Part 7 (1/2)

He stifles a smile and raises the paintbrush in his hand. ”Painting.”

”But isn't this your first day?”

”Mr. Morgan is my dad's brother.”

”So you have connections?”

His smile illuminates his slate eyes. ”I guess you could say that.”

I grow fl.u.s.tered with the impulse to walk across the room, run my hands up his lean arms, and tangle my fingers through his hair.

”Well, I'll see you around.” I wave and step back to depart the room.

”Aren't you curious if I'm any good?” He sets the paintbrush down and motions me over.

I set my bag on a table and weave through the desks. His eyes never leave me. By the time I reach him, my skin is scorching. He has a black hoodie pulled over his At the Drive-In T-s.h.i.+rt. His faded jeans are stained with little droplets of black paint, the same look Ian often sports. He brushes his black hair out of his eyes and I notice a small scar along his brow line, right beneath his eyebrow piercing.

He gestures at the canvas. ”So what do you think?”

It's the most beautiful painting I've ever seen. Flawless strokes of black paint brush the shape of a male angel. His head is tucked down and his dark hair blows in the wind. His feet are traced with a black circle, like he's bound to the lonely spot. He's crying and the agony and torment in his expression is so real, I want to reach out and comfort him.

”It's beautiful,” I breathe. ”I can feel his pain and anguish. It's like it's killing him, being trapped to that single spot.”

”You understand it like a true artist,” he observes, with a trace of ache in his eyes. ”Do you paint?”

I shake my head, fixated with the painting. ”No, my brother does. And Raven. I'm more of an artist with words.”

”So you're a writer,” he says.

I turn to face him. He's standing closer than I thought. Out of habit, I step back, and the heel of my boot collides with the easel. ”I want to be one someday.”

He sweeps a strand of my hair back and tucks it behind my ear, a reminder that I don't have to fear his touch; that his contact only brings solace, not sorrow.

”Do you know some believe that the eyes are the window to the soul?” he asks softly.

I arch my eyebrows. ”You know that's a pick-up line, right?”

His intense expression is breathtaking as he cups my cheek and grazes his thumb along my cheekbone. The feel of his skin against mine brings a comfort I've never experienced before.

”It is now, but a long time ago people used to believe that a person's eyes gave insight to one's soul. It showed what they were really feeling and their vulnerability.” He slowly traces his finger below my eyes. ”You have beautiful eyes, but there's so much sadness in them.”

I swallow the lump in my throat and focus on his lips. Dear G.o.d Almighty, he has such luscious lips.

”Ember,” he whispers like he's known me forever, temporarily unhitching the chains that bind me to every single person's death. It's strange, but exhilarating. ”I want to kiss you.” His voice drops to a husky whisper. ”Please tell me I can kiss you.”

I've never been kissed before-I've never been able to get close to anyone like this without feeling smothered by death.

He closes his eyes. I inhale as his lips inch nearer. My heart dances vigorously in my chest.

”Asher, what are you doing?”

Our eyes snap open and we back away from each other. Mr. Morgan, the art teacher, is standing by his desk. He's in his mid-forties, with chestnut brown hair and hazel eyes. He wears a lot of cargo pants and polo s.h.i.+rts, smeared with charcoal, paint, clay-any art supply, really.

”Oh, hi there, Ember.” He sets a stack of artwork down on his corner desk. ”Have you seen Raven this morning? She usually comes in here, but I haven't seen her.”

”I think she might be a little late this morning,” I explain.

”Oh, I see.” His gaze flicks to Asher and something in his eyes makes me want to leave.

I wave goodbye to Asher. ”See you around, I guess.”

He picks up the paintbrush distractedly. ”Yeah, sure.”

Raven and I usually sit around and talk before cla.s.s, but she still hasn't texted me back. So I collect my books from my locker and head to cla.s.s a little early. I have English first period with Mr. Mackerlie. He's writing on the whiteboard when I walk into the cla.s.sroom and doesn't notice me.

My bag lands on the floor loudly and he turns with the marker in his hand. ”Oh, Ember, I didn't see you come in.” He clicks the lid on the marker and sets it in the tray.

Today's a.s.signment is on the board. We are studying William Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet. I read the book when I was fifteen after Raven made me watch the movie-the newer version starring Leonardo DiCaprio and Claire Danes-so I already know how the story goes: love, rivalry, violence, and tragedy.

Mr. Mackerlie s.h.i.+fts through papers on his desk. The bell rings and people start wandering into the cla.s.sroom. Mr. Mackerlie walks back to my desk with a smile on his face.

”I really enjoyed the poem you wrote for last week's a.s.signment, Ember.” He taps a finger on the paper in his hand, stained with my undying penmans.h.i.+p.

”Thanks,” I reply uncomfortably. I never meant to turn in that particular poem.

”If you don't mind, I'd like to read it aloud to the cla.s.s,” he says. I shake my head in protest, but Mackenzie Baker taps him on the shoulder, sidetracking him.

Her eyes skim me like I am ghost. ”Mr. Mackerlie, I just brought in the new guy.” She points over her shoulder at Cameron, who winks at me.

I called that one.

Mackenzie has strawberry blonde hair, green eyes, and wears clothes that barely pa.s.s the dress code. She's kind of like Raven in a way, only maybe a little less forward. In fact, the only reason they're not friends is because Mackenzie is rich and looks down on us low-lifes who live in the rundown townhomes on the far side of town.

”He needs his books and stuff,” she states. ”And a place to sit.”

”Oh, yes, you must be Cameron Logan,” Mr. Mackerlie says and he glances back at me. ”Don't worry, I'll say it's anonymous.”

I throw up my hands exasperatedly. Is he joking? The poem is t.i.tled Ember.

”You look a little upset.” Cameron slides onto my desk, trying to act nonchalant, but sorrow haunts his eyes.

”I'm fine.” I take a pen and notebook out of my bag. ”I'm just having a rough morning.”

”Did you find your friend?” he asks. ”The one with the pink hair?”

I shake my head. ”No, I stopped by the art room this morning, because she likes to go there a lot, but the only person there was the other new kid.” I bite at the end of my pen pensively, remembering what almost happened in the art room.

”You ran into Asher this morning?” He studies my face closely, as if he's looking for cracks that will reveal some hidden secret.