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“Nah.” He shook his head, turning. He laughed. “I was just a little shit.”
I rolled my eyes.
He tossed me his can. “Come on. It helps. Dad called it illegal art therapy.”
Shaking the can, I took him up on his dare. I got that color going before Ares directed me to take off my bag. He had more cans in there, and I used them.
I painted one of my galaxies, and funny enough, I’d never tagged a wall before. I guessed I hadn’t wanted to deal with the territory shit.
Ares stood behind me for a while, nodding at my work before joining in himself with another spray can. He let loose on the wall, the pair of us doing our thing.
We didn’t talk while we worked, nothing but the sound of our spray paint in the air, and he was right. It was definitely therapeutic.
“What does your mom think about all of this, then?” I asked him, wondering about her. If she wasn’t terrible, why was he such a little shit? I mean, his life seemed pretty fucking good, privileged.
He smiled. “Dad said it was our little secret. My mom would hate this shit. She’s in politics.”
“Is she cool?”
His painting slowed a little but didn’t stop. He was adding to something he’d already started, geometric work. This didn’t surprise me since he said he was into that too.
“She’s the best woman I know. Strong.” He looked at me. “I wish I deserved her. I guess she and my dad got stuck with my attitude. Stuck with me.”
A muscle flexed in his jaw, his eyes narrowed. Shaking his can, he proceeded in his therapy, and maybe it did work.
He was telling me things about him too, things about his family and his respect for them. He seemed not to have a lot of that for anyone outside of his friends.
Family, bonds, obviously meant a lot to him, and that reminded me so much of someone.
“Where are your parents now?” I asked, painting too. I needed another distraction. I swallowed. “Just wondering. I mean, you have parties and stuff. Didn’t know if they were workaholics or something.”
That would explain a lot of his aggression, his attitude. I also hadn’t seen his parents at the house, but I hadn’t gone inside recently.
“They work, but they’re not workaholics. They’re actually out of town now.”
“Where?”
He didn’t answer for a second, and honestly, I just kind of asked the question off the cuff. We’d been talking, vibing. I faced him, and he’d stopped painting.
“They’re visiting D and his family,” he said, my eyes flashing. He sprayed a line. “And I got another rule.”
He didn’t give me a chance to ask, lowering his can.
Tension narrowed his eyes. “Personal shit isn’t needed with what we’re doing. In fact, it’s completely unnecessary to do what we have to do.” He fingered his hair. “So let’s not get into it. And that goes double for anything that has to do with D.”
I heard the words, the rule, but a request lingered there in his tone and the way he looked at me. It was like he was asking me for this new rule, and it was one that didn’t bother me. I didn’t want to tell him about my own shit.
I just had.
I told him more things than I ever thought I would about my brother and my worries about him and who we were before Maywood Heights. He hadn’t even pulled my arm.
“I can be about that, Wolf,” I said, putting out a hand. “I can call you Wolf, right?”
That was something that only his football friends called him, and something that should trigger him.
But I had given him an inch. I couldn’t stand the name little.
His grin started slow.
