look wider…cleaner. “I’ve tried everything for sleep, but nothing helps.” Luke lifts his brows. “Got this cucumber stuff to put on my face from my stylist.”
“Fancy boy.”
He’s smiling, and it’s fucking cute.
I trace my finger over his knuckles so I’m not just cheesin’ at him. Then I say the weirdest thing I could say. “I like your hands.”
His face goes somber. “Yeah?”
I trace the round bone protruding just a little from the outside of his wrist. “They’re really well-proportioned. Art hands.”
His lips twitch a little. “They don’t make art.”
“They are art.”
I can see how my words change him. How he inhales and gets more rigid, and his shoulders lift a little. Damn, McD. How does such a superstar guy not know how to take a compliment?
“It makes you uncomfortable when I say shit like that.” I fold my hand over the top of his, stroking the inside of his wrist. “Why does it?”
He looks at the road and just keeps steering—like I didn’t speak at all—and I feel sorry that I asked. I lift our hands up near my face. “You smell so damn good, dude. Since we saw each other last, it sort of haunted me.”
He laughs, and I know that I made my mark. “My smell? Haunted you?”
I grin. “It’s one of a kind.”
His hand tightens around mine. “So is yours.” He sounds a little gruff. It gets me hot.
“What smell is that? Poor artist?”
“You’re not poor, Vance. You’ve done very well for yourself.”
“You been keeping track?”
“Of course. You sell out every exhibition…and the prices have gone up.”
“How do you know?” I’m just teasing, but his face goes somber serious.
“Sometimes I want to buy them all.” He slows a little as we roll up to a stop sign. He bites the inside of his cheek. “I don’t. Because I can’t talk about your art—can’t talk it up—and every other customer can.” I watch him roll his lips together as we glide down the dark, tree-lined street. “Long ago, back when I had Pearl buy that first piece for me, I used to check and see if you sold out—so I could buy if not.” His eyes move over me. “That doesn’t happen anymore.”
“Not since the work I did inside the Capitol.”
We’re somewhere nice. It’s still urban, but the businesses have disappeared, and all the homes are stately.
I look at him and see his jaw is tensed up.
“You did that,” I murmur.
“I did what?”
Fuck his poker face.
“Did you do that for me, like rec me? Back in January ’18?”
“That would be a risk for me.”
“Skywalker.” I drag it out like it’s a warning…and a big, slow grin spreads over his face. His gaze touches mine.
“Dammit. How did you set that up?”
“Just right place, right time.” He glances at me again with his brows arched. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Are you kidding me?” I squeeze his hand. “Shit, those jobs changed my whole life. Mary on the Mayflower…and the mural I did in the East Wing.”
“Purple Mountains,” he says, smiling.
He slows the car as we pass an urban castle with shrub-lined grounds, and it hits me. “Oh, shit!”
“What?” He’s all eyes.
“That light saber. Do you still have it?”
He gases the car a little and turns sharply right beside a regal-looking mailbox. We roll down a driveway lined with lampposts and some small trees, and I see him press something on the car’s dash before the iron gate ahead of us comes into focus. The thing starts to open, sliding into a tall cement wall that seems to surround the side of the house. I blink at it. It’s a big house.