The Start of Us by Lauren Blakely

Author:Lauren Blakely
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: romance, contemporary romance, new adult, edgy romance

Chapter Four

Trey

This girl.

She makes me feel things.

Sure, I want to tug her against me, feel her body pressing into mine, and yeah, I want to do a million more things to her. She’s making me crazy with want. But there’s something else too. I like everything about this night with her, like it’s a sliver of time, a dream moment where the dream is warm and hazy, and you don’t want to wake up from it. It’s just sort of unfolding like the unplanned detour on a vacation that turns out to be the best part of the trip.

The train chugs out of Penn Station and the lights are dim. It’s nearing midnight, and the car’s mostly empty, just a guy in a rumpled business suit who’s already halfway to sleep is a few seats away. Harley looks out the window at the night passing by as we roll on out of New York City. It’s weird, but I can breathe easier when I leave New York. I’ve lived here my whole life, born and raised. But this place is like handcuffs sometimes, and that’s when I want to get out of town.

“This is so random,” she says, turning back to me. She looks happy, like she’s having a good time with me, and damn, if that doesn’t make me want to ask her out again. To hop on the Staten Island Ferry at night, or go midnight bowling or even to wander all over town. I’ve had plenty of women, more than I should have, but we never went out like this.

“Yeah, who would have thought you’d get a tattoo and wind up on a midnight train?”

“Speaking of, why are you a tattoo artist? How does that happen?”

“I like to draw,” I say, wishing the answer were that simple.

She narrows her eyes at me. “I bet there’s more to it than that. To drawing.”

“Why do you say that?” I ask, and I’m kinda liking how she wants to know me, to understand me, how she seems to sense that there’s more to me. Maybe there is.

“Because you seem passionate about it. And I think passion comes from somewhere.”

“I was always pretty good at drawing,” I say, as the train rattles along the tracks, the repetitive clatter oddly soothing. “I was the kid who could do the art projects no problem in school, you know? When they say draw a comic to represent an event in history or something. That was easy and I loved it. But then I started drawing more and more in high school,” I say, then nearly stop because I’m about to paint myself into a corner. I try to skirt around the one topic I don’t talk about. “Then things happened and I wanted my drawing to mean something.”

She holds up a hand and interjects. “What do you mean things happened?”

There’s a sharp pang in my chest and I want to kick myself for having said anything that would even suggest what happened to my family.

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