Chapter Twenty-Eight
Maddie
MADDIE: How many people work at your studio, and do any of them have any allergies?
RAYNE: Four and a half, including me. Why?
MADDIE: Nunya.
RAYNE: What? What’s Nunya?
MADDIE: Nunya business.
RAYNE: I’m blocking you.
MADDIE: Suit yourself. I’ll just turn the Jeep around, then.
RAYNE: See you in a minute.
Reading over the texts again as I sit behind the steering wheel of my parked Jeep, my passenger seat filled with a bag full of sub sandwiches and cookies, and a tray of coffees I prayed all the way to Rayne’s studio wouldn’t spill, I smile as though I can hear Rayne’s voice in my head.
It’s such a simple text exchange, nothing to it, really, but there’s something about the simplicity that calms the nerves splintering in my chest enough that I don’t feel like I’m about to delve headfirst into a freak-out fest.
I’ve held it off for this long. I’m not about to break now, damn it.
So, plucking up the courage to walk into Rayne’s studio for the first time, I gather the goods, climb out of the Jeep, and head toward the front door of the two-story studio that looks both modern and grungy.
It looks nice, the ground floor decorated with a wall of windows much like my apartment, only the windows are covered in cool tattoo-design vinyls that create patterns over the glass like they would over skin.
Balancing the drinks carefully, I use my hip to open the door and am immediately greeted by a tatted guy standing behind a reception desk, holding an iPad with a digital pen tucked behind his ear.
His hair is dark with blond streaks littered throughout, much like an Oreo, and a light beard decorates his face.
All skin visible to the naked eye is covered in swirling colors of ink, just as pretty as Rayne’s, and I wonder vaguely if any of the work on him was done by the Rayne Cloud I know.
Studs and hoops are pierced through this guy’s eyebrow, nose, and lip, and it’s only the warm smile he sends me that steals the scary badass look he has going on.
Not that I would have been scared of him.
I know plenty of people who look just like him, and they’re the sweetest souls I’ve ever met.
Flashing the guy a grin, I wave with the hand that still clutches my cell and greet, “Hey. How’s it going?”
Recognition fills his eyes, and his mouth drops in shock right before his grin returns.
“Pretty damn good. How’s your morning treating you?” he answers, hurrying around the desk and relieving me of the takeout cups that were becoming the bane of my life.
I sigh gratefully. “Much better now. I’m convinced the devil made those stupid cup holders.”
“They’re a bitch, for sure,” the guy snickers, nodding in agreement before he actually realizes there are four takeout cups and a juice box tucked between them all. “Are you thirsty?”
I flash the guy a grin, depositing the bag filled with sandwiches on a nearby coffee table, and shake my head. “I didn’t know what everyone would like, so they’re all lattes. The juice box is for a little lady I know is hanging out here today. I also brought an early lunch.”
Gesturing to the bag, I note, “There’s a little bit of everything in there, and all the packaging is labeled. The cookies are for the kiddo, though, so paws off.”
The guy looks like he’s fighting amusement, but he battles it back enough to ask, “Not that this isn’t great, but what brings Madison Fowler to Blackline with snacks and beverages?”
Just as he asks the question, Rayne walks out from a door situated to the left of the room, followed quickly by a blond-pigtailed four- or five-year-old dressed in black leggings, a band shirt, and combat boots that make me want to cry.
She’s actually the cutest little thing I’ve ever seen, and even more so when she comes skidding to a stop as her dark eyes land on me and widen, her little mouth falling open in shock.
I wave at her, and a bashful little smile appears on her mouth right before she tucks herself behind a guy who looks like the male version of her. The guy looks like he just stepped off a runway in his skinny jeans and torn sweater, matching boots on his feet to the kiddo clinging to his leg.
This must be Mikey and Laylah.
“You brought food?” Rayne asks with surprise when his eyes land on me and then the bag of subs on his coffee table.
I point out the takeout cups on the reception desk and declare, “Can’t eat without drinks.”
“That’s what you were plotting?” Rayne snorts, coming over to sit beside me, and I give him a shrug as I battle those pesky butterflies again.
Only, this time, they’re worse, because now I know how his lips feel against mine.
I know how he tastes, and I know how he feels pressed against me when I sleep.
Skidding to a halt on those thoughts, mostly because there’s a child present and that just feels weird, I wink at Rayne before standing and walking over to the drinks.
I gather a coffee for Rayne and the juice box before returning to my seat, smiling over at the cutie now sitting on her father’s lap.
I shake the juice box and ask Mikey, “Is she okay to drink juice? I don’t want to give her anything she isn’t allowed.”
The blond-haired, modelesque man smiles and nods, reaching out for the box I offer, and says, “She’s the least picky kid I know, doesn’t have a single allergy, and will eat you out of house and home. Girl can eat an entire buffet without missing a beat. I don’t know how she’s so small.”
Laylah smiles, proving to be a double of her dad when those matching dimples pop in her cheeks, and she accepts the juice box from her father after he’s opened it.
She takes a sip as I hand over the coffee to Rayne, and he almost smiles at the gesture, tugging me back onto the couch he’s sitting on.
“Trust me, I know all about it. I have a best friend who is very much the same,” I tell him, reminded of Zelda and her ability to eat as though she won’t ever see a crumb again, yet remain the skinny mini that she is.
Nodding at the bag on the coffee table, I announce, “But if she’s good to eat, there’s a sub sandwich in there and a bag of cookies she’s welcome to devour. Help yourselves, too.”
Just then, another guy walks out from the same doorway Rayne did, and he pauses as he stares at me in shock. “Why the fuck is Madison Fowler sitting on our couch?”
I’m biting back a laugh that almost bursts out of me, the bluntness coming from the guy so suddenly that Mikey cringes and drops his hands over his daughter’s ears a little too late to be of much use.
He turns toward the newcomer with a glare, hissing, “Watch your language, asswad. You already know she’s copying the shit you say these days. ”
The newcomer, a redheaded guy who appears to have a lot of naked skin compared to the others in the room, holds his hands out with a laugh. “In my defense, there’s a Madison Fowler on our couch.”
“I have eyes, Billy,” Mikey points out, removing his hands from Laylah’s ears as she continues to slurp her drink without a care in the world. I respect it.
“I’ve asked the same question, brother. I’m still clueless, but I’m not complaining. She came with gifts,” Oreo Hair mentions, sneaking over to steal a sub and winking at me in the process.
With a laugh, I give the new guy a wave and point out the drinks and food again, feeling super repetitive as I say, “Drinks and food. Help yourself before it gets cold.”
When no one makes a move, I roll my eyes and reach for a sub for Rayne and the bag of cookies, directly handing Laylah the lot of them since I bought them especially for her. I’ve never seen a kid’s eyes light up so fast, her tiny fingers wiggling before she accepts the gift of sugar.
Mikey groans and drops his head back, muttering, “I just know those are going to have her bouncing off the walls later.”
Oh, hell. I didn’t actually think of that, and I’m wincing through an apologetic grin as I say, “Just think about the crash-out when the sugar finally zaps out of her. What goes up must come down and all that, right?”
The others laugh before finally diving into the goods I brought, like that little interaction broke the ice I wasn’t aware needed breaking, each of them thanking me profusely before finding seats and settling in to eat.
It’s just as I take the first bite of my own sandwich that Billy asks again, “So, back to the elephant in the room. Why is there a famous photographer bringing us an early lunch on a sunny Saturday? And why the hell aren’t you introducing us? ”
He looks over at Rayne before he pointedly looks at me. I don’t answer, taking another bite of my sub as I watch him right back, and suddenly I’m in a game of “who blinks first” that I feel deeply compelled to win, a small but determined competitiveness crawling out of me that I never expected.
I don’t even know how long we stare, but I know who blinks first, and it’s not me. My mama didn’t raise no rookie. I’ve been winning that game ever since my cousins and I discovered it, and I hide my grin behind my sub as Billy blinks his watering eyes rapidly.
“You’ll win one of these days, kid,” Mikey snickers, picking off a piece of his sub and popping it in his mouth with a mocking grin that Billy only flips the bird at in response, much to the model’s disapproval.
Thankfully, Laylah is fully distracted by the various flavors of cookies I brought and misses the gesture, and I battle back the amused grin that almost slips out.
Pretty sure Mikey wouldn’t appreciate that, even though it’s always funny when kids curse.
I simply can’t be convinced otherwise. There’s just something about hearing a kid mispronounce the word firetruck that brings out a case of the giggles.
“Mads, this is Billy, Mikey, Laylah, and Gene, the life of Blackline. Everyone, this is Madison Fowler. Turns out, Maddie is the upstairs neighbor I mentioned,” Rayne finally answers, ignoring Billy as he grumbles about his stinging eyes.