Get a Life, Chloe Brown

by Talia Hibbert

  She shot him a glare and said, “I am.”

  Red had to lean against the nearest wall for support. He doubled over in the narrow walkway leading to the back entrance, laughing so hard he might break something.

  She stood in front of him with her hands on her hips and a mutinous expression that clearly hid a smile. That mouth of hers said one thing—abject irritation—but her eyes shone and crinkled at the edges in a way that felt like champagne bubbles looked. A way that let him keep laughing.

  When he finally managed to calm down, she asked archly, “What, exactly, is so amusing?”

  He let his head rest against the wall for a second, let his eyes slide shut while he savored the ache in his abs. He hadn’t laughed this much in a fucking century and it felt better than a three-hour massage. “For one thing,” he said dryly, “if you were such a wild card, you probably wouldn’t have to tell me.”

  She sniffed. “Maybe I simply don’t trust your skills of observation.”

  “Fair enough. Observation’s more your thing, ain’t it?”

  She stared at him, biting her lip. Her laughing annoyance faded away, along with most of the warmth in her brown skin. “Red, I—” She stopped, swallowed, squared her shoulders. “I have something to tell you.”

  Ah, shit. He couldn’t resist prodding her guilty conscience, and now she was going to confess. She’d open her mouth and spill the secret of her spying into the open, and then he’d have to ask her why she’d done it, and she’d make it clear she saw him as a creature in a zoo, and he’d have to go back to disliking her.

  Suddenly, he didn’t want to dislike her. It had been difficult. This new, laughing, teasing thing was easy.

  “You going to tell me why you wanted to ride a motorbike?” he asked lightly. “Because I’ve got to be honest, I’m dying to know.” He was giving her an out. She’d take it, right?

  Wrong. She rolled her lips inward, shook her head, and he thought, Come on, Button, don’t be so bloody decent.

  Behind his back, he pressed his palm to the wall until the brick bit into his skin. He didn’t want to hear her admit how little she thought of him when she’d just made him feel so . . . free. So he did the only thing he could think to do; he kept needling her. “Is it because you have a biker fetish?”

  Just as he’d hoped, her mouth popped open in a shocked little O and her dark eyes flooded with outraged humor instead of cold anxiety. “I—what? No. No, I do not have a biker fetish.” She wrinkled her nose at the words, as if the idea horrified her.

  For some reason, he felt compelled to point out, “I’m not technically a biker, myself.”

  She blinked.

  “Not that it matters.” For fuck’s sake, what was he doing? Shaking his head, Red got back to the point. “Tell me, then. Why?”

  He could see the indecision in her face, where last week he’d have seen nothing but cold blankness. She was trying to decide if she should tell him—or rather, what she should tell him. In the end, to his relief, she didn’t broach the topic that would change everything between them.

  Instead, she said, “I have a list.”

  His eyebrows rose. “A list?”

  “Yes. A list of fun or exciting things that I intend to do, for . . . for reasons. And riding a motorbike was on the list.”

  He grinned. So, Chloe had some kind of bad-girl bucket list? Hilarious. “Reasons, huh? What reasons?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said quickly, which only fed his curiosity. “What matters is that I have a proposition for you.”

  Goddammit, his dick just wouldn’t stop reacting to that phrase. “Yeah?”

  “Yes,” she confirmed crisply. “But we probably shouldn’t discuss it here. We’ll need to make some sort of appointment. Set the time aside. It’s quite in-depth.”

  His lips twitched. Did she know she was adorable? Was she trying to be adorable? Maybe this was something they taught at private schools. Maybe she was reeling him in right this minute, and he’d wake up in a year’s time with his life in pieces, her perfume all over him, and a distinct feeling that he’d lost his fucking mind. But no, he reminded himself; these days, no one could reel him in unless he let them.

  “Just tell me,” he said. “Give me a hint.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Where is your patience?”

  “Same place I left my shame.”

  “I pity your mother. You must have been an infuriating child.”

  “I’m her favorite child,” he corrected.

  “You can’t have any siblings, then.”

  “Wow. That hurts, Chloe. Gets me right here.” He clapped a hand over his chest because he was gravely wounded.

  She snorted, zero sympathy. “Since you apparently have to know, I was thinking that perhaps . . . well, perhaps you could help me complete some other items on my list, the way you helped me today. And in return, I could build your whole website for free.”

  His scowl was automatic. “I may not be loaded, but I can pay for the bloody website. I have savings. And anyway, it’s a business expense.” Been a while since he’d had any of those, but since he was about to be back in business . . .

  “No. If you help me, I have to do something for you in return, so it’s fair. Even. A deal, like this. And the website’s all I can offer. It would be an exchange.”

  He frowned at her insistent tone. “Just exactly how much ‘help’ do you need? What’s on this list?”

  “Well, as I said, we should probably discuss it elsewhere.” Her gaze darted around like government spies might be lurking in piles of dead leaves. Like her list was some big, dangerous secret.

  “The more you hesitate,” he told her, “the more I imagine terrible and/or kinky explanations.”

  “Kinky?” she echoed, then slapped a hand over her mouth like she’d just blurted out, Fuck the pope. “I—no. It’s not. It’s just a list of things I want to do. Fun, exciting things.”

  “Like bondage?”

  “Like camping,” she snapped.

  He’d been hoping she’d get all flustered and give it up, but he really hadn’t expected her juicy secrets to include . . . camping. “Seriously? You want me to help you camp?”

  She nodded stiffly. “You’re probably much better with the outdoors than I am. You certainly couldn’t be worse. I also need to go out drinking. You know, partying. Which I’m sure will be much safer with someone who, erm . . . looks like you.”

  Well, he couldn’t argue with that. “What else?”

  “As if that isn’t enough?” She shook her head ruefully. “There’s more on the list, but nothing you can help with.”

  “What. Else?” Not that he was desperate to know, or anything. He was just curious. This list was . . . unexpected, like jigsaw pieces that didn’t quite fit together yet, but hinted at a surprising picture. He wanted to see the picture. That was all.

  “Oh, well, I want to travel the world with nothing but hand luggage.” The words eased out of her like a creak from a carefully opened door, as if she were tiptoeing around the idea. Like it was silly. Like he would laugh.

  The truth just up and fell out of his mouth. “As goals go, that’s fucking amazing.”

  Her face lit up, then closed down as she wrestled it under control. She was the queen of deadpan, after all. “Do you think?” she asked in a tone that said, I don’t give a shit, but go on.

  “I do,” he said, and she gave in and smiled. She might as well have stabbed him in his dignity, the way his body responded to a measly curve of those full lips. He’d always thought she was beautiful, but she seemed to get prettier every time they spoke, which was bloody inconvenient. He cleared his throat and said, “So . . . you want my help with your adventure list.”

  Although, going out for a drink didn’t seem like an adventure. More like a Friday night.

  “My Get a Life list,” she corrected.

  He frowned. “What—?”

  “And in return,” she cut in, “I’ll build your site. It’s
a fair trade. Trust me.”

  Trust her? He didn’t. These days, he barely trusted himself. And the way she talked about this list . . . it wasn’t sitting quite right with him. He should say no. He opened his mouth to do just that, but a question came out instead. “How did something as ordinary as camping end up on the same list as traveling the world?”

  She shrugged, wandering over to the wall opposite his. And then she was leaning, just like him, like they were mirror images. “Life experience tends to start small and build up, doesn’t it? You might camp as a child and end up traveling in your twenties. But mine didn’t build up, exactly, for all sorts of reasons. I have these different levels to catch up with. I chose the ones that seemed important, and I suppose I . . .” She shrugged, let out a self-conscious little laugh. “Well, I suppose I shoved them all together. Is that silly?”

  Say yes. “No. Do you need to sit down? Shall we go inside?”

  “I would love to sit down,” she said, “because I happen to be happiest when curled up on something soft. But I don’t strictly need to sit down, not yet, so I will push myself a little.”

  Push herself. Sounded like she pushed herself a lot, in a lot of different ways. He should find out why. Better yet, he should avoid getting tangled up in her mysterious list, because he knew himself, and he knew it would lead to getting tangled up in her.

  Red was trying to avoid tangles right now. He had enough in his own head, and they’d happened because he’d been here before. Because he’d felt this same urge to get swept up by a pretty, posh girl’s charming quirks, and it really hadn’t ended well. He’d rather ride naked through Trinity Square than get himself wrapped up in yet another mess. He’d rather eat a damned rock. He’d rather—

  “So,” she asked softly, “will you help me?”

  And he, Mister Shit for Brains, said, “Yeah.”

  Chapter Eight

  He still didn’t know why he’d agreed. Why he’d jumped headfirst into the murky waters of someone else’s weirdness when his focus should be on his own issues. He was so completely pissed with himself that irritation kept him up all night, distracted him the next morning, and ate at the edges of his concentration while he made his way to Vik’s house.

  Luckily, when he arrived, Vik was too busy eating some foodie salad to notice anything was up. The guy was usually sharp as a tack, his big, dark eyes like CCTV cameras, but stick some grub in front of him and he lost track of every fuck he’d ever had to give.

  After letting Red into his fancy three-story town house, Vik jerked his thick head of curls toward the stairs and said around a mouthful of bright leaves and white cheese, “You still want to paint that view?”

  “No,” Red said dryly, hefting the art supplies slung over his shoulder. “I’m just here to flirt with Alisha.”

  “Yeah, well, she’s out. I knew you were coming.”

  Red snorted, kicked off his shoes, and made his own way up the stairs. Vik followed like a lanky shadow, face still buried in his bowl. Every now and then, as they climbed to the attic floor, he’d give a disturbingly orgasmic groan and mumble, “You really have to try this.”

  “What is it?”

  “Spinach, pomegranate seeds, feta cheese, balsamic—”

  “I’ll have the recipe for Mum.” When they reached the attic, Red peered into the mysterious bowl, surprisingly drawn to the colors, the textures. Deep, gleaming pink that reminded him of biting kisses. Soft, creamy white, like gasping murmurs of pleasure. The contrast made him think of other juxtapositions, like shiny shoes and velvet skin.

  Christ, he was in a strange mood today.

  He turned away from the surprisingly inspiring salad to survey the bare and slightly dusty attic space. Alisha hated what she called “tat,” so the Anand house was the tidiest, most streamlined space he’d ever seen, with no drawers full of crap or biscuit tins filled with thread, or spare rooms stuffed to the brim with old record players and books that would never be read. They had no use for the attic at the top of the house, and so it remained empty, the walls a neat, plain white and the floorboards pale blond. All of which made the play of light through the roof windows absolutely stunning at a certain time of day.

  This time of day.

  Red loved light. He craved it. Once upon a time, everything he’d created had been all space and glow and refracted rainbows through crystal. But these days, all he seemed to produce were vivid fever dreams that he occasionally liked, until he remembered what he’d been before.

  Did that mean he was ruined, or just changed? He hadn’t decided yet, but he’d known for a while that this space would be the perfect place to find out. That, if he couldn’t catch his old self here, it was really gone. He needed to know so he could move forward, but he’d been almost afraid to find out.

  Then he’d shown Chloe that painting. He supposed having someone else’s eyes on his work had made it more real. He supposed the fact that she liked it, too, had made him brave, which said a lot about his strength of character—or lack, more like—but fuck it, he needed all the encouragement he could get. He focused on his breathing as he set up by the windows, and by the time he was ready to paint he was almost in a meditative state.

  Which Vik, of course, immediately shattered. “So,” he said, as Red stared at the mess of blue and white on his palette. “You’re painting again. That’s new.”

  “Not,” Red grunted, half of his mind elsewhere. He could talk while he worked, but it usually wasn’t polite.

  Luckily, Vik had years of experience in interpreting. “It’s not new? You’ve been holding out on me.”

  Red squinted up at a sky of solid, slow-moving, cotton-wool cloud. Today, autumn was cruelly bright instead of dully gray. This was perfect. But how perfect would it be if he inverted the shades, to catch the way all that white sent the softest, slightest pain shooting through sensitive eyes? After a moment’s thought, he grabbed a different tube of paint.

  “Ah well,” Vik went on between mouthfuls of salad. “If you’ve been hiding it, this is progress, right? You’re not hiding anymore.”

  It took a moment for Red to really hear those words as he built up color on his little canvas. His new work habit—standing in front of his courtyard-facing window half naked—hadn’t felt like hiding at the time. But now he found himself noticing that, for months, he’d only ever painted at night. Even though he’d chosen that room as a studio, set up by that window, for the light itself.

  Hiding. According to the pang in his chest, he had been. He shrugged as he daubed cerulean over violet. “Getting my shit together.”

  He could hear the smile in Vik’s voice. “Yeah? You feeling good?”

  Red snorted. “Who are you, Dr. Phil?”

  “Ah, don’t start that manly crap. We talk about our feelings in this house, boy.”

  “Can I talk about my feelings for your wife?”

  “This bowl would be a great hat on you.”

  Red rolled his eyes and studied the skyline. On the outskirts of the city, there were plenty of bleak council flats, like grim obelisks kissing the clouds. Like a monument to the massive gap between rich and poor in this country, they symbolized a truth the wealthy preferred to avoid. Usually, he’d paint them out of the picture, replacing them with coppery autumn trees or a gold sunset—with bright, brilliant beauty. But for some reason, today, he couldn’t make himself do it. His changed mind kept demanding, Why should I?

  Why should he create a more palatable version of reality? Why should he paint for anyone but himself?

  He’d grown up in flats like those, his home one monstrous headstone among a row of eight. Looking at them now, he felt something. It wasn’t clean or simple, but it was powerful, and it was worth sharing. He mixed a deep pink, like love’s blood, and tried his best to do that feeling justice.

  As Red worked, Vik’s chatter slowed, then stopped. Silence rose up to cradle Red like soft blankets, and before he knew it, he wasn’t thinking anymore. He used to take it for grante
d, that lack of thought, the ability to turn off the constant churn of his mind. But when he put the final touches on his work, and came back to himself, it was a shock to realize he’d “gone” somewhere else. That he’d escaped constant self-awareness for a while. He hadn’t known he had it in him anymore.

  But apparently, Vik had. He clapped Red on the back as he came over, his eyes stuck on the charred carcasses, swallowed up by wild, thorny nature, that Red had turned the flats into. Vik had grown up in flats like those, too. Red held his breath.

  The rubber-band tension stretched, then snapped back. The sting was the kind that made you feel alive. Vik squeezed his shoulder and muttered, “Proud of you, mate.”

  For a second, Red was proud of himself—of his work—too. Then came hesitation. He hadn’t produced anything like his old stuff. He’d forgotten to even try. In front of him was a vivid, half dream, half nightmare of a landscape, the kind that made him feel flushed and frantic and reckless. So he had his answer. He’d lost himself. He took a moment to breathe through that realization, to sit with the finality of it. Oddly, it didn’t choke him. In fact, knowing it once and for all felt a little like lifting a weight.

  He swallowed and wiped his paint-spattered hands on his jeans before turning to drag Vik into a hug. They stood like that for long moments, until Red managed to form a half-decent sentence. “You’re always behind me.”

  “Well, not always. That’d be a bit fucking weird.”

  They both laughed, Red’s sounding rusty—but not as rusty as it had been. He’d laughed with Chloe yesterday, first a bit, then a lot, and it had loosened something in him.

  Maybe that was why he’d agreed to help her. Yeah, that must be it.

  Now, if he didn’t know any better, he’d think she could hear his thoughts—that she’d been waiting for him to figure out his shit and truly accept the deal between them. Because when he pulled out his phone to take a picture of what he’d done, to commemorate it in some wild, nervous moment of just-in-case, there was an email from her in his inbox. He probably should’ve left it, should’ve looked at it later, but something curious zipped up his spine and he found himself opening the curtest email he’d ever received.