The City of Crows by Bethany Lovejoy (novels in english .txt) 📗

so that he could guide me out of the alley before anyone else could appear. “And you’re freezing, Lyra,” It was just another excuse, one he gave me so that I wouldn’t have to admit the truth. “We should get you inside, get you changed into something warm. You know, I have more of that tea, other flavors too, and the comfiest couch you’ve ever sat on; better looking than yours too. And all of that, I mean… I’m feeling really tired, and I wouldn’t want you walking home alone. Maybe you could…?”

I nodded so frantically that a hiccup escaped me, my body subconsciously stepping closer to him, close enough that his arm was able to fall around my waist, his hips bumping against mine as he slowly guided me out of the alley. My head fell against his shoulder, the sensation of his body grounding me in reality.

We entered the street, dim lights reflected off the asphalt as we tumbled onto the sidewalk, Leo struggling to keep me upright in my half-dazed state. He led me further and further down the street, his hand disappearing only briefly to silence the phone in his front pocket that had only just begun to light up. I couldn’t hide the fact that I noticed, my gaze lingering for far too long. He brushed it off quickly, offering me his hand in turn and pulling me in once I’d taken it. His skin felt warmer than mine, and I didn’t protest moving closer. It was confusing, but not unpleasant.

Seeing the uncertainty of my expression, he tried to pull me away from speculation and back into reality, asking, “How do you feel about neon signs and awful puns? More importantly, how cold are you?”

Ah, “I could take them or leave them,” I replied, bemused and successfully distracted.

“The long way home then,” Leo said, tugging my hand to change direction and urging me to cut across the street with him.” You have to tell me what your favorite is, though,” he informed me. “Mine is this restaurant that just calls itself, ‘Great Asia,’ they have a sign out front that says, ‘call pho a good time,’” he explained. “My mother would roll in her grave if she saw it, it’s that tacky.”

Neon lights and awful puns were only a short trip, it turned out. I’d never been to that part of town, but they had showmanship and a residual energy that could have rivaled that of Vegas. It laid in the opposite direction of where we ended up going, and I think that Leo thought I wouldn’t have noticed, but it was nice in a way. Soothing was a strange way to put it, especially when I stood face to face with the kicking leg of a scantily dressed woman captured in neon, but there wasn’t any other way to put it. I felt my fear begin to fade.

Finally, though, we were in his apartment, Leo’s warmth only capable of carrying me so far before the comforts of the inside world were required. I don’t know what I’d expected, but not what I was faced with.

Smooth, wooden floors and cleared counters greeted me when I arrived, emphasizing the space’s emptiness. It was a decently sized studio apartment, one that probably cost far too much and was occupied far too little. Sunshine yellow walls and white cabinets made up the small kitchen, a half wall serving as a barrier between it and the living space only helped make the contrast between it and the predominantly white yet multi-colored geometric wallpaper of the living area. The couch, green and overstuffed, held a multitude of patterned cushions, none matching but all seeming to go with the decor. In front of it was a faded blue rug, that sported the same geometric patterns as the wall yet more toned down. Two armchairs sat on either side of it, one a rich robin’s egg color and the other in the same golden yellow as the kitchen. There was no television, but a cabinet to the side with glass doors held an overflow of books.

In the back, behind a decorative room divider, was the bedroom. It had the same patterned wallpaper, which contrasted the cyan-colored bedding sitting atop his kingsized bed, the pillows were a rather feminine shade of pink. Above the bed hung a net of fairy lights, usually a problem in most apartments due to low ceilings, but here they hung just out of reach, suspended in the air like stars in the sky. To the side of the space sat a low armoire, golden patterns stenciled across its drawers, a houseplant, likely fake, dominating the top of it.

“My mother’s an interior decorator,” Leo began to explain. “She’d kill me if I took credit.”

And yet, her decorating skills couldn’t quite overwhelm the focus of the room. I stepped toward one of the walls, my hands desperate to reach out and touch what hung on its surface, but my mind being far too smart to allow me to. “You are an artist,” I said, taking in the heavy-handed charcoal drawings on the wall, having stopped at the one nearest the entrance. The eyes of a woman, her legs dangling in the poolside as her form only half-turned to us, looked out at me. Black and white, and yet her simple shape held so much life that it felt as if she was gesturing towards me.

“Ex-girlfriend,” Leo explained dismissively, walking past me into the apartment. “I gifted her husband a copy of it when they got married, she told me to keep the original. Maybe it was a bit selfish, but I was glad she did. I don’t think many artists like to part with their work.”

“You make a living off of this?” I asked, tearing my eyes away from her and taking in the next piece. A smiling little girl with a missing tooth hung from the side of Leo’s island cabinets, her tongue poking through the gap.

“Yes?”