Good With His Hands

by Lauren Blakely

  But Max is Max. He knew me when Danika kicked me in the teeth. And the gut. And the balls.

  My last serious girlfriend.

  And the one I learned a hard lesson from.

  She was a stuntwoman. We met on a job, fell fast and furiously, and made plenty of promises.

  Promises I was sure we’d keep. Promises that we’d be together, that we would, in fact, move to Los Angeles together.

  She understood that in order to get bigger gigs, I needed to expand my garage, get more space, more room, and have more access to the Hollywood studios than was possible living on the East Coast.

  I’ll wait for you. We’ll go together, she said.

  But she didn’t wait.

  She didn’t even end up going to L.A. One day, she simply said, “I changed my mind. I’m moving to Georgia instead.”

  And she did, taking off to a burgeoning area of the film business and not even asking me to go with her.

  She made it clear she was splitting with me right along with New York.

  There would be no staying together. No working it out. No opportunities to find a way.

  It not only soured me on giving my heart to another person, but on making big, relationship-type promises in general.

  They’re too hard to keep, and someone always, always gets hurt.

  And I don’t want to hurt Ruby.

  I meet Max’s gaze as we head into the café. “Something might be going on with Ruby. But distance would be a problem. What do you think? Would that be the worst idea ever?”

  He gives a thoughtful sigh. “Guess it depends on how it all plays out. And you won’t know that until it’s over.”

  “Truer words . . .” You can make all the plans you like; you never know how life’s going to play out until you’re looking in your rearview mirror.

  We grab coffees, help Penny color in one of the pages Perk Up offers for the kids on Sundays—today, it’s a New England pastoral scene that reminds me of trips upstate, making me wonder if there will be quaint little towns like that on the West Coast—and then say goodbye.

  On the way to my apartment, I call my mom, checking in to see if her Sunday yoga class killed her this week. My mom’s in great shape for her age, but I’m not sure anyone should be doing yoga in 102-degree heat.

  “Hey, lady, you dead yet?” I ask when she answers.

  She laughs. “No! I feel amazing. I’m telling, you, Jess, hot yoga is changing my life. It’s like I’m thirty again. You have to come with me next week, before you leave. Oh! Or better yet, let me hook you up with my teacher’s best friend in L.A. He runs a studio where the Hollywood people go. You could sign up for a month of classes, meet a sweet, beautiful, yoga-loving movie star, and give me grandbabies while I’m still young enough that people will be shocked when I say they’re my grandbabies, not my children.”

  I grin. “Sounds like you’ve got it all planned out.”

  “Perfect. I’ll get you his number.” She chuckles knowingly. “Even if you’re too stubborn to go to yoga, he sounds like a great guy, and you’ll need new friends.”

  “Thanks for looking out for me, Mom,” I say, my chest tighter than it was a moment before. New friends are good. I like new friends.

  But right now, I’m more focused on old friends . . .

  And maybe becoming more than just friends.

  I catch up with Mom, promise to grab lunch or dinner with her and Dad sometime next week, and then pound up the stairs to my third-floor apartment where I take a shower and get dressed to make art with Ruby in SoHo.

  All the way into the city, the subway rumbles loud enough to wake the dead. But I barely notice, my mind on one thing—how is this going to play out?

  To bang or not to bang? That is still the question, the one I still have no idea how to answer.

  Until I see her outside Street Feet Art Supply with Corey Braxton. And then the answer becomes crystal fucking clear.

  12

  Ruby

  Claire’s list continues to work its magic on my mood.

  While I’m not at all interested in flirting with Corey Braxton, one of New York’s famously talented—and notoriously womanizing—graffiti artists, I do feel lighter today. So when he sidles up to me outside Street Feet while I’m waiting for Jesse, I smile.

  A friendly smile.

  Unsurprisingly, however, Corey shoots me his any chance I’m getting in your pants grin. “Hey, you. Where have you been hiding?”

  My gut says give him a straight-faced answer, like, In physical therapy after a life-altering accident.

  But last night has me feeling generous and at one with the world, so I choose kindness and honesty. “Just designing greeting cards. Planning my first big spray-paint piece. Thinking about life. You know how it goes,” I say, chatting amiably with Mr. Wham, Bam, Thank You Ma’am.

  Chatting. Just chatting. I would never date Corey.

  Please.

  He’s slept with waaaaay too many women in my greater social circle for me to even consider the idea—some things you just don’t want to share with your girlfriends, and peen is one of them.

  Besides, no matter how warm Corey’s big brown eyes are or how broad the span of his shoulders . . . he’s no Jesse.

  A fact he proves when he hits me with his next question: “You want to come back to my place? Have a coffee or something?” He winks as he jabs a thumb over his shoulder, making it clear what kind of “something” he has in mind. “I’m right around the corner and I’ve got some half-empty paint cans you can use for your piece.”

  Maybe I am giving off some get it, girl vibes thanks to last night and the list.

  But no.

  Just no.

  If it was Jesse, on the other hand, I’d be all in—but now I kind of appreciate him drawing out this courtship, prolonging the anticipation.

  Relishing the flirting and the kissing and all the delicious steps along the way.

  I like all the curves and bends with Jesse, even if I don’t know where the road is taking us.

  Corey, on the other hand, is a dead end.

  With a possible side of chlamydia.

  But do I Chad him and give him an unexpected tell-off? Hardly seems worth it.

  Instead, I choose a simple and direct shutdown. With a smile, I bob a shoulder. “Thanks, but I’m meeting—”

  “Me,” a deep voice rumbles from over my shoulder. “She’s meeting me.”

  I turn to see Jesse looking delicious in khaki cargo shorts and a paint-splattered white T-shirt. His hair is damp, and my stomach does a disco dance behind the bib of my equally paint-splattered overalls. God, he’s hot, fresh from the shower. I want to be there the next time he gets out from under the spray and dry him off with my tongue.

  Or maybe just hop under the stream with him and get dirty together while we’re getting clean.

  I’ve never had sex in the shower, but I suddenly want to.

  A lot.

  Starting now.

  “Hey, babe, sorry I’m late,” Jesse says, bending down to press a quick kiss to my cheek, letting his lips linger long enough to stake a claim.

  I can’t help but grin.

  I have zero game, but I guess the universe occasionally smiles on the game-challenged.

  If I’d planned for Jesse to discover me flirting with dip-his-wick Corey, it would have blown up in my face.

  I would have gotten pooped on by a pigeon on my way out of the subway. And Corey would have absolutely forgotten my name or that he’d met me, let alone that I took his spray-paint workshop a few years ago.

  But the goddess of all good things likes me today. It’s the list effect, lighting my path with sunshine wherever I go. Which works, since Jesse’s lips on my skin fill my chest with warm, sparkly feelings, like champagne bubbles fizzing behind my ribs.

  “It’s fine. I know how the trains are on Sundays,” I say in a breathy voice as he pulls away. I motion toward Corey. “Jesse, this is Corey Braxton. He’s the artist who tau
ght the graffiti art class I—”

  “I know who he is,” Jesse cuts me off, showing a few too many teeth as he grins at the other man and thrusts out a hand. “How you been, man?”

  “Good, Hendrix, good,” Corey says, seeming a little flustered. “How about you?”

  “Amazing. Looking forward to your next show. When’s that happening?”

  “November.” Corey shoves his hands in the pockets of his baggy jeans as he shrugs. “Probably. Waiting to see how things shake out with the zoning board. Not sure which building I’m getting for the mural yet. How about you? I saw you had some pieces at Maxine’s place last time I was in there.”

  Maxine’s is a SoHo art world institution that carries some of Jesse’s pieces. He could easily sell his work to his contacts in Hollywood, who have decided Jesse Hendrix originals are a must-have for any serious modern collector, but he loves the NYC art scene and is happy to help them attract the business his fanbase brings in.

  “Nothing coming up,” Jesse says, still smiling that big, vaguely predatory smile. “I’m headed to L.A. in a couple weeks, so I’m focused on that transition for now. But good luck with your stuff. I’ll check it out when I’m back for Thanksgiving.”

  The men shake hands, and I accept Corey’s hug goodbye and well wishes for my project, but inside I’m spiraling a little.

  Back for Thanksgiving . . .

  Is that the next time I’m going to see Jesse? In four months? It’s not that far away—we’ve gone weeks without seeing each other before, when our lives were busy, but it suddenly seems like a long time.

  But as Corey heads off, I force the thoughts from my head.

  Jesse’s moving; that’s a fact of life.

  And it’s a good fact. If he weren’t moving, the best kiss of my life wouldn’t have happened. List or no list, I would never have had the guts to flirt with him the way I did last night if he were sticking around.

  When I turn back to him, he’s glaring at me.

  “What?” I ask, laughing.

  He points a finger after Corey. “No. That’s not going to happen. You and Braxton.”

  I snort. “Of course, it’s not. He’s a walking STD.”

  “You were flirting with him,” he accuses.

  “I was not,” I say. But Jesse’s narrowed eyes make me confess something else. “But I like that you thought I was.”

  "You want me to be jealous?”

  “No, but . . .” I peer up at him through my lashes, emboldened by our kiss and the way he’s looking at me like he wants to slap a Property of Jesse Hendrix sticker on my forehead. “I liked flirting with you last night. I’d like more . . . practice at that.”

  “Then practice more on me,” he says, stepping closer, making my heart thud hard against my ribs.

  “But I don’t know if I can trust you to give reliable feedback,” I whisper, his leather and clove scent teasing my nose, making me think of hot kisses and the way his hands felt on my hips. “You could be humoring me. Telling me what I want to hear.”

  “I’m not humoring you,” he says in a husky voice. But there’s a hint of something uncertain in his eyes that makes me wonder if that’s the truth. “And Braxton is a selfish piece of shit. He tried to get my piece excluded from the Spring Open Studio show in Chelsea.”

  A frown claws at my forehead. “What? But you’ve been doing that show for years. Since I was like . . . seventeen. And the owner loves you, right?”

  “Yeah. She does. And Braxton failed, obviously. But you don’t need a ‘friend’ like that in your life, let alone your bed. I can’t imagine he supports his girlfriends any more than he does anyone else. That prick is only looking out for number one.”

  I tip my head to the side, gazing up at him with a fond smile.

  He scowls. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “It’s cute that you assume he’d want me to be his girlfriend. Not just the flavor of the month. Or the afternoon.”

  He frowns harder. “He should. Any guy lucky enough to get in your bed should want to stay there, Ruby. You need to own that.”

  Except for you. You don’t want to stay there, a voice whispers in my head.

  But I ignore it too.

  I need to be content with his decision, whether he slept on the idea of being friends with benefits and decided it would be a bad idea, or whether he woke up this morning thinking, Yes! A temporary sex fest with Ruby while we’re working through the list is the most brilliant plan ever!

  Since he’s being more protective than pouncy, I’m guessing he chose the bad idea option.

  But that’s okay. I will survive not kissing him again.

  “Sir, yes, sir. Owning it.” I focus on the list and only the list. That’s why we’re here; any kissing is secondary. With that in mind, I point to the store’s entrance. “Now, can we go pick out paints, please? We’re burning sunlight, and the schoolhouse by the cemetery isn’t going to paint itself.”

  His eyes widen, but they also catch fire, flickering with that curiosity that makes him one of my favorite people. I love that he’s always up for considering new things—even things that are a bit crazy. “The one by my gym in Brooklyn?”

  I nod, and his breath rushes out.

  “That place is a little creepy, Ruby,” he says, raking a hand through his hair. “And you know half the homeless men in the borough sneak in there to sleep when it rains.”

  “I know. That’s where Norman goes.” Norman is one of Flatbush’s indigent population, a sweet old man who reads poetry and replicates impressionist paintings in chalk on the sidewalks in the park on sunny days, and who absolutely refuses to go to a homeless shelter. “He said it’s pretty depressing in there, so I thought maybe we could make it . . . less depressing. I mean we can’t restore any of the broken historical fixtures or install central heat in an afternoon. But I have a few ideas of what we can do,” I say, then I tell him my twin plans.

  “Love both of those ideas. And I suppose we can brighten up the place.” Jesse rubs a considering hand across his jaw. “If we don’t get caught.”

  I wave breezily. “We won’t get caught.”

  He arches a brow. “Two people breaking into the old school in broad daylight with cans of spray paint might attract attention.”

  I motion to my empty pack. “That’s why I brought my backpack. They’ll just think we’re two homeless people looking for a nap.”

  He grunts. “Because you look homeless with your fresh-scrubbed face and those cute little overalls with the cherry patches on the butt.”

  “You noticed those, huh?” I ask, my pulse beating faster in my throat as he leans down, bringing his lips closer to mine.

  He whispers, “I noticed. And I want to bite them.”

  Maybe he isn’t on Team Bad Idea.

  My breath shudders out as I nod. “Yes, please.”

  “Art first. Cherry biting after?”

  I nod, my head swimming pleasantly as he takes my hand.

  A shiver rushes through me at the possibility of a night with Jesse. Of tonight with Jesse.

  “Good. Then, let’s get started,” he says, leading the way to the door. “What do you want to paint, rebel?”

  “Something beautiful,” I murmur, following him inside, visions of the paintings I made of him last night dancing through my head.

  Unfortunately, I doubt most of the homeless population of Flatbush would find nudes of Jesse Hendrix as compelling as I do.

  13

  Ruby

  Pink, peach, and tiger-lily-orange rays filter through a cracked window in the old schoolhouse. The sun is showing off tonight, flamboyant as it sets.

  It’s a little past eight. A fine sheen of sweat coats my neck, and my forearms ache from holding a spray-paint can for hours. My shoulder muscles are as tightly wound as clock parts.

  Yes, I have experience with this medium, but I haven’t worked with spray paint in a long time, and I’ve never tried anything this big. I was worried I
wouldn’t be able to pull it off, even with Jesse's help. At least not in one afternoon.

  But when I take a step back, my breath catches.

  We did this.

  We made this beautiful thing.

  It’s not elaborate. Not a Rembrandt, not an intimately detailed landscape that would take a master months to flesh out.

  It’s more like a frame from a graphic novel, or a street sketch captured on the fly, but it works. Art doesn’t have to be elaborate or detailed to be affecting.

  And I am affected.

  From the shades of lemon yellow to the emerald greens and deep-sea blues, the image speaks to me.

  A young mother, holding her child as her little girl points at the sky.

  The girl is laughing, smiling. The mother looks so proud and grateful. They’re happy. The mother’s face is full of hope.

  It’s a simple image, and it rips my heart wide open.

  Make something ugly beautiful.

  As I stare at our creation, a sob works its way up my throat and out through my parted lips, surprising me with its strength. I press my hand to my mouth, a little embarrassed, as I gulp.

  Jesse tilts his head and moves in closer, curling a hand over my shoulder. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Totally,” I say softly. He brushes a finger against my cheek as another wave of emotion hits me. “I don’t know why I’m getting so choked up. I guess it just ... It turned out even better than I hoped it would.”

  The weight of his hand on my shoulder warms me. “It’s perfect. Exactly what this place was missing,” he says.

  I swallow, the lump in my throat making it hard. But sometimes the hard things are the best things.

  The thought brings me back to the list.

  To Claire.

  It’s one of our oldest inside jokes.

  “It’s so easy to feel the hard thing, but so hard to say it.” She would sigh, collapsing on my parents’ couch after a date with her latest crush back in high school. “Why is that, Ruby? Why is it soooo hard?”