The Art of Us Read online

After that night, I’d hidden behind a pile of lies. I’d shrugged his kiss off as if it meant nothing, when really it had been everything.

  I could still see the look on his face—the disbelief, the disappointment.

  He hadn’t believed me at first, but when it had become clear that I was turning him down for good, his hopeful gaze had turned bitter and resigned.

  Then he’d left, and we’d never spoken of it again.

  Yes, part of me regretted it. That small, hidden part of me that believed I deserved love and happiness thought I was throwing away my chance.

  The kiss had brought me to life, and I was running away from everything that could entail. But, I knew myself. I didn’t do love. I didn’t fall for it or follow it. It wasn’t what I believed in, and not even Amos St. Clair would make me change my mind.

  A black, shiny vintage car with white stripes on the sides was parked in front of our office, and I did a double take before realizing Amos was behind the wheel.

  He got out of the car, coming around the back to open the trunk.

  “You drive a Camaro?” I asked, dropping my sunglasses to the tip of my nose.

  He gave me an uneasy smile as he opened the trunk. He took my overnight bag out of my hand before I could lift it into the car, and then he knelt to pick up the box of comics I was carrying with me.

  The car was a beauty, but not at all what I’d expected.

  It seemed so unlike him. Even though I didn’t know him, Amos St. Clair always struck me as a hip, modern man from Portland, but that car made him look…vintage.

  Old-fashioned.

  For some weird reason, I liked that. It made me smile. I glanced in his direction.

  He was wearing a thin, worn-out leather jacket over a faded Batgirl t-shirt.

  Cute.

  Black straight jeans and Nike Air Jordans completed the look.

  His eyes met mine, bright and amused, and this time the smile stretched big across my face.

  “You drive, not a new, but a vintage Camaro? What year is this one? 1967?”

  “It’s from 1969,” he replied, sweeping his hair across his forehead. I noticed a hint of stubble on his jaw and tried to remember if he always looked that cool and put together.

  He probably did; I just avoided looking at him on a regular basis, so I wouldn’t know.

  “I didn’t peg you for a vintage car type of guy. I half-expected you to show up with an electric car.”

  “Yeah. I get enough shit for having this car, but it’s a family heirloom. It belonged to my grandfather. We used to work on it together.”

  “Oh.”

  “Shall we go?”

  “Sure.”

  He slammed the trunk closed and I opened the passenger door.

  “So, I guess you’ve never ridden in a Camaro?”

  “Nope. Never had the pleasure.”

  “Well, buckle up. You’re in for a treat.”

  “A treat? Well, now, calm down a notch, St. Clair.”

  “You’ll see, Andrews. This car is not like any other car.”

  “Not like any other car, you say.”

  “This car is an experience. It’s a time machine.” His hazelnut-brown eyes brightened up as the engine came alive and he bit his lip, smiling to himself. When he turned to me, his smile was somehow even bigger. The way he smiled and looked at me made me feel things I didn’t want to feel.

  Heat radiated in my chest as I reciprocated his smile uneasily.

  “Buckle up,” he repeated in a commanding tone.

  I did as he asked and then sat in a daze as he drove us out of Portland, headed to Seattle.

  AMOS

  At some point on highway I-5, the discomfort between us started to fade. I remained quiet for a while, even though I wanted to ask her a million questions.

  I knew I couldn’t talk or even mention our kiss from years ago, although I couldn’t deny I thought about it from time to time. Maybe if things between us had been different, we could have laughed about it, but every time I was around her, the atmosphere was tense, almost electric.

  Ever since that first night, I’d felt connected to her, and even though she’d rejected me, I always had the notion in my head that we should have been friends. Yes, I had been hurt by her refusal and kept my distance as a result, but I always hoped that at some point, things could change.

  Unfortunately, any time I tried to make conversation with Lena, she would shut down. But, on occasion, I had seen how she could be when she let herself go. I loved that side of her.

  I wished I could help her set herself free.

  A few people at work thought Lena was just a cold-hearted bitch, and, granted, sometimes she could be, but there was so much more to her.

  She was smart, and I knew she could be funny when she wanted to. I’d seen her in a couple of different situations, including once when she was buzzed and rapped a whole Drake song standing on top of a conference room table.

  I was in awe of her talent; ever since I’d gotten hired at Paz Media I had been wanting to discuss her creative process. I loved her drawing style and was a secret admirer of her comic Switch—“secret” just because we didn’t really talk and I’d never had a chance to tell her.

  I glanced her way as she sketched in her notebook. It was the same one she kept on her desk at work.

  “You do that a lot. Do you sketch all the time?” I asked, tipping my chin up in her direction.

  She let out a breath and frowned.

  “Don’t you do that?” she asked, eyebrows raised in a curious look.

  “Not as much as you seem to.”

  “I can’t help it. I’ve been sketching since I was thirteen. I’m always sketching. I guess you could say it’s second nature to me.”

  “Do you just sketch your own characters?”

  I glanced briefly in her direction, trying to keep my eyes on the road.

  “Not always. I draw a lot of things I like. You know, the usual—superheroes, manga or anime characters. Sometimes I draw a bit of fanfiction here and there.”

  “Like what? Which comics do you draw fanfiction for?”

  “Well, quite a few. I’ve done Captain America as a gay character going to a gay bar in the sixties and a racy storyline with the Hulk and Black Widow, but when I do fanfiction, I mostly write about Rika Ishikawa’s Aiko.”

  “Aiko? Ishikawa’s unfinished manga?”

  “The very same,” she said with a sigh.

  “How many years has it been since she’s published anything new?”

  “Seven.”

  “Has anyone ever found out why she stopped publishing the comic or why she never finished it? Her publisher can’t be happy about that.”

  “No one knows for sure. I’ve looked everywhere, on English sites, Japanese sites…although I have to admit, my Japanese has gotten worse in the last few years. I’ve stopped practicing, so now I can hardly remember any characters.”

  “Violet told me you majored in art.”

  She looked taken aback by my words.

  “Yes, but I had a minor in Japanese language. I wanted to learn more about the culture, so I knew I needed to learn the language, even if only a little bit.”

  “I tried, on my own,” I confessed. “I’m not very good at it.”

  “It’s definitely not an easy language, but I find it fascinating.”

  “So, you never found out why Ishikawa stopped publishing Aiko?”

  “She was sick at some point. Then it was announced on her site that she’d gotten better, but I haven’t seen anything new being published in the last few years, not even in periodicals.”

  “It’s too bad,” I admitted.

  “I know. It’s my favorite manga ever. I started reading the comic when I was a student in Japan.”

  “You were a student in Japan?”

  “A long time ago. Just for a year.”

  “I’ve never been. Always wanted to go, never found the right time,” I told her with a shrug. “So, how was it
? Your year in Japan?”

  “Best time of my life, worst time of my life,” she let out with a sigh.

  “Worst time of your life? Why?”

  She gave me a long look, pursing her lips together as if debating what to say next. She seemed on the verge to say something, but kept her lips in a tight line, her eyes focused on me. My eyes darted between the road and her cool-blue irises, questioning, but she sighed and looked away.

  “What happened to you in Japan, Lena?”

  “You’ll have to get me drunk before I can talk about that, Amos.” I could hear the tremor in her voice even as she turned her head to the right, looking out the window.

  I was just about to ask her again when my eyes fell on the tattoo on her wrist. I didn’t know much Japanese, but I recognized the two characters, the ones for the number four and the number seven, which also symbolize death.

  I exhaled a breath, feeling helpless. Whatever pain Lena carried, it was something she’d been harboring for a very long time.

  I knew I had to let the subject go.

  In time, maybe she’d tell me what I wanted to know.

  LENA

  I had been in Amos’ car for all of an hour and even though for a moment I’d felt less awkward around him, it had all vanished when he’d started asking about things I wasn’t ready to talk about.

  I took a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves and focus on something else—the road, the landscape, anything—but I couldn’t really do it. One of the reasons was that his scent was distracting, and since we were in his car, I was engulfed by it. He smelled so good, whatever the hell he was wearing—or not wearing. His scent was a mix of fresh and minty that hit my nostrils forcefully, awakening my senses.

  The other reason I couldn’t relax was because of the music he was playing.

  His choice in music was fascinating.

  I would have never pegged Amos for a classic rock type of guy—and by classic rock, I didn’t mean Journey and all that. I meant the good stuff, the serious, hardcore ’70s rock—Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Jefferson Airplane. “White Rabbit” came on the stereo and I found myself wanting to sing along, even though that song always had the power to make me feel unsettled.

  I stared at my phone, pretending to be distracted by my Facebook feed.

  Every once in a while I glanced in his direction, while he thankfully kept his eyes on the road. I couldn’t stop staring at his shoulders, his strong muscular arms. He’d taken his leather jacket off, and his dark Batgirl tee clung tight around his torso. I couldn’t help but think how beautiful he was.

  I wanted to sketch him.

  I forced myself to look at the road ahead, averting my eyes just in time.

  The rest of the ride was quiet and uneventful.

  We checked in at our hotel then went up to our rooms. Of course, our rooms were next to each other. I sighed, realizing there was no escaping Amos this weekend, no way to put some distance between us. We rode the elevator in silence, and I avoided glancing in his direction.

  I hadn’t been that close to him in so long, and my mind was full of…ideas.

  Ideas I shouldn’t have been pursuing. Something inside me told me if I got too close to him, I wouldn’t be able to shake him off. My stomach was in knots, as if I couldn’t trust myself. In a way, I already knew I couldn’t trust myself around him.

  If I crossed the line with Amos St. Clair, I knew I was going to lose myself for good.

  “Do you want to get something to eat? I saw a couple places around the hotel, or we could go to one of the restaurants from Alan and Stewart’s list,” Amos said, distracting me from my inner ramblings.

  I paused for a moment before replying as I reached the door of my room.

  “Where is that damn key and why did I put it away?” I asked myself as I patted my back pockets to find the key card. I inserted it into the slot just as the strap of my cross-body bag slid off my shoulder. The bag fell onto the floor just as the door unlocked, the contents spilling everywhere on the plush patterned hotel carpet. I opened the door of my room and put my luggage in front of it to keep it open.

  I turned around to pick up what had fallen on the floor, but Amos had already beaten me to it. He was holding my pocket mirror and an apple in one hand…and my vibrator in the other.

  Fuck.

  Sure, my magic wand was small and discreet, concealed in a silky black pouch, but there was no mistaking the shape of it.

  I went to take it from his hand, but he held it firmly.

  I glanced up to look at him and saw the biggest smirk on his face, one corner of his lips tilted up.

  Bastard.

  Fine—if he wanted to play, we could play.

  “What, Amos? Never held one before?” I asked, the tone of my voice flirty.

  “Can’t say I have,” he replied jokingly.

  I met his chocolate-brown eyes again, wide with surprise and a hint of mischief.

  “Well, what can I say? A lady must always be prepared.”

  A throaty laugh escaped his mouth, and my eyes fell on his full lips. I smiled despite feeling flustered to my core.

  I took the black bag and stood up while he remained on his knees, at my feet. His eyes fell on the vibrator in my hand at first, and then he tilted his head up and stared at me. The dark look in his eyes caught me off guard. My heart sped up, beating faster, and a slight ache spread in my chest and my lower belly. The way he looked at me made me feel agitated and confused.

  Every time I thought we were getting better at interacting, we seemed to take three steps backward. It felt like we could never completely let go of the electricity between us.

  I let out a sigh and offered him my hand.

  He seemed to snap out of whatever was going through his mind and offered an uneasy smile. He took my hand and I pulled him up. With the other hand, he brushed his hair across his forehead.

  I looked at him questioningly and he frowned, confused.

  “So, you were saying…dinner? I’ll pick you up in thirty minutes.” I smiled confidently and he laughed again.

  I liked the sound of his laughter. When he laughed, his eyes brightened up. They almost looked a different color, like a caramel brown with a darker rim around it.

  When he laughed like that, my heart did a little somersault. I recognized the sign.

  I liked him, and I liked even more that I could make him smile.

  Maybe it didn’t always have to be uncomfortable silences between us.

  Maybe we could get better at this, whatever it was. Maybe we had a chance to become friends…but I feared I was already lying to myself.

  I didn’t do friends. I did lovers.

  LENA

  I woke up jittery the next morning. Public events had that effect on me.

  I always had trouble going to sleep, and I always woke up feeling both excited and nervous. I stared at the gray view of downtown Seattle, pressed against the window, wearing just a heather gray tank top and a pair of nude-colored undies.

  A memory of the night before flashed across my mind.

  Amos and me laughing, enjoying ourselves, talking about pretty much everything from food to music to comics.

  I smiled, realizing I’d had more fun than I wanted to admit. Part of me was still upset I hadn’t gotten to come to Seattle with Alan and Stewart, but Amos’ company wasn’t that bad. Somehow, I had been able to not think about what had happened between us too much.

  It was just a kiss. It was just a kiss, I kept repeating to myself…but it had been the best kiss ever.

  What if? What if we could be friends? What if we could be more?

  Maybe I had to stop avoiding him. I had done it to protect myself, but now a voice inside me told me I had been silly and stubborn.

  I started getting ready for the day, and I realized I probably needed to do a quick video for Instagram.

  Having a strong social media presence from the very beginning had helped Paz Media tremendously, so Marty required us all to h
ave Twitter and Instagram accounts. He stressed over and over how important it was for us to update and connect with our readers to let them know what we were working on or where they could come see us.

  I took a quick shower and started getting ready, applying more makeup than I usually would.

  I wore some skinny black jeans with ankle boots and a long, black-and-white Yuri!!! On Ice Katsuki t-shirt. I tousled my hair to give it a bit more volume, and when I was happy with how I looked, I made a quick video.

  I wasn’t very good at it. Talking into a camera was awkward, and I wasn’t the best person for the job, but I did what I had to. Like Violet had mentioned, I was much sweeter and nicer on social media than I was in real life. In truth, besides the fact that I hated showing my face more than I felt comfortable with, I enjoyed connecting with my readers.

  Most of them were teens, and some of them were going through some hardcore stuff. Some of them had it much worse than I had growing up, and there were those who struggled with their sexuality and felt trapped inside their body. They identified with the heroine of Switch.

  Getting emails and messages about how my comic book touched them was what I lived for, because once upon a time, comic books—shojo manga in particular—had done that for me.

  They had saved me from myself, saved me from my loneliness.

  I checked my phone and grabbed the things I was going to need that day. I made sure I packed a few drawing pens and sharpies, and I opened the door just as Amos was about to knock, coffee cup in hand.

  Serendipity at its finest.

  “That coffee better be for me,” I said jokingly. He smiled and handed me the cup, the initial look of surprise giving way to a softer look.

  “Indeed, it is.”

  “You’re the best,” I said in a flirty tone I rarely used. He seemed equally taken aback by my reaction.

  He was wearing a different tee this morning. It was a soft heather gray with a loose fit, and it looked good on him. I sighed nervously, wishing I could stop myself from looking at him so much.

  “Do you have everything you need?”

  I took a sip of the coffee and nodded. “I do. Let’s go.”