Page 118 of Faux Real
“Later, Clifford,” I hum, chuckling under my breath. If that bloke actually shows up with a joint flower arrangement, I’m going to be thoroughly impressed. Perhaps the population of Simp Nation is two.
I wonder if Kennedy likes flowers. I know she likeslookingat them, but receiving? I don’t know. She seems more practical than that. Flowers wilt and wither. They don’t last. She’d probably prefer something that would stand the test of time.
I fish out a keycard and swipe into the darkroom, placing my bag and books on the desk, my eyes adjusting to the darkness. I walk over to the light switch, my finger hovering over the flicker. I’ve spent far too many hours in this room lately. But I like it. I take a deep breath.
It’s peaceful. Calm. Quiet.
“Boo!”
“Jesus fucking Christ!” I grab my chest, letting out a yelp as I turn on the red lights. “Kennedy.” I shake my head, my heart hammering from my chest as she walks toward me. “You’ve got to stop doing that. You are single-handedly taking years off my life.”
“Sorry,” she says, her gaze flitting across the prints hanging across the room. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I’m fairly certain the term ‘boo’ was createdprimarilyfor the purpose of scaring others,” I note, following the path of her eyes, my fingertips tingling. “Why are you here?”
“Are these yours?” she asks, tilting her head. She glances at me, smiling. “Hmm?”
“Yeah.” I clear a lump out of my throat. “They are.”
“Wow,” she hums, inspecting every photograph with such detail that I feel like I’m on trial. “They’re amazing.” She points to a shot I captured at a vantage point during a late-night ride a few weeks ago. “Where is this?”
“Point Park,” I reply, running a hand through my hair. “Not too far from here.”
“Oh.” She nods. “It’s beautiful.”
“Sure is,” I say, narrowing my eyes at her. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“What question?” She faces me, her features glowing under the dim dark lights.
My gaze floats down to her lips and I almost forget whyI’mhere. “Why... uh—why are you here?” I manage. Barely.
“I saw you had the room booked,” she explains, fidgeting with her sleeve. She looks up at me. “I just wanted to say sorry about bailing on you last weekend, I ended up going to a party with uh— ” She winces. “A couple friends.”
“A party?” I ask, taking a step closer to her, only a few inches between us. “Did you have fun?”
“Not really.” A tiny gust of air slips past her lips, her chest rising. “I only stayed for an hour.”
Another step forward. She’s a flame. Drawing me in. Burning me. Causing my skin to heat, my heart to flutter, my mind to race. “All partied out?” I whisper, bringing my hand to her face and tucking a hair behind her ear. She nods. “A shame.”
“Why?” she breathes.
I exhale, my eyes darting between hers. “You seem to only want to talk to me when you’re drunk.”
She swallows. “That’s not true.”
“No?” I ask, dragging my fingertips along the curve of her neck as I drop my hand.
“No,” she admits, closing her eyes. “It’s the only time Iletmyself talk to you.”
“And why is that?” I take another step closer, the scent of her shampoo flooding my senses. Kennedy doesn’t say anything as she studies my face. “You shouldn’t deprive yourself, Kennedy.” I curl my fingers under her chin, tilting her head. “If you want something—” I graze my fingers across her bottom lip. “Take it.”
It’s glitching. Her shield. Right before my eyes. It’s not permanent. It’s weak. Slowly fading away. Itmustfade away.
Fully.
Her hot breath blows against the pad of my thumb as she whispers, “We can’t do this, Oliver.”
“Why not?” I ask in a low tone. “Give me one good reason.”
