Chapter 2 #2
Deciding to play it safe, I open the door just a crack and peek into the darkness outside. My hand is wrapped tight around the handle, preparing to slam the door shut again if I’m greeted with the sight of a psycho Hannibal Lecter-looking type.
“Hi,” the guy on the steps says when he sees me, and I have to press my lips together to stop my jaw hitting the ground, because this guy is…gorgeous.
Like, stupid gorgeous. The type of cheekbones and dimples you rarely see anywhere but in blockbuster movies.
So much so, that I forget beautiful people are often the ones we should fear the most. My rational brain short-circuits as the artist in me sighs in satisfaction as I take him in.
This man would be a dream to paint. The contrasting angles of his face are nothing short of spectacular: perfectly straight nose, bisecting angled cheekbones, chiseled jaw framing full, almost pouty lips.
His dark gold hair is tousled, curling at the tips, and his eyes are forest green.
He’s tall, with broad shoulders and a powerful frame that teases the potential of thick muscles beneath his casual clothing.
Everything about him reminds me of the marble statue of a young Hercules that’s featured in the Met.
“I’m not sure I’m in the right place. My Maps app might be glitching, but I’m also terrible with directions,” Hercules says in a deep voice, smoother than a perfect brush stroke.
His tone is casual, almost conversational, but his brows furrow as he looks at me.
He drops his voice lower and continues, “Hey, are you okay?”
His question is so unexpected, it snaps me out of my trance. “Me?” I squeak, all the blood in my body rushing to my cheeks as I realize I’ve been standing here silently staring at him all this time. “I’m, um, fine. Totally fine.”
But still not half as fine as you are, Mr. Greek God.
The guy looks skeptical. He frowns, then leans sideways, like he’s trying to get a glimpse into the warehouse behind me.
The man before me must frequent the gym based on his powerful shoulders and the fact he’s dressed like a gym bro with a dark red hoodie, gray sweatpants, and sneakers.
He straightens back up, and his green eyes meet mine.
“Is someone in there bothering you? Blink twice if you need help,” he says quietly, his tone urgent.
I stare at him for another second, and then I figure out what he’s getting at and burst into laughter.
He looks at me like he’s worried for my sanity, and I shake my head.
“I was actually wondering if I should try and get away from you.” The man looks confused at this statement, so I nod at him.
“Stranger at the door after dark and all that.”
“Oh!” Hercules steps back, holding up his hands. “I promise I’m not—”
“A psycho who’s here to take me hostage inside an abandoned warehouse and then gut me like a fish when he’s sure no one can hear me scream?”
“That’s oddly specific.” His eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles. “But no, I’m not here to murder you.”
“Someone filmed one of those gory horror b-movies in here, once. That was a scene you don’t forget in a hurry,” I explain as I open the door a little wider, letting him see the space.
He smirks. “I imagine not.”
“But if you’re not here for that, what are you here for?” I study the guy’s clothing again. “Did you get lost on your way to the gym?”
He doesn’t seem to hear my question. He’s staring over my shoulder and into the warehouse, his eyes traveling over canvases spattered with paint and tables stacked with sculptures until they finally land on the back wall, where a massive mixed media collage hangs.
“You’re into art?” I ask, because this guy doesn’t look like the stereotypical artsy type, but I’ve never been one to judge on appearances. Plus, art isn’t, and shouldn’t be, exclusive.
Art is for everyone. That’s always been my firm belief, and most of the firehouse Collective members feel the same. Except perhaps Zane, the Aztec potter. He can be a little snobbish with “non-creatives,” as he calls them.
“I love art.” Hercules says eagerly, turning his attention back to me.
“But acquir—uh, I mean, looking at it. Not making it.” He glances around the room again, and I almost invite him in to have a better look…
then remember he could still be a psycho.
Unlikely, I think. But still possible. “Is this place used as an art studio or something?” he asks.
“Yeah. A bunch of artists work here.” My posture droops. “Well, they do for now.”
The guy’s brows knit together once more. “For now,” he repeats, but in a way that feels more like a statement than a question.
I answer anyway. “The owner is selling the building soon. So if you’ve decided to try your hand at making art and you’ve come here to apply for a spot in the Collective, I’m afraid you’ve come at the wrong time.”
His brows knit further together. “Are the artists here going to find another place to work?”
“Don’t think many of us could afford the going rates for rental spaces in this city.
” The monthly fee we all pay Rebekah is a pittance compared to what it would be renting from a regular landlord.
I laugh humorlessly. “And don’t suggest we just keep renting this space from the new owners, they’re apparently a group of billionaire pricks who’ll probably bulldoze the place.
I mean, what the hell else would a huge property group want with a character building? ”
The guy winces. “Why’s the current owner selling?”
“She has to. Can’t afford to keep the lights on in here anymore.
” I raise a shoulder. “So unless I can come up with millions of dollars to buy the place myself in the next few weeks, it’s bye-bye Firehouse Collective…
” I trail off, biting down on my lower lip as I look up at the man again and realize I’m spilling my guts to a stranger.
“Shit. Sorry. I don’t know why I’m even telling you this; I’m sure you don’t care one bit.
You haven’t even told me who you are, yet, or why you’re here. ”
Hercules’ jaw sets. “What if you petitioned to put a ‘no demolition’ clause in the buying agreement? See if there’s anything in writing at City Hall that would protect this place as a heritage building?
And if not, you could stir some shit, make some noise.
Maybe even get the media interested so there’s enough public support for your cause that the buyer’s hand is forced and they don’t destroy the building. ”
I don’t know how this guy—who barely looks older than me—would know any of this stuff, but I have to admit, this strange beautiful man’s idea is better than anything I’ve thought of all evening.
“That’s…actually a good idea, Hercules.”
The words come out of my mouth before I can stop them, and he grins.
“Hercules, huh?”
“It suits you,” I say, all nonchalance as I hide my embarrassment behind a smirk. “In fact, if this works, I’ll paint your portrait as Hercules as a thank you.”
“You have yourself a deal.” He laughs, and holds out a hand to shake.
I hesitate for a moment, then place my paint-crusted hand in his big, tanned one.
It feels warm, solid. A firm handshake from a man carved in stone.
Before I can pull back, he gives my hand a little squeeze, his grin widening as he says, “But I have to warn you, I only pose for nudes.”
I swallow, because dammit, now I’m thinking about him naked…and he clearly knows it because his smile turns wicked, leaving me unsure if I’ve just made a deal with an angel, or the devil himself.