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“I didn’t realize you had a house in Atlanta. I thought you were from New York?”
He shook his head as he pulled into his parking spot. “I lived there for a few years—it’s how I started working with Stonewall Investigations—but I’ve always had a home base here in Atlanta. It’s one of the reasons Zane assigned me to your case. I was born and raised in Marietta.”
“Huh,” I said, looking around at the quiet neighborhood. It was a street full of flipped homes with clean white exteriors and bold-colored trims. Porches that were well maintained and fences that needed no repairs. It was silent except for the low din of a TV coming from an open window.
“Come, let’s get inside. I’ve got a nice bottle of wine waiting for us.”
“What’s the occasion?” I asked and followed him to the front door.
“Life being shit is the occasion.”
I chuckled at that. Gabriel unlocked his front door and stepped inside, tapping a series of numbers into the beeping alarm.
Instantly, the sweet scent of fresh flowers bloomed all around me. I noticed he had a couple of diffusers and a Glade plug-in close to the door. He kicked off his sneakers and placed them on a neatly organized shoe rack. I followed suit, rolling in my suitcase and setting it to the side. Gabriel shut and locked the door and set the alarm back on.
“Your place is beautiful,” I said, taking it in for the first time. A mixture of modern decor and some slightly more dated touches. There was a trendy brown leather couch on a fluffy white rug that felt like a puffy cloud under my toes. The entertainment center was a scratched-up brown unit that could have used a little upgrade, but I didn’t blame him for spending that money on the massive TV that took up most of the wall, a sound system flanking it and turning the living room into an immersive theatre. A couple of paintings hung on the wall, a mixture of what appeared to be oil and watercolor, creating an interesting dynamic that made the landscapes appear as if they were shifting whenever I moved.
“And these are just stunning,” I said, admiring the painting closest to me.
“Thank you,” he said, stepping beside me. I could almost feel an electrical current zapping off his forearm, tickling at mine.
But no. We need to keep things cool between us.
“I painted these a few years ago.”
My jaw dropped, and my head turned to him as if on a swivel. “You made these?”
“You don’t have to look so surprised,” Gabriel said, bushy brow arched and a smile half-cocked on his face. “You’re not the only creative one here.”
I stammered, realizing how rude I’d just sounded. “That’s not, no, I just mean—”
“I’m teasing you. I know it’s a little surprising. A brush in my hand probably looks like an elephant holding a stick.”
“A silverback, actually.” Tristan shot me a wink.
“How did you know I was graying back there?” I gave an exaggerated crane of my neck as if I were checking under my shirt. He started to laugh, giving me that sound I was getting so fucking attached to.
“Well, these are beautiful. Really, Gabe. The way you play with different mediums and make it all flow together is insane to me.”
“Same as the way you put together all those different words and make it a coherent story. Now,that’sinsane.” He cocked his head, eyes searching mine. For what, I wasn’t sure, but I allowed it. “Have you been working on anything recently?”
Ah, there it was. The question that I’d grown to hate over the last couple of months. I used to be able to answer that with an enthusiastic yes, launching into quick elevator pitches of whatever books I had been writing at the time. The passion would ooze out of me, the words flowing like a babbling brook, unable to keep quiet for long. My muse had always worked overtime, causing me to frequently pause conversations and jot something down in my Notes app as a new story element developed out of thin air.
Not anymore. Stress and worry had caused my well of words to dry up. I sat at my computer and stared at a blank screen, feeling nothing but a sad emptiness. Everything I wrote down felt fake and fabricated, as if I were painting by the numbers and not with my heart.
Until a few days ago, at least. After Gabe and I got together, I remember waking up feeling as if I could write a saga elaborate enough to take onDante’s Inferno. I had managed to get a good amount of (good) words down on my work in progress, with random ideas popping up throughout the day. “I am,” I said. “It’s been difficult keeping focus with everything going on, but I think my muse is finally coming back.”
And I’ve got you to thank for that.
“Good, because the world needs more of your books. Trust me.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. That sounded a whole lot like he had read my work. I crossed my arms, my eyelids turning to slits. “You haven’t read my stuff, have you?”
His shit-eating grin told me all I needed to know. I gave him a half-hearted punch to the chest. “Asshole. I told you when we met not to read my books. I get too in my head… did you like it?”
“Like it? I loved it. And I’m not a huge reader, so that’s a huge compliment.”
That got a genuine smile out of me. It was a refreshing reminder and made me want to sit down and get some more words out. I had my laptop with me, so maybe that would be a possibility. I went for my suitcase and looked around the cozy space, oddly feeling at home, even though it had been the first time I had stepped into this place.
