“She did this all in one night?”
“She did it all in two hours.”
“That’s…amazing.”
“See how she uses the cracks in her work, incorporates them into the piece? I told her not to use this section, that the crack was making the wall crumble. See where pieces are starting to fall out? I told her it would be a pile of rock in a year.” He scratched his shoulder, then his jaw. “She said that’s what she wanted.”
Calliope looked at the surrealist mural. Violent images swirled. A Salvador Dali-esque sun was impaled by a wrecking ball. Red paint seeped from the cracks in the concrete as if the wall itself was bleeding. In another section, a black rain cloud dropped candy message hearts into a river of lava where they burst into tiny flames. Calliope stepped back into Tox’s broad chest, reassuring herself he was there, feeling his chest rise against her back. Something about the painting was so...unsettling, she needed to feel him.
“She’s incredible.”
Murmur agreed. “She had some of her best work at 5Pointz. It imploded along with the building. Now she’s kind of like fuck it. I think that’s why she chose the crumbling wall. Nothing lasts. I mean let’s face it. If this stuff was in a museum it wouldn’t be street art.”
Calliope started to pick up on different styles of different artists. Some were political, some focused on the theme of family or equality. Some were expressive designs, movement frozen: a static slideshow in paint.
Tox was giving himself a mental high five. Watching Calliope’s hands move as she expressed her thoughts, staring at that provocative crescent of her butt cheek peeking out from the hem of her cutoffs when she bent down to examine something more closely, following her hand as it ran the length of her ponytail. Imagining cuffing Calliope’s hands in one of his own as he took her mouth, running his tongue along that crescent of butt cheek, wrapping that ponytail around his fist…
“Hey, where’re you going?” Calliope asked as Tox walked stiffly away.
“One sec.” He pulled out his phone, pretended to read a text, and tried to imagine Ren explaining why cuneiform writing was not, in fact, hieroglyphics. Better.
When they had completed the circle of the neighborhood, Tox paid Murmur for his time and shook his hand. Murmur gave Calliope an exaggerated British gentleman bow—one hand folded across his middle, one bent behind the small of his back—and dashed off. Calliope sidled up next to Tox and slipped her arm around him, tucking a finger into the belt loop of his jeans.
“We have to come back here. This might be the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Two deep dimples punctuated his blinding grin.
“Where to now?” she asked as they moseyed.
“One guess.”
Calliope burst out laughing.
“Food,” they said in unison.
The Defender pulled to a stop in front of Calliope’s brownstone. They had eaten dinner at a tiny bistro in Bushwick where the owner knew Tox and had started prattling in Italian the moment he saw him standing in the doorway. Calliope had laughed when she caught a phrase here and there: Finally, my customer who eats! Signore Buchanan is here Marco!
Tox shut off the engine and hopped out. He came around the front of the car and held the passenger door for Calliope. She set a delicate hand on his shoulder and hopped down. Together they made their way up her exterior stairs.
This is it.Calliope was aflutter. There was an aviary in her stomach. She was so attracted to this man there was practically steam coming off her skin. Everything about him just did it for her. From the little scar that bisected his right eyebrow to the cushion of his lips to his perpetual scruff that went from his chin to his crown. Would the kiss be quick or long and slow? Or really long and really slow? Like ending in breakfast slow? She was so lost in thought she hadn’t noticed Tox was now facing her on the doorstep. God, she was ruining the actual moment with her fantasy of the moment.
She scanned his body from his milk chocolate eyes to those damn dimples to his broad chest to his hand extended in a handshake to his…
Wait. What?
Calliope looked again and yes, Tox was offering his hand.
What the…?
Calliope took a second to process. Why was this date ending in a handshake?
He wasn’t gay. He was as turned on as she was. Yeah, the turn-your-back-to-check-a-pretend-text cover was not new to her. He didn’t have a girlfriend.
She couldn’t for the life of her understand why he was depriving her of those lips…those lips. Then it occurred to her. He was in charge. He decided. Okay then. If that’s how he wanted to play it…
Tox stood like a statue, hand extended. She was in charge. She owned him. Tox had to play it this way or he would wipe out a decade of progress in an instant. He was shaking with the effort and feeling guilty that Calliope was interpreting his action as rejection.
Then he saw her expression morph. Her magical eyes sparked; the little blue lightning bolts in her irises darkened. She cocked a brow. Oh, shit. He had to keep it in check. The damn bear had been rattling its fucking cage all night. He was taking a risk even touching her, but he knew he couldn’t end the date with his hands in his pockets.