Chapter 2 #3
“What do you mean?” I finally manage to get out.
My voice feels a bit strained as I try to ride the line between speaking and yelling.
He laughs with his head slightly tilted back.
The warmth of both his voice and expression as he unwinds his arms from his chest has me leaning in.
I feel drawn to him. I don’t know what I expected.
If this… Devlin person, is who I assume he is, then my idea of him was off base.
I guess I would have expected someone colder, more aloof.
Someone who wouldn’t stay with a bunch of struggling artists in Brooklyn at a low-rent bar in a sticky booth.
The person in front of me is clearly a man but has an almost boyish charm.
I smile in response to his amusement, but still wait for an answer.
He gestures to me and then imitates writing with a pencil.
“Your letters,” he says back, “I’ve enjoyed them.
” There’s a moment of silence between us as I mentally review everything exchanged in those letters, ending on: “I volunteer.” My heart really races now.
Had I really signed up for something without knowing what it entails?
“How do I know…” I trail off, narrowing my eyes as I let my skepticism try to protect me for a moment.
I sit up straighter in the booth and cross my arms. We’ve swapped postures.
He faces me openly, softly grinning and up to no good.
My walls are ready to go up. I continue, “How do I know that you are who you say you are?” My eyes narrow, detective mode activated.
His eyes sparkle in response and he scoots closer to the ice queen I’m becoming.
I keep my arms crossed, but I hesitate as his scent washes over me.
He smells like a combination of aftershave, acrylic paint and musk.
It’s a comfortable smell, and something I want more of.
I try not to make the deep inhale through my nose obvious.
He can’t see I’m smelling him for god’s sake.
“You mean that I’m Devo?” he asks casually.
No attempt to hush his tone. Although it wouldn’t have mattered in this establishment anyway, no one is trying to eavesdrop and the music is still blaring.
I shrug one shoulder and give a small nod.
He scoots closer again, to the point where it starts to feel silly to have my arms crossed.
I drop my hands into my lap as I look up at him.
He keeps his chin up and smiles down at me, enjoying the challenge and clearly not too concerned with making his case.
After a long moment, he juts his chin towards Alex, who’s fist pumping on the dance floor.
“Your friend believes me,” he says. He meets my eyes again, waiting to see if that would sway me.
“Alex is an idiot,” I say back.
“Oof.” Devlin mock stabs himself in the heart and laughs. “You’re tough!”
I purse my lips in an effort to hold back a smile. No. I’m in control, I think, I control my reactions.
He continues when I don’t immediately respond, “He had nice things to say about you, you know—your idiot friend. Said you’re talented.”
My eyes widen a bit. “You asked about me?”
“Of course.” He drinks in my reaction. “I look into anyone I might collaborate with.”
That blush creeps back up my cheeks.
“I still don’t know that you are who you say you are.” And I mean it. I know I can look na?ve, but I pride myself on knowing the truth and seeing things for what they really are. No way I’m going to be conned by a handsome stranger—no matter how charming he is.
“You know, I started thinking about this when I first caught a glimpse of you back at the studio.” He cocks his head. “Since Devo is my alias, I don’t think I have any proof on me that you’d accept.”
I look to the side. I don’t know what proof I’m expecting either.
Hmm. Maybe our first emails before we moved to his archaic letter-writing system?
“Bring out your phone,” I say. He winces and places his hand on the back of his neck.
Then he shifts his hips and pulls out a tiny Nokia, a cellphone from a prior generation.
I offer it, and him, a blank stare. “Does that thing even have email?”
“Ah, no.” He chuckles as he shifts again to put the two-bit technology back in the pocket of his jeans. “It’s a ‘burner,’” he says using air quotes.
“What?”
“I try to stay as disconnected as possible”—he looks up and around, away from my incredulous stare—“but nowadays, some electronic contact is a necessary evil.”
I shake my head but remain silent. He gives me a sheepish shrug. Ignoring the modern world is, in my opinion, ridiculous. What would drive someone to isolate themselves like that? I’m sure people in his life have put him through the ringer for this choice, so I won’t pile on… for now.
Instead, I remind myself that I have more important matters to get to the bottom of.
Like figuring out who this man is.
How else might I get a confirmation on his identity?
An ID card? No, he wouldn’t have a valid ID for a pseudonym.
I could do a signature match… I grab a crumpled white napkin from across the table and pop my head over the top of the booth.
I see a pen discarded beside the check for the next table’s wings and fries.
I stand up on our booth, hoping the waitstaff won’t think I’m endangering myself, and grab the writing utensil.
As I go to spin and plop back down, I wobble more than expected on the plush seat.
Devlin immediately wraps his hands around my lower thighs.
I freeze and look down at him, pen in hand.
He smiles up at me impishly. His grip is strong and the heat of his hands drifts upward to the apex between my legs.
“Thank you,” I stutter. He shrugs and releases one hand, which he then offers to me so I can lower myself back down more gracefully. I take his hand in mine. Once I’m safely back on the seat, he lets go of my other thigh. I wish he didn’t.
“So, what was that for?” he asks, one brow quirked and eyes sparkling. I take a deep breath and try to recover from the buzzing running up my legs. I slide the napkin and pen in front of him.
“Sign your name,” I demand.
His eyes remain narrowed as he tries to understand this test. “My real nam—”
“No,” I cut in, “your other name.”
He raises his eyebrows, tilts his head in acquiescence and clicks open the pen.
First attempt on paper draws no ink. He brings the tip of the pen up to his mouth and then stops.
“Hmm”—he meets my gaze—“what’s in it for me?
” The mischief in his eyes evident as he tosses my line from our correspondence back to me.
“That is, if you deem my signature matches with this incredibly handsome and talented artist’s? ”
“Well, what do you want?” I say, holding back an eye roll and biting the inside of my cheek.
“A kiss,” he replies with no hesitation.
My cheeks burn and his smile widens.
“You want to kiss me?” I whisper, causing him to lean in.
“Indeed, I do,” he responds. “Is it a deal?” He holds the pen up.
“Deal,” I breathe, unsure why I’ve taken so many risks with what I’ve said to this stranger. He gives a side smile and winks as he wets the tip of the pen with his tongue.
“That’s dirty!” I gasp like a child. Who knows where that pen’s been?
He gives me a devilish look. “Dirty you say?” He scrawls with a two-beat flourish, holding my gaze.
Without breaking eye contact, he spins the napkin to face me.
“I can think of worse. And I’m open to it,” he says in a low voice.
I scrutinize the signature. It looks… right.
I pull out my phone and google: “Devo Muse Painting.”
He continues speaking to me as I zoom in on a photo of the artist’s signature in the corner of a painting.
“The question is”—he continues hovering above me—“are you?” The signatures are damn near identical. And he’d written on that napkin without looking down. Unless he’s a psychopath who’s blindly practiced forging this name… this man before me is… “Devo,” I gasp aloud.
“At your service.” He mock-tips an invisible hat.
“Glad to meet you, for the third time.” I try not to look like a deer in headlights, but my eyes are as wide as saucers and my mouth is ajar.
I try to compose myself. He puts his hands up at chest height, palms facing me.
“Don’t worry, I won’t claim my prize now.
” My heart pounds. He leans in and tips my chin up with a curled finger. “But I will claim it.”
The second half of the night consists of more drinks consumed by both of us, a short stint on the dance floor, and shared stories about our favorite artists and works in progress. Turns out Devo paints more than just beautiful women. His other work just isn’t famous.
There are some nasty looks from Daisy throughout the night, but Devlin keeps his eyes on me. He dances with me, running his hands up the sides of my body as we sway with the crowd to more early 2000s music. He whispers compliments in my ear. It’s intoxicating, literally.
“Your hips are incredible,” he says while passing around the other side of me, running his hands down my sides. In any other circumstance, I’d feel shy or smothered, but with Devlin, I feel comfortable and adored. I sway even more to the beat, emphasizing my lower curves. We both laugh.