Page 60 of Beneath Your Beautiful
“A turkey sandwich can be dangerous,” Louis said, arching his brows. He knew what was going down under the table.
“Especially when it gets stuck in your throat,” Killian said, making it sound dirty.
“Even asmallturkey sandwich can cause bodily harm,” Louis said.
“Just think what abigone could do,” Killian said.
“Choke you,” Louis said. “Good thingyoudon’t have that problem.”
“Exactly,” Killian said. “I don’t eat turkey sandwiches. Something you need to share, Louis? Does Carmen know about this?”
I rolled my eyes.
“Are you guys done comparing the size of your dicks?” Ava said.
“What is she talking about?” Louis asked Killian.
Killian shrugged. “Someonehas a dirty mind.” He gave my thigh a squeeze. I smacked his hand away. He laughed.
Ava and I shook our heads at each other as we got up from the table. “We’ll leave you guys to battle it out over the rest of my turkey sandwich.”
“Too bad it isn’t a fat sausage sandwich,” Ava said.
I laughed. “Or a foot-long hot dog.”
I returned to my mural, cracking up over that stupid conversation at the picnic table.
Hours later, I stepped back to survey the finished product. Doves exploded from a grenade and flew through the broken windows of a derelict warehouse and into a cerulean blue sky. I’d painted a cityscape, a little piece of Brooklyn, but mixed it up with an abstract field of poppies. Barbed wire zigzagged across the length of it. I wasn’t sure what had compelled me to paint this peace wall or if it even made any sense.
“It’s a conversation piece,” Brody said, stocking the ice in the outside bar.
“Yeah, but I’m not sure how people will interpret it,” I said.
“That’s the beauty of art. They can interpret it any way they want,” Brody said. “It’s cool.”
“Thanks, Brody.” Brody was cool. Last week, we worked together, and he told me about his travels to far-flung places, seeking out good deep-sea diving spots. I asked him if the whole breathing thing ever freaked him out. He said you just had to keep your shit together and go with the flow.
“You need to sign it, Picasso,” Zeke called out as I snapped photos.
Picasso? I wish.
I signed my name in lower case letters on the far right-hand corner. No need to shout it to the world. When I straightened up and backed up a few paces, I hit a brick wall. Killian’s arms circled my middle and he pulled me back against him.
“It’s amazing,” he murmured in my ear, sending tingles up and down my spine. Zeke’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline, but I pretended not to notice. He’d be grilling me for answers later, I was sure of it.
“Yo, Killian,” Zeke called.
Killian looked over at him. “Yeah?” he said, as if holding me in his arms was a regular occurrence. I couldn’t see the look on Killian’s face, but it probably didn’t look open to questions. Zeke chuckled and shook his head.
Killian walked me closer to the mural and studied every detail of it. “To paint like this…it’s a gift.”
Thank you. You’re pretty gifted yourself.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Mmhmm,” I murmured. “You have skills.”
He nuzzled my neck. “I’ll be using them tonight.”
