Page 13 of Chasing Danger

At least he was still willing to engage with me. I hadn’t lost yet.

“Well, you noticed how long I was gone.” My smile softened until it was only the slightest curve of my lips, and I let some of the heat show in my eyes. “That means you’ve been thinking about me.”

It was the moment of truth. I would know from his reaction if there was truly any interest behind those hazel eyes.

“I would never think inappropriately about a customer,” Oliver said with a little extra breath in his voice. “Besides, I don’t even know your name, sir.”

“D’Angelo,” I said, completely ignoring my last name. A regular civilian likely wouldn’t recognize the significance of the Bianchi name, but there was always a chance, and I didn’t feel like using any of my aliases.

Although, he did bring up a good point.

Technically, I was a customer. Usually, I picked up my partners from clubs, bars, or the various events I attended. Occasionally,I hooked up with the family or friends of my various connections who were already part of the criminal underground life that I lived in. This was my first time taking an interest in a service worker. Not that there was anything wrong with the job, but the employee-customer dynamic could cause problems.

Turning off the charm for a moment, I addressed Oliver with a serious tone. “Just to be clear, you can absolutely tell me to fuck off. My ego can take it, and I’m not interested in anything that isn’t mutual.”

Oliver nodded, though he didn’t look as relieved as I’d hoped. “That’s good to know...” He trailed off, and couldn’t seem to decide between looking at my eyes or looking anywhere but my eyes. “However, I still don’t really know you.”

Oh, so he was the type who wanted to talk first. I was used to partners who immediately wanted to jump into bed, though that was probably at least partly due to the environment where I chose to meet potential lovers. However, I could work with this. It would mean a little more effort, but the outcome would be worth it.

How about this?” I laid my credit card on the counter. “Ring me up an espresso, and whatever drink you like best, then come share it with me and talk for a bit. That way we can get to know each other.”

Oliver looked uncertainly around the shop. I could practically see the wheels turning in his head as he weighed the pros and cons of my offer. It had been the same the last time we talked, and I suspected that the man was a chronic overthinker.

“All right,” he finally said, and started punching buttons on the cash register. “It’s dead right now, so I have nothing to do, butif another customer comes in, I’ll have to leave to take care of them.”

I easily agreed to his requirements, safe in the knowledge that no one would disturb us. Gavriil and Eva had spent twenty minutes chasing away anyone who tried to come into the shop before I’d stepped inside and they would continue to do so until I left.

While Oliver was busy making the drinks, I slipped a hundred dollar bill into the tip jar on the counter to make up for the loss of business.

Oliver was efficient at his job. I’d barely sat down at a table in the far corner, away from the windows and door, when he joined me carrying two drinks. The espresso came in a delicate cup, which he placed in front of me, while his own drink seemed to be something iced. I could hear the ice shifting around in the cup every time it moved and condensation dripped down the side of the glass.

Taking a sip of my coffee, I watched Oliver over the rim of my cup. He stared down at his drink without touching it, letting his hair fall partially over his face while nervously twirling one of the rings on his fingers.

For someone who had insisted on ‘getting to know each other,’ he didn’t seem keen to talk.

Sighing quietly to myself, I set my cup down with a soft clink against the table. “That’s interesting jewelry you’re wearing.”

He stopped toying with the ring and gave me a confused look.

“It’s custom work,” I continued, pointing between the rings, necklace, and earrings that he wore. “And all made by the same artist, if I’m not mistaken. It’s quality work.”

The last time I saw him, all his jewelry was filled with Garden of Eden symbolism. Today, however, was a cosmic theme. Vastly different designs, yet there was a similarity in the construction that said it was all made by the same hand. To have so many pieces from the same artist, they must have some significance to him.

My instincts turned out to be right as Oliver lit up, his nervousness forgotten as he held out his hands to show off the rings he wore.

“My friend, Ashes, made it all. They’re really good, and they’ve got a popular online business. I really wouldn’t be able to afford any of this, but they usually give me the experimental pieces when they’re trying out a new idea.”

From there, conversation flowed much easier as Oliver started talking about how he’d known Ashes since elementary school and telling me stories from their shared childhood. I would have been jealous that Oliver was spending so much time talking about someone else, if it weren’t for the clearly platonic, sibling-like relationship they seemed to have.

Plus, the conversation topic allowed me to pick up some crucial information about Oliver.

He’d had the scars on his face since he was very young. Money was very tight for his family due to his younger brother’s genetic illness. And, most importantly, Oliver had a passion for art.

“There were free after school classes,” he explained as he showed me some of the drawings in his sketchbook. “I didn’t know it at the time, but my mom basically used it as daycare for me while she worked. The only thing I cared about was that the classes were fun. The art teacher was also great and would oftenlet me stay late even after the free class was over. Since then, I’ve dabbled in all kinds of different mediums, although I think watercolors are my favorites. I’d love to get into oil painting, but oil-based paints are expensive, not to mention the cost of canvases and brushes. Watercolors I can just do on paper.”

The pictures in the sketchbook were simple pencil drawings, obviously just a collection of random thoughts rather than finished pieces. There were several portraits, probably of people he knew, a cute dog that he’d passed on the street, and even a sunrise that he’d seen one morning on his way to work. Although the picture was in black and white, each stroke of the pencil was so finely placed that I could easily imagine the colors.

I turned the page again, revealing an unfinished image. It was another portrait, and although the figure’s features were only partially defined, I still recognized myself.

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