“I see it,” Poppy says, looking closely. “I never thought of it before.”
“Check out the way they use light and shadow too. Here, the shadows make the still-formed car look slightly threatening and oversized while the light on the crushed vehicle remains in the background give them a sort of angelic feel. It’s quite a statement,” I add, leaning in. I note the artist’s name, filing it away. This is a name I could see having to steal one day.
“You know a lot about art,” Poppy says, giving me a curious look.
“Art Appreciation 101,” I tell her dismissively, hating the lie but knowing that saying anything more is dangerous. “Same as most people.”
“Yeah, well, most people don’t get out of that class with much more than an ability to identify a few Monets on sight. But not you,” she says appreciatively. “And I happen to think smart guys are sexy.”
We’re in dangerous territory again. She just can’t get it through her stubborn head that I’m bad news for her, but I’ve got to keep trying to get her to see reason. “I get the feeling that you think everyone, and everything, is sexy. I’m a thief? Sexy. Family drama? Ooh, baby. Obscure knowledge about boring shit? And you’re dropping to your knees to suck me off in the middle of Techno Landscapes of the 21st Century.”
She blinks in shock at my vulgar words. Time to seal the deal.
“Even now, you’re deciding whether you like me talking like that, but your pulse is racing in your neck, telling me everything I need to know.”
She flushes, not in embarrassment but in fury. Exactly what it should be. “You think you’re so smart? You don’t know anything about me! Maybe my pulse is racing because I’m disgusted by your filthy mouth, you animal. Men should be gentlemen. Like in my books.”
Gentlemen . . . yeah, that’d be a nice dream for me as well. But life doesn’t operate that way, and I left that option behind a long time ago. “If you expect men to be gentlemen, then it only makes sense that women would have to be ladies.”
“Are you suggesting I’m not a lady?” she snaps as I look her up and down.
“Not suggesting. Flat out saying it.”
“Oh!” she huffs. Her cheeks are nearly the same red as her hair now, bright and splotchy with anger.
“And your books are fiction,” I remind her bitterly. “Women think they want some sweet, romantic guy to sweep them off their feet and treat them like a princess.”
“I suppose you know better?” she asks sarcastically.
“Some women do want that. But not you, Poppy Woodstock,” I tell her in a harsh whisper as a couple walks through the gallery. Thankfully, they catch the vibe in the room and continue on their merry way. “You’d walk all over a guy like that. You need someone strong enough to stand up to you and put up with your mouth. Someone who won’t bat an eye when you do something crazy, running off half-cocked when you don’t even know the whole story. Hell, when you don’t even know half of it.”
“And you think that’s you? The rough, tough, bad boy who’s going to give me what I need.” There’s hope in her voice, a subliminal admission of the truth in my words. She wants a partner, and in me, she recognizes someone strong enough to be that for her.
But I can’t let that hope live. Not for either of us.
“No. I’m going to get your laptop back . . . and then ditch you.”
The truth hurts me more than it hurts her, but my reaction is visceral and hidden, a skill I learned long ago. Poppy reacts like I punched her in the heart, her face going red, her eyes lighting with flames of anger, and her hands balling at her side. I consider the odds of her hitting me given her previous attack, but I suspect she’s mostly a verbal warrior, so I don’t give her a chance to fire back with words that won’t be true.
While she’s still prepping her argument, I finish with another bitter dose of truth serum. “And I’ll move on, and you’ll be glad you dodged this bullet.”
I thump my chest with a palm, hurting myself at the same time. Because I fucking hate it, hate myself for what I’ve become. Not a man but a bullet aimed and fired by the people who hire me. Eventually, I’ll likely die by their hand too.
For her own good, Poppy doesn’t need to be mixed up with me.
She inhales sharply, holding my gaze while she holds her breath.
“Breathe, Pops. You’re trying to look mad, but all you’re doing is pushing your tits all up in my face.” I trace the line of her cleavage with my eyes, licking my lips with hunger for something I know I’ll never taste.