The Problem with Forever(77)

He shook his head. “After you and I finished at the library, I went over to see her. I ended things like I should’ve done before. So I drank last Thursday—drank a little too much.”

Pausing, he reached over and his fingers brushed my side as he unhooked my seat belt. “Being with her wasn’t the right thing to do, you know?” He slipped the seat belt off my shoulder. “I felt like I was stringing her along. Especially now.”

“Now?”

“Yeah.” His gaze searched mine. “Especially now.”

My lips parted on a soft inhale.

A long moment stretched out between us and he asked, “You ready to head in?”

Pressing my lips together, I nodded. I opened the door and waited for Rider to come around the side. A truck drove past us, the music a heavy thump echoing as it traveled down the block. I looked around as we crossed the street. The neighborhood wasn’t bad. Lots of storefront businesses and farther down, I could see brick row homes.

“You live near here?” I asked.

Rider nodded as he stopped in front of a gray, windowless door. “Yeah. About three blocks down.” He fished out a key and unlocked the door. “The shop is kind of a mess. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” It was a body shop. I expected it to be messy.

He opened the door and stepped inside, holding it for me. I followed him. A heavy scent immediately hit me, a combination of paint and oil mixed with gasoline. It smelled like hard work.

When he threw a switch along the wall, a low hum reverberated through the building. Hanging ceiling lights flickered on, spaced every couple of feet. The light was faint at first, but grew stronger.

Rider moved ahead, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Follow me?”

Wrapping my arms around my waist, I walked behind him as he made his way around a car that was jacked up into the air. Tires were missing, revealing exposed wheel wells.

Workbenches and tool chests were everywhere. Splotches of oil and grease covered the cement floor. The farther we walked in the long and wide building, the more cars we saw covered by thick canvas, and the heavier the scent of paint grew. It was darker back there.

Faint yellow light glanced off Rider’s cheeks as he looked over his shoulder. He stopped by a covered car. “I don’t have set hours here. Drew calls me when he has a job. Been lucky the last couple of months. Work’s been steady.”

Stretching up, he caught ahold of a chain. Muscles along his back tensed, and his shirt strained over his shoulders and biceps as he tugged it. That warm, heavy feeling infiltrated my veins.

Light flooded the space. The first thing I noticed was a large canvas draped across the wall. It was covered with paint. As if a hundred different colors had been tossed on the canvas in no particular pattern.

Rider followed my gaze. “That’s where I test out the colors. Sometimes I have to mix them before I put them in the sprayer.”

“Sprayer?”

Nodding, he turned toward a bench. Several silver canisters with nozzles were laid out across the top. He walked over, picking one up. “Paint goes in here.” He ran his finger along the canister fitted to the top of the sprayer. “And the bottom hooks up to a hose that runs to the air compressor.” He laughed, sounding a little off as he put the sprayer back on the workbench. “Not that you were asking for a lesson on a sprayer.”

“It’s okay.” I stepped closer. “It’s interesting.”

Rider laughed again as he walked away from the bench. He went past me, stopping in front of a covered car. “I’ve been working on this car for the last week.” He grabbed the canvas at the hood of the car and pulled it off. “Almost done.”

My mouth dropped open.

I didn’t know what kind of car it was. A white two-seater. Probably a coupe. It didn’t matter. It was what was painted across the hood and front fender that caught my attention.

It was the American flag. Now, that didn’t sound too special, but the detail of the flag took it to a whole new level. Not a single red line bled into the white lines. The stars were perfect bursts of white among deep navy blue. The flag wasn’t a stagnant square. It rippled as if it were a real cloth placed over the hood, draping the fender, and wind was washing over it. It made it look like the car was actually moving.

How could he do that with paint sprayed onto the surface?

“The guy wanted something Americana.” He stepped forward, brushing his hand along the fender, wiping away an imaginary speck of dirt. “We ended up settling on a flag.”

In awe, I shook my head as I placed my hand over my chest. I couldn’t believe it. I’d seen what he’d painted on the warehouse, and that had been awe-inspiring, but this was something else. “This is amazing.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” I looked at him, eyes wide. “How can you not see how amazing this is?”

Rider shrugged as he flipped his attention back to the car. “It’s just a flag.”

“It looks real!” My voice pitched, but I didn’t care. Rider came from nothing. Nothing. Was raised in darkness and violence, but he’d had this ability the entire time. What he’d experienced hadn’t snuffed out this talent. “Like I could walk over...and lift it up.”

“Huh.” There was a pause. “Thank you.”