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“Show me.”
“I’m not showing you my art.”
She takes a step back.
I set my mug down and take a step forward. “You will if you want to go.”
“This isn’t some weird dictatorship.”
“Yeah,” I say, “it is.”
“Fine. You want to look, have at it.” She picks up the big folio and shoves it.
I take it and clear the counter.
Honestly, I don’t need to see it. But I’m curious.
She has a lot of sketches. Plenty I know are for tattoos because there’s a small version of what’s on her back.
So . . . she wants more, but Karlee isn’t rushing into it. I like that, so many people end up with a collection of parts, notcohesive or things that mean anything. For her, I’m betting every one of these means something, she just hasn’t put it together.
I glance at her, remembering what she said last night.
Karlee likes puzzles, it’s part of what she does in her course work, in her hacking days and the coding. She makes sense from chaos.
She’d be an asset to any organization. Now, I’m curious now about her cyber security work.
The next lot are also pen and ink, but more game-like characters, some of the ones, the exaggerated ones that Jack, Diego’s stepson, plays. I call Jack his stepson, but I don’t know how that shit works. Nadia’s his aunt, but the kid’s parents don’t really care, so he lives with them, idolizing Diego as only a sixteen-year-old wannabe tough guy can.
And then . . .
I suck in a sharp breath.
Nudes.
Fucking nudes of Karlee. One is a big canvas—a photograph of it, anyway—and her face is mostly hidden by her hair, but it’s fucking her. Right down to the tight fucking petals of her cunt.
Jesus.
There are sketches, a whole lot of rough-edged sketches that have real life. Side on, from the back, her legs fucking parted. I take that one out and slap it on the table, drawing side down.
“Tizio, put that back.”
“No fucking way.” I shove a finger at it. “That is porn.”
She gasps. “You’re a prude. Mr. spank my ass and call me nasty names is a prude.”
“No, I just don’t want every fucking pervert looking at you like that. Jesus, Karlee.”
There’s a painting too. Small, framed, and perfect, she’s sitting on a stool, looking over her shoulder. Naked, of course. Why is she so fucking obsessed with being naked?
Her ass is divine, red marks—there are the marks from where I hit her—on the pale skin, and one perfect tit, nipple lit up by the light coming in and . . .
I take that too.
“Who did these so I can kill them.”
The jealousy is so searing I can almost smell the burning flesh.
