Rebel North by J.B. Salsbury

Fourteen

Gabriella

I hadn’t heard from Kingston since the night at the diner when we agreed to hang out. When I show up at his building, I’m eaten alive by nerves.

“Miss Gabriella, Mr. North is expecting you.” The concierge greets me, settling my nervousness. He walks me to the elevator bank and calls the carriage. “Do you remember which floor?”

“I do, thank you.”

A woman who looks to be in her thirties but is probably in her fifties joins us in waiting for the elevator, and we climb in together.

Her eyes are seared to my cheek and neck. And although she’s keeping her thoughts to herself, it’s not hard to read her expression.

I face her head-on, and joy swells in my chest at her look of horror. “Bad fillers.”

“I… I’m sorry, what?” I applaud her for playing stupid, but her face pales, giving her away.

“My face.” I pull my hair away and really shove the worst of my scarring at her. “I just figured you should know. Hyaluronic acid expires, but they never tell you that before they fill your face with the stuff.”

She shakes her head, her hand covering her open mouth.

“When it goes bad, it turns into hydrogen sulfate—you know, sulfuric acid. Burns you from the inside out. Anyway…” I drop my hair but stay in her space. “You should have seen it before. Took multiple surgeries for me to look this good.”

The elevator dings.

“This is me.” When the doors open, I walk out.

She shoves her hand between the doors. “What’s the name of the doctor? Is he here in New York?”

I suck in air through my teeth. “I can’t say, sorry. We’re in the middle of a malpractice suit. The tragedy of it all is he is still working. His office is nearby—oh shoot.” I rub my forehead. “I’ve said too much.”

I watch her throat bob with a hard swallow.

I smile as sweetly as I can muster and watch her eyes widen on my cheek. “Goodnight.”

She steps back into the elevator, looking a little sick.

I turn to head to Kingston’s door and nearly scream. He’s standing in the open doorway looking like he just stepped out of a designer men’s cologne ad with his shirt unbuttoned and his hair a mess.

“Making friends?” he says in that slow, sexy drawl.

I clear my throat and resist the urge to fan my face. “Not really. She was just apologizing for farting on the elevator.”

His expression turns sour.

“I know, right?”

He steps aside to let me into his condo.

I set my purse on the kitchen counter next to a bottle of scotch and a crystal glass. “Bad day?”

He pours himself a quarter of a glass then drags it off the table and to his lips. “No.” He doesn’t take his hazel gaze off mine, and something fiery burns behind his eyes that makes me a little nervous. Tells me to be cautious.

“Are you hungry?” He needs something to soak up the booze. “I’m starving.”

“Order whatever you want. Anything within ten miles that delivers has my card on file.” He heads to the couch and turns on the television.

I pull up the map on my phone, looking for something close that is hearty. Italian. Perfect. I hit the number. “What do you want to watch? Any new movies that look good?”

I order spaghetti and meatballs and lasagna. When I give the woman the address, she says she’ll charge Mr. North’s card. I fish some cash out of my purse and leave it for him on the counter.

“Food will be here in twenty-five minutes.”

“Help yourself to a drink,” he says, scrolling through movies so quickly I’m surprised he even has time to read them.

I open the fridge and grab a cold Pellegrino, then pour some into a glass before joining him on the couch. “So?”

“You pick,” he says with a lazy smile.

Yep, he needs to eat, or he’ll be passed out in an hour.

I slip the remote from his hand, push the power off button, and wait for him to look at me. “What happened?”

“Nothin—”

“Are we really going to play this game?” I ask. “You say you’re fine when clearly you’re not.”

His expression falls a little.

“Something happen at work?”

His jaw hardens, and he looks down at the glass in his hand as his thumb follows the lines etched in the crystal.

“If you talk about it, maybe it’ll help.”

He shakes his head. “Nothing new. Same ole shit.”

“Your dad or Hayes?”

He chuckles, and his answering smile looks genuine. “You already know them so well.” He shakes his head. “But I really don’t want to talk about it. I’ve been looking forward to tonight for three days. Can we please not spoil it with talk about my family?”

I chew the inside of my mouth, wondering if I should push him.

He cups my jaw. His gaze intent, he runs his thumb down my scar to my throat.

I jerk free of his hold. “What are you doing?”

He cringes slightly. “Sorry, I don’t like seeing you chew on your mouth like that.”

“You can’t just touch people.” I press my palm to the place where he touched me, still feeling the singe of heat his thumb left behind.

“It’s soft.”

My gaze darts to his, and he holds eye contact.

“The scars, they’re really soft. Like silk.”

I don’t know whether to scream or cry or hug him. No one ever touches my scars. Not my parents. Hell, even I avoid them when I can.

But Kingston touches the hideous marks without hesitation, and he actually likes the way they feel?

“I should probably take a shower.” He pushes up from the couch. “If the food comes—”

“I’ll get it.”

He walks toward his room slowly, and I’m ashamed to admit I watched him the entire time.

“We’re going out,”Kingston announces after we’ve finished eating a feast worth of carbs in noodle form.

I rinse off our plates while he tosses the paper containers.

“I’m wearing jeans.”

He shrugs. “So am I.” He is dressed casually—casual for him, at least. His casual is an average man’s dressed up.

“Yeah, but my jeans are ripped, have bleach stains, and are not the cool kind. They’re the kind you get from cleaning the bathroom while wearing jeans.”

He takes my hand and pulls me toward the door. “You look great.”

In my defense, I did put on some makeup, wash and dry my long hair, and although my jeans are crappy, they fit perfectly. I wore an off-the-shoulder top and brown leather sandals. I’m not night-out-in-Manhattan worthy, but I did make an effort.

I grab my purse, and we wait for the elevator. Unfortunately, there are mirrors on the doors, and I’m made painfully aware of one downside to having a gorgeous gay man for a friend. He always looks prettier than me.

“Where are we going?” I say as we climb into the carriage.

“A friend of mine is having an art show in Red Hook.”

“An art show!” Visions of little black dresses and champagne glasses fill my vision. “I can’t go to an art show looking like this.”

He chuckles. “It’s not that kind of art show.”

We take the elevator below the building to the parking garage, and Kingston pulls a key fob from his pocket, making the headlights on a sexy-looking black sports car flash.

“I didn’t know you had a car.”

He opens the passenger side door. “There’s a lot about me you don’t know,” he says playfully.

“That I believe.”

Once inside, he fires up the engine, and techno-house music blasts through the speakers. I cover my ears, and he scrambles to turn it down.

“Sorry about that,” he says with a shy smile.

“Someone had a fun night,” I say through my laughter and lower my hands from my ears.

The quiet growl of the engine hums as he pulls out of the underground parking and onto the street. The intimacy of the small space and silence makes me antsy.

“Do you ever get back to France to visit?” I ask to break up the silence.

“No.”

“Don’t you miss it?”

He shrugs. “I do miss it. Not the people so much.”

I’m about to ask what he means.

“Not the French. They’re great. More specifically, the man living with my mother.” His handsome face twists with disgust.

“Your stepdad?”

He recoils.

“Is he a dick?”

My question seems to loosen his tense jaw. “No, actually.” He clears his throat, and his gaze darts to mine for a second before moving back to the road. “He was my best friend.”

“Oh. Oh. Wait, what?”

“Rafe. Or Raphael,” he says in an exaggerated French accent. He shakes his head. “We always had fun flirting with older women. I never thought he’d carry the fun into my own house.”

“Is that why you decided to move to New York?”

He laughs, but there’s only sadness in the sound. “I didn’t want to leave. My mom forced me to leave. Every time I’d see him coming out of her room, I saw red. Guess she got tired of cleaning blood off her Parisian rugs.”

“Oh, my God, so she chose her lover over her own son?”

“Gross. But yeah. Pretty much.” He frowns.

I reach over and pull his hand between mine. The action seems to call him out of his feelings, and he interlaces our fingers and squeezes.

“I’m sorry. Some people are so selfish.”

His dark mood returns along with a tortured expression. He releases my hand. “Aren’t they.”

A few minutes of uncomfortable silence stretch between us as I retrace our conversation to pinpoint where things went wrong. Without an answer, I change the subject. “At what point did you realize you were gay?”

The car comes to a slow stop.

“We’re here.” He’s out of the car and comes around to open my door.

He throws the keys to a man wearing a black-on-black suit and offers me his elbow to lead me to a single door of a red brick warehouse. We’re met by someone wearing all black, dark hair slicked back beneath the straps of a full-face respirator gas mask. On the front of their black shirt in white letters, it reads CRTQ. I assume a clever play on the word critic or critique.

Kingston gives them his name, and we get handed similar masks.

“Okay, now I’m nervous.” I study the mask in my hands.

“It’ll be fun.” He slips the mask on over his head and then helps me with mine. “Let’s go.”

The masked guard holds a finger up, indicating we should be quiet, and then opens the door to an interior room.

Kingston grabs my hand and leads me into a massive space.

There is no sound inside except for the random hissing of what I come to learn is spray paint. All along the walls are blown-up versions of famous paintings—The Kiss, Starry Night, Girl with the Pearl Earring—all recognizable pieces. But the classic paintings displayed are not the purpose of the show. Rather than guests standing in front of the works in quiet appreciation, onlookers are invited to pick up a paint can and leave their reactions behind.

We step up to the first painting, Mondrian’s Composition with Red Blue and Yellow. Kingston hands me a can of spray paint and nods for me to spray my response. In between the words boring and simplicity in still-wet paint, I write balance. I hand the spray can to Kingston who waves me off and nods that we move to the next. With every new painting, I spray a response, and he stands back watching. He refuses the can every time I offer, so I stop offering. Our masks keep us from communicating with speech, but the way he watches me makes me feel like we’re speaking a language that transcends the spoken word. Silence creates an intense intimacy, and the masks a sense of anonymity, and he watches my reactions to every painting like it’s a peek into my soul.

The last painting is an Edward Degas classic called The Rehearsal of the Ballet Onstage that depicts many young ballerinas being viewed by men in suits who are slumped in their chairs.

Kingston sets a can in my hand and nods to the twenty-by-forty-foot image on the wall. The words innocence, desperation, and pervert are spray-painted on the wall and drip like blood.

He nods for me to go. I stare at the image, the beautiful young girls on pointe and on display. Knowing the history behind this painting, that the young girls were impoverished children used as prostitutes for wealthy older men, I shake my can and spray the word survivor.

Kingston surprises me when he grabs my can. He steps close to the paining, his arm moves in quick, determined strokes. When he backs away, he reveals an addition to the painting. A ballerina in a split leap, gliding through the air, above it all, as if the world below can’t touch her. The image is rough, paint drips down the wall, but the message of her freedom is hard to ignore. I reach for his hand and hold on tightly. We stay in front of that painting longer than any of the others. We watch strangers paint the words graceful, timeless, and innocence.

He squeezes my hand and, without words, asks if I’m finished here.

I nod, and we exit into a room where we dump our masks and join a couple dozen other people with paint-stained fingers drinking beer, wine, and soft drinks from cans.

“That was so much fun.” I grab a can of champagne from a vat of ice. “Why didn’t you participate until the end?”

“I had more fun watching you.” He takes a long pull from his beer. “But I owe you a replacement for that shirt.”

I look down at the few paint dots left behind on my shirt. “Are you kidding? It’s like a free souvenir.”

“Kingston!” A tall man with a short mohawk and tattoos on his throat pushes through a group of people and throws his arm around Kingston’s neck. “You bloody bastard, I didn’t think you’d show.” The man’s eyes slide to mine, and a gold tooth flashes in the light when he grins. “Do I owe you a thank you for getting him to come?”

I watch his gaze settle on my scarred cheek and angle my face away.

“Nikolai, this is Gabriella.” Kingston doesn’t take his eyes off mine. “This is Nico’s exhibit.”

The man reaches out his hand, which is covered in paint, including under his fingernails. “It’s nice to meet you, Gabriella. Did you enjoy the experience?” He leans in. “If the answer is no, lie to me.”

“I did, thank you. It was so liberating. I can’t tell you how badly I’ve wanted to take a Sharpie marker to The Met.”

“Exactly.” His smile widens. “You get it.” He leans into Kingston. “She’s a keeper.”

My face heats.

Nikolai’s eyes light up. “You guys should come to the afterparty.”

“It’s up to Gabriella,” Kingston says.

“Yeah, sounds like fun.”

“Nico, hurry up!” someone calls from behind him.

“I gotta go.” He turns to leave. “The party is at Tempt. VIP. I’ll put you on the list,” he says over his shoulder as he walks away.

“You sure you want to go?” Kingston says with a challenge in his eyes.

“Hell yes.”

He leads me through a crowd of people toward the exit.

And it hits me. The truth is, I think I’d follow Kingston anywhere.