Drawn To You (14 page)

Nope, still there.

“Ezra?” I say. “Can you hear me?”

“I heard you,” he says.

“Oh good,” I say. “The flyer said the sign-ups are through next week, so we could go tomorrow --”

“Pass,” he says. There’s something off-putting in his tone.

“Sorry?” I must’ve misunderstood.

“I said, I’ll pass.” This time, there’s definitely something like annoyance in his voice.

“This is an incredible opportunity. Why would you pass?”

“Why are you pushing this? Drop it,” he says sharply.

I’m thrown by his reaction that I physically take a step back. I collect myself and say, “You display your paintings in public already. I thought you might want some credit for them, is all.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t,” he says, still cold.

“That’s all you’re going to give me?” I say. “Seriously? I don’t know where this is coming from, but you do important work. It should be seen.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be seen. Maybe I like the anonymity.”

Now it’s my turn to be annoyed. “You were doing paintings at the Catacombs party. That’s not very anonymous.”

“Those are different. That’s just generic street performer bullshit. You’re the only person who knows the graffiti art is mine, and I want to keep it that way.”

I’m so confused. I lean against the side of our building, running my hand along the wall and remembering that first night I saw him, the painting of the woman that introduced me to a whole new world of art, that introduced me to
him
. “Ezra, your work is beautiful. It can move people, and you deserve to be recognized for that.”

“I said no, Mia. Let it go.”

His reaction is so atypical that I don’t know how to respond. I’m hurt that he’s being so dismissive and bewildered that he doesn’t want credit for his work. For all his showmanship, I thought he’d leap at the chance.

“Fine,” I say.

I hear him mutter under his breath and say, “I’ll talk to you later.”

Then he hangs up.

It takes me a minute to recover and take the phone away from my ear. Tears begin to sting at the corners of my eyes and I blink them away, furious at myself. I can’t believe I thought anything this good could happen to me. I’m such a fool. That’s what I get for letting someone in.

Maybe I should have listened to the darkness.

T
hree hours later
, my foul mood still hasn’t lifted. I must be scowling at the kids in the graphic novel section, because they keep looking at me nervously and then whispering to each other.

“Get out of here,” Sampson says, stepping behind the counter and shooing me away. “You’re scaring the children. You’re scaring me, for that matter.”

“I’m fine,” I growl.

“My left ass cheek you’re fine,” he says. “Go away. There are returns to do in the back. Get.”

He practically kicks me away from the register. I contemplate hissing at him, but settle for a curled lip that would make Severus Snape jealous and I make my way to the back rooms, where I stomp toward the returns box.

As I mark off the books that are going back to whence they came, I let myself fume about Ezra’s attitude. What is his deal? What’s so wrong about suggesting his art is good enough to be in a gallery alongside other respected artists, and that he deserves to make some money from it? He joked about liking Banksy once, but maybe it wasn’t really a joke. Maybe he’s got some notion in his head about being the next big anonymous street artist. I wonder if he knows anonymous stealth art doesn’t pay.

I’m sorting these books like they’re the one’s who wronged me.

Two self-help books. Four mystery novels. A complete history of twentieth century biopics. Three romance novels.

All cast off the shelves, all likely never seeing the light of day again. Is that what Ezra really wants for his work? To exist in the public eye until some building owner decides to whitewash it into nothing, like it was never there at all?

My dark thoughts are running away with me when there’s a knock on the doorframe.

“Sampson, I’m not going to freaking bite you, you don’t have to announce your presence,” I say.

“I don’t know, I feel like I do,” someone says, but it isn’t Sampson.

I twist around in my chair to find Ezra leaning against the wall. My heart skips a beat and my traitorous mouth tries to smile before I remember that I’m pissed at him.

“You shouldn’t be back here,” is the first thing I can think to say.

He gestures over his shoulder. “Your, uh, boss? Manager? He sent me back. Said something about me needing to clean up whatever mess I made.”

Ugh, Sampson’s sticking his nose in where it doesn’t belong. I’m going to have to rearrange the magazines later to put all the trashy tabloids front and center. He hates that.

I scowl. “He should really mind his own business.”

Ezra clears his throat and shifts against the wall. “Yeah, well, I did make a mess.”

I glance at him out of the side of my eye, not sure what he means.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you earlier,” Ezra says. “I shouldn’t have. You were being incredibly thoughtful and I was a dick. I apologize. Let me make it up to you.”

“How?” I ask, still wary.

He nods his head back toward the exit. “Come out with me tonight. Your shift ends soon, right?”

I sigh. “Yes it does, but I’m really not in the mood to be around a bunch of people tonight.”

He crosses his arms, an eyebrow quirking in this self-congratulatory way that would be annoying if it weren’t so adorable. “I thought you might say that. It’ll be just you and me.”

“Really?” I say. My interest is piqued, despite my misgivings. “What do you have in mind?”

“That,” he says, “is a surprise. Are you in?”

I lower my eyes to the paperwork I was working on and fiddle with it while I roll his proposal over in my head. I’m feeling pretty raw from his brusqueness earlier, but he did apologize, and it seemed genuine. Plus, he didn’t make me stew for more than a few hours.

I’d also be lying if I pretended I didn’t want to spend more time with him. If he were the moon, I’d be the tide, unable to resist his pull.

“Okay,” I say. “But seriously, no crowds and no bars.”

“Cross my heart.” And he does.

My shift ends at eight o’clock, so he doesn’t have long to wait while I wrap up. I bid goodnight to Sampson, who gives me a warm nod and Ezra the evil eye. I make a mental note to tell him to lay off later. He really is such a dad.

I expect us to head to the bus stop, but Ezra only walks half a block before pulling out a set of keys and hitting the power lock on a shiny red Jeep Grand Cherokee.

“You have a car?” I ask. It’s a genuine surprise – hardly anyone I know in Portland drives. There are cars on the road, so people must own them, but my admittedly limited circle is all about bikes and public transportation.

“It’s Leon’s,” Ezra says as he opens my door for me. “All I had to say was that I was taking you out and he practically threw the keys at me.”

That makes me laugh as I climb in. “He likes me that much, huh?”

Ezra walks around to the driver’s side, slips in, and turns the key in the ignition. “Honestly,” he says. “I think he’s planning on asking you to be the godmother of his firstborn.”

“So, where are you taking me?” I ask as he pulls out into the road.

“I told you, it’s a surprise.”

As we leave the city, I finally give up prying and turn up the music, letting it wash over me. It’s experimental stuff, uplifting with good energy. There’s something familiar about it.

“Is this Duke?” I say.

Ezra smiles. “Good ear. Yeah, it’s some new material he’s been tinkering with. What do you think?”

I close my eyes and let the pulse of the music in. There’s emotion in the rhythm. I can sense hard-won euphoria, an undercurrent of struggle, a sense of loss that bleeds into acceptance and love. There’s a female vocalist on this track, and her singing makes my chest ache.

It’s fantastic work. Duke can paint a scene with music, there’s no question. If this is the rough cut, I can’t wait to hear the finished version.

Ezra’s waiting for an answer, so I say, “It’s amazing. Like listening to the thoughts inside someone’s head.”

“I like that,” Ezra says. “I’ll tell him you said so.”

“Who’s the singer?” I say.

“Ah.” Ezra tugs on his ear. “It’s Skylar. They collaborate sometimes.”

“Oh, that’s just not fair,” I say. “She gets to look like that, dress like that,
and
sing like that? If only I could be so lucky.”

Ezra looks at me sidelong. “Oh, I don’t know, I think you’re pretty lucky in the looks and talent department.”

“Flatterer,” I say, but his words make my skin warm.

By now, we’re pulling onto a dirt road alongside a park. There’s a parking lot across the way, but even from here I can tell it’s empty.

“Where are we?” I ask as the car comes to a stop.

“Somewhere with great hiking trails,” he says with a grin. “Come on.”

I hesitantly get out of the car, looking around for any signs of life. Ezra’s pulling a small cooler out of the back of the car. He’s completely at ease.

“It looks like it’s after hours,” I say.

He closes the rear door with a thud and says, “That’s half the fun. I promise there will be no lions, tigers, or bears. Even if there were, I’d protect you.”

I reach out to take his offered hand, though I’m reluctant. “I’m really not much of a hiker. Maybe this isn’t the best idea.”

“There’s something I’d really like you to see. It’ll be okay.” He squeezes my hand, and he’s so sincere that I feel my reluctance melting away.

I follow him across the empty parking lot and past a vacant entry booth. I’m about to mention my guilt over not paying the park entry fee, but he slips a bill under the window and I have to suppress a grin.

Night’s fallen completely by now, and the park beyond the gates isn’t exactly well lit. We hike for about twenty minutes in a comfortable silence. I’ve already tripped twice despite the moonlight when Ezra pulls out a flashlight to guide our way. It illuminates the ground well enough, but even so, my feet seem to find every loose stone and exposed tree root.

Ezra catches my arm the next time I stumble. “Is your brain actually controlling your feet?” he jokes.

“Shut up. I told you I wasn’t much of a hiker.”

“God, you’re cute,” he says. “We’re almost there.”

We follow the path beneath the trees. They’re black in the night, whispering with the breeze. The branches part above us to expose the full moon, silver and bright, along with the distant twinkling of stars. Every now and again, large or small shapes swoop across the exposed sky. Bats and owls, I think.

The sound of trickling water grows louder, and sure enough after a few more minutes of walking, we come up on a creek. It’s shallow, but too wide to jump over. Ezra starts picking his way alongside it and I try to keep up without slipping and ending up soaked.

He stops near a group of rocks that are close enough together to serve as stepping stones to the other side. Without a second’s hesitation, he jumps from rock to rock. He’s on the opposite shore in a manner of seconds and he beckons me across.

“Are you serious?” I say.

“What I want to show you is worth it, I promise,” he says. “I’ll catch you if you fall.” When I’m still unconvinced, he adds, “Don’t you think something beautiful is worth the risk?”

I take a deep breath. That’s it, isn’t it? Ever since I came to Portland, I’ve lived a risk-free life, at least until the last few weeks. Nobody got too close, my job was simple and routine, and my past was far away. It made it easier to be alone and deal with my own shit, but the thing about being alone is that it gets lonely. I took a risk letting Ezra in, and that’s been worth it, hasn’t it?

Yes. Absolutely.

I let my breath out and make the first leap. Don’t think, just move. My feet barely touch each stone before I spring off of it again up until the last rock, which is mossy. My foot slips out from under me and I pitch to the side.

Ezra catches me, like he promised he would, and pulls me alongside him.

His body is warm against mine and he says, “See? I got you.”

“Yeah,” I say, but I’m kind of breathless and reluctant to move away from him. “Where to next?”

“It’s up here around this switchback,” he says, dipping to pick up the cooler again.

I twine my fingers with his other hand, walking beside him toward the curve in the path. When we reach it, he takes a slight detour directly into the woods. In the moonlight, I can see the barest outline of another trail, but it’s definitely not used often.

The trees get thicker and I’m starting to get a feeling that could definitely be described as “the creeps,” but then the overgrowth thins out again. The sound of more rushing water encourages us forward.

“Found it,” Ezra whispers, and then he leads me into a clearing.

When I see where he’s brought me, I gasp in wonder.

I
t’s
like a scene out of the sort of fantasy film that features nymphs and unicorns with flowers woven into their hair.

We step into a clearing about fifty yards wide, covered in grass that looks silver-gray in the moonlight. White wildflowers grow in patches around the perimeter and make the whole area smell sweet. On one edge, a sliver of the creek flows by, and it’s easy to see where the water’s coming from. A waterfall tumbles down over the rocks stacked on the creek side, forming a little pool before it flows off to join the wider branch. It makes the perfect babbling brook noise as it goes by.

Above us, the stars stretch across the sky and the moon gives us its full light.

“Wow,” I say.

“Yeah,” Ezra says. “I know.”

We hold hands as we walk to the middle of the clearing where he lays down his jacket for us to sit on. It hasn’t rained for two whole days, so the ground is reasonably dry and doesn’t soak through as I sit down. Ezra settles down next to me and opens the cooler, pulling out a pair of bottles. The label’s handwritten, but the logo’s familiar.

“This is that grapefruit gose beer from Underweather. I love this,” I say.

“I remembered,” Ezra says, using a bottle opener on his key ring to pop the cap off my bottle, then his own.

“This was a summer special,” I say. “I can’t believe you scored some.”

He clinks his bottle with mine. “There are benefits to being buddies with the owner, like getting first dibs on limited edition stuff he bottles for his own collection. Cheers.”

We each sip our beer and I sigh with pleasure. It’s tart and light with a hint of salt and greenery, perfect for summer. The grapefruit adds some fruitiness without making it sweet. The rind ups the bitterness, which I love.

I catch Ezra twisting his face at the taste and have to laugh.

“Not your style, huh?” I ask.

“I’m a simple man with simple tastes,” he says. “This is bizarre.”

“Bizarrely delicious,” I argue. “Leon’s got talent.”

“If you say so,” Ezra says. “I’ll take your word for it, beer lady.”

After a few more pulls of our drinks, he reaches back into the cooler and hands me a bundle wrapped in wax paper.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“The best thing you’ll eat this week,” he answers, unwrapping his own package to reveal a burrito. He bites into it with enthusiasm.

I pull the paper off my own and notice right away that the tortilla is… well, not a tortilla. With some trepidation, I take a tentative bite and am surprised by the flavor. Instead of Spanish rice, there’s the tang of rice wine vinegar. It takes me a minute to wrap my head around it.

“Is this… sushi?”

“Yep, sushi burrito.” He picks a piece of shrimp out of his and pops it in his mouth. When he’s done chewing, he adds, “I probably should have asked if you liked raw fish first.”

“I do,” I say. “This is really good, actually. Surprisingly good.”

“Guess we’re both trying new things today,” he says.

We look up at the sky. It’s crystal clear, no clouds in sight. The air is crisp and cool, but not too chilly. Ezra’s turned off his flashlight, and being this far from the city lights means we can see thousands of stars peppering the night sky. There’s even a visible streak of the Milky Way brushed across the blue-blackness like a paint stroke. The stars twinkle white and blue above us, and I can almost hear them whispering beneath the burbling of the creek. If I could draw sound, I’d draw this scene as soft chiming in the darkness.

Ezra’s fingers brush against my cheek, pushing away a curl. I turn into his touch and find his face is gentle and glowing in the moonlight. There’s a small scar above his left eyebrow that I haven’t noticed before. I wonder if it has a story. I want to know all his stories.

I want to be a part of his story.

My lips are starting to ache for contact. I should do something about that.

I lean in and catch his mouth with mine. His fingers move around to the back of my head, wrapping themselves in my hair and pulling me in deeper. His tongue runs softly against my lower lip and I sigh against his lips.

I have missed kissing so much, and I am so glad it’s part of my life again. Kissing is good. Kissing Ezra is best.

A solid ten minutes of making out later, we come up for air and I rest my forehead against his.

“So,” he says, tracing circles on my forearm. “I’m really sorry I was a jerk earlier.”

There’s no doubt in my mind he means it. I just wish I knew what had bothered him so much.

“I forgive you. Although…” I bite my lip, thinking hard about what to say next. I don’t want to make him go cold again, but I’m not ready to let it go yet. There are too few artists who can do what he can do, and I honestly believe his work should be in a gallery. Other people should know what I feel when I’m with him.

I take a breath and say, “Please don’t get upset, but I wish you’d reconsider the contest. It’d be a risk, yes, but weren’t you just telling me something beautiful is worth the risk?”

He stiffens, and for a second I think he’s going to get snappy again, but he sighs instead. “I told you, I’m not interested. Could we drop it?”

“What’s really going on?” I ask. “I don’t believe for a second that you’re not interested. I’ve seen how alive you are when you’re painting for a crowd. So what is it?”

His hand drops away from me and he looks back at the sky. “I’d rather not have a bunch of professional art assholes get all condescending about my work, okay?”

That stings a bit. “I’m one of those professional art assholes, you know,” I say.

He closes his eyes. “No, you’re not. You’re sweet and raw, and you try to make people feel good, even when you’re keeping them at a distance.”

“You think I’m telling you that your art is good because I’m trying to stroke your ego?” I say.

“No.” He rolls his shoulders, going all defensive. “You’re too genuine for that, I know that. It’s just --” He cuts himself off, but his jaw is still tensed, his forehead creased. “Please just drop it, Mia.”

Tentatively, I put my hand out to rest on his knee. “Ezra, what’s holding you back? What are you so afraid of?”

That struck a nerve, apparently. He pulls away from me and stands, shoving his hands in his pockets and walking over to the waterfall. What’s going on? I give him a minute, but when he doesn’t come back, I get up to join him.

“Hey,” I say, loud enough to be heard over the water. “You can talk to me.”

“I’ll enter the stupid contest if it will make you happy,” he says with an edge to his voice.

Hurt wells in me at his sharpness, but I temper it. Whatever this is, it’s clearly a sore spot, and I want to help it heal.

“I don’t want you to do it for me, or because you think I’m challenging you, okay? You should enter because you’re a brilliant artist and other people should see what you can do. You deserve a spot in that showing.”

Ezra rubs his hands over his face, scratching his fingers through his shadow of a beard. “I don’t deserve anything.”

I’m surprised to hear him say that. I know he’s more sensitive about his art than he lets on, but he thinks he’s undeserving? I don’t know anyone more deserving.

“What are you --” I start.

Something bursts in him, like a crack in a dam that’s suddenly crumbled, letting a lake spray through.

“I’m not like you, okay?” He walks away from me, then back again, pacing. Twigs crack under his feet. “You understand art. You know the names of classical painters. Your drawings are masterful. You went to
art school,
for fuck’s sake.”

I don’t say anything, I’m too stunned. He’s on a roll, though, and he keeps going.

“That’s not me. It never has been. I don’t have any technical skill at all. I was just a kid from the city who needed an outlet and thought a wall would look better with some color. I don’t even use real paint.”

He stops pacing and squats down next to the water, pulling at the long grass growing there. When he speaks next, it’s so quiet that I barely hear him.

“I’m not a real artist. I don’t belong in a gallery.”

Hearing those words breaks my heart. For all his extroversion and showmanship, I had no idea he was so down on his own work, especially when I know how powerful it is. I’ve never seen him so vulnerable, like his ribs are cracked open to reveal what he’s kept buried deep. I wonder if he takes risks to cover up his fear, instead of hiding from it like I do. It’s not lost on me that he probably doesn’t show this side of himself to anyone. He trusts me, and that’s worth more than I can say. I know how hard trust is to come by.

I sink down on my knees next to him. The ground’s more damp here and it soaks through my jeans, but I don’t move. I reach out a hand to run my fingers through the loose hair around his face.

“You said I understand art,” I say. “You’re not wrong. I studied it in school, I learned what makes it great. Technicality is all well and good, but if the work doesn’t have a heart beating inside it, it’s pointless. Good art is nice to look at. Great art makes the audience feel what you want them to feel.”

He doesn’t respond, though he tilts his head toward me so I can tell he’s listening.

I continue. “Your paintings are great art, Ezra. When I look at them, I feel all the hope and agony you pour into them.”

He looks at me, his brown eyes soft and sad. I place my hand alongside his cheek. He needs to know what I see when I look at him.

“You are an artist,” I say. “Trust the professional art asshole when she says so.”

A second passes, stretching thin in the space between us, and then he bridges the gap to kiss me. It’s hot and needy, unbalancing me before I have a chance to respond. When I tilt to the side, he catches me and pulls me in close.

It’s not long until we’re reclined on the grass where it’s drier, the waterfall trickling beside us and the stars scattered overhead. My hands rove over his back, feeling his firm muscles move beneath his shirt. His hands occupy themselves with the skin of my belly, stroking and sending tingles of the most extraordinary kind all the way down to my toes. When he cups my breast, I arch up into his hand, relishing this feeling. I want to be present, to enjoy this moment as we lay exposed to each other, more than just physically.

Although, the physical part is wonderful, too. God, this feels good, and I suspect it must feel pretty incredible for him, too, given the hardness pressed firmly against my leg.

I’m overwhelmed by the heat pulsing insistently between my thighs, my thoughts returning to last night and wanting a replay over, and over, and over.

His mouth moves against my neck and I’m gasping, gripping his shirt and pulling him closer and closer still.

“I want you,” I murmur in his ear and he groans into my skin.

“I don’t have a condom with me, do you?” he says. His words are heavy, ragged.

“No,” I huff, frowning in frustration.

We breathe and consider our options. He leans in and whispers into my ear, “I’ve got an idea.”

He pushes my shirt up and bends down to kiss my stomach. He moves lower, past my navel and down to the band of my jeans. When his tongue circles my exposed hipbone, I jerk with pleasant surprise. He unbuttons my jeans, sliding them with my panties down my thighs and past my knees. The cool night air caresses me at my center and I shiver.

Ezra’s lips trail against the insides of my thighs, first one, then the other. I can feel every brush, every tickle of his beard. He dips low and I hold my breath, the anticipation a sweet, slow torture.

When he draws his tongue over me, I can’t help the cry that escapes me. It’s not loud, but in the center of the clearing, it could be a crack of thunder.

He takes his time, tapping and circling and stroking, bringing me up higher and higher, but never quite over the edge. I sink into the sensation, letting the heat settle deep in my lower belly, glowing like stoked coals. When I think I can’t take it anymore, when I’m dangling on the edge by nothing but my fingertips, he swirls his tongue one more time and I fall, pleasure pulsing through me until my legs shake.

It takes some time for me to come back to myself, to see the stars overhead again. When I look down, he’s leaning against my thigh with a smirk.

“Welcome back to Earth,” he says.

“Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” I wheeze at him.

He shrugs. “Weren’t you very recently telling me I should feel good about doing great work?”

“Shut up,” I say, pulling myself to sitting and pushing him so he falls to his back. As I’m pulling my jeans back up, I add, “Two can play this game.”

He puts his hands behind his head, lust in his eyes as I stroke down his torso to lift his shirt. I give him similar treatment to what he gave me, running my tongue down his happy trail and along his waistline as I make short work of his belt. His exposed arousal sends another wave of heat through me. I love that I have that effect on him. It makes me feel heady and powerful. I give him my best sultry gaze and twist my hair over one shoulder before going down.

I lick along his shaft, swirling around the tip while he bucks involuntarily and moans. When he can barely hold still, I take him into my mouth and work him firmly but slowly, pumping in time with my hand at the base. When I glance up, his head’s thrown back against the grass, his throat rolling as he swallows. His hand moves slowly down his body until he can twine his fingers in my hair. The tension at my scalp feels incredible, the good kind of pain. Seeing him open and at my mercy reminds me of how much he trusted me, and I’m determined to show him that trust isn’t misplaced. I can make him feel so safe, so good.

“Mia,” he croaks. “God, Mia.”

The ache in his voice is all the encouragement I need. I would do anything to hear him need me like that. I pick up speed until Ezra’s body tenses and he hums deep in his throat. It’s not long at all before his breathing goes rapid and he gets harder and harder.

“God, I’m gonna…”

His chest goes still as he holds his breath.

Then comes the release. I keep going until his moans slow and finally stop.

When I untangle his fingers from my hair and sit back up, he’s staring glassy-eyed at the sky. I feel immensely pleased with myself. I hope I have many more opportunities to put that look on his face.