There Are No Saints (Sinners Duet #1)(52)

“Distance is meaningless when she still lives in your head,” Cole says.

“Yeah,” I admit. “She dug trenches out of me. I keep waiting for it to go away, but it doesn’t. Because scars don’t heal -- they’re there forever.”

Recklessly, I swipe my brush through the black, adding billowing smoke flowing up from the bottom of the canvas.

“I fucking hate her,” I hiss.

I’ve never actually said that out loud. Usually I don’t talk about her at all.

“She’s a perversion of nature,” Cole says, in his calm, reasonable tone. “Mothers are supposed to be nurturing. They’re supposed to protect their children. Sacrifice for them. She isn’t a mother at all.”

I turn around, annoyed that he’s finagled me into discussing this yet again.

“What about fathers?” I demand. “What are they supposed to be?”

I’m already well aware that Cole loathes his father. Despite the fact that Magnus Blackwell has been dead for ten years. And the fact that he was the Thomas Wayne of this city—his name is on a dozen buildings, including a wing of the MOMA.

“Fathers are supposed to teach and protect,” Cole says.

“Did yours?”

“He did one of those things.”

When Cole is angry, his lips go pale and his jaw tightens, sharpening the lines of his face until he hardly looks human.

He frightens me.

And yet, it’s the terror that heightens every moment in his presence. I can smell his scent, hot and exhilarating. I can see the veins running up his forearms, and even perceive the pulse of pumping blood.

I want to kiss him again.

It’s a terrible idea, but I fucking want it.

Unfortunately, I’ve got to get ready for work.

I start gathering up my brushes and paints.

“Where are you going?” Cole demands.

“Zam Zam.”

“You need to quit that job. You’re an artist, not a bartender.”

“Right now I’m both. I need the money.”

Cole frowns. I think it irritates him that I’m poor. Or that he likes someone poor. Assuming he likes me at all—obsession is not the same thing as affection.

“I’ll walk you to work,” he says.

I shake my head at him, laughing. “I’ve lived in this city for twenty-six years, and I’ve walked every inch of it. Alone.”

“I don’t give a shit what you did before you met me. It’s different now.”

“Why?”

He doesn’t answer. He simply takes his peacoat from the hook by the door and silently waits for me.

I wash my brushes and my hands, then pull on my own battered leather jacket. I bought it at a flea market in Fisherman’s Wharf, and it looks like its previous owner might have been mauled by rabid dogs.

“That jacket is hideous,” Cole says.

“Oh, shut up,” I say. “You’re spoiled.”

“If we dated I’d have to buy you an entirely new wardrobe.”

“And that’s why we’ll never date.”

I don’t know if Cole’s being serious.

I know I certainly am. I want to fuck him, not date him.

I can’t imagine being his girlfriend. He just told me he doesn’t support the concept of love. What’s that saying? When people show you who they are . . . believe them.

Never mind my lingering suspicions he might be a murderer.

It seems insane that I even talk to him, under the circumstances. But it’s human nature to believe the best instead of the worst. To allow yourself to be convinced. To give in to seduction.

My brain tells me he’s dangerous. My body tells me to stand closer to him, to look up into his eyes, to put my arms around his neck . . .

“Let’s get going,” I say, striding ahead so he won’t see me blush. “I don’t want to be late.”

Cole doesn’t mind walking along behind me. Sometimes I wonder if he’s stalking me or watching over me. The night is dark and foggy—I am glad he’s with me after all.

This feeling persists when he takes a table at Zam Zam and orders a drink. He sits facing me, sipping his gin and tonic, watching me set up my bar.

If any other man behaved this way—showing up unannounced, following me to work—it would infuriate me.

I don’t get sick of Cole like I do other people. In fact, if he doesn’t come to the studio every day to check up on my painting, I feel oddly empty and the work doesn’t go as well.

Knowing that he’s close by is comforting.

Before long, I lose him to the crowd. It’s Saturday night, and Zam Zam is stuffed with programmers, marketers, and students. It’s standing room only, people lined up six-deep at the bar, shouting at me for drinks.

I like bartending. I get in a flow state where my body moves faster than my brain, and I feel like a robot specifically designed for this purpose. Sometimes I channel Tom Cruise in Cocktail, flipping bottles and pouring a whole line of shots at once, because it’s fun and it earns me extra tips.

The air gets thick and muggy. I’m sweating. I pull my hair up in a ponytail and strip off my sweater. I catch one glimpse of Cole, eyes narrowed at the sight of my skin-tight crop top, before he’s swallowed up by another swell of customers.