Page 65 of Bad Influence
“How do you feel about being a tourist?”
I lower my book. “Are you serious? You don’t have clients?”
Killian almost smiles. “No clients. Do you like catacombs?”
I swing my legs off the couch and sit up. “I’ve never seen catacombs, but I’m sure I can be persuaded. Give me ten minutes to get dressed.”
I rush off to my room before he can change his mind and pull on a pair of loose jeans and a fitted sleeveless top that leaves most of my back bare. I rub a brush through my hair and pull it into a loose braid, dab on some concealer, blush, and lipgloss, and I’m good to go.
We take the train into the city and arrive on Mulberry street in thirty minutes, just in time for the tour. The catacombs are dark and gloomy. We’re handed tealights as part of the tour andI lose myself in the rich, creepy history. Killian walks behind me, and I’m not sure if he’s interested or not, but I have the most fun.
“That was amazing,” I tell Killian, once we’re back in daylight. “Where do you want to be buried?”
“I haven’t really thought about it,” he says, as we start walking.
It’s a beautiful day. The sun’s out so the cool breeze isn’t chilling. I still pull on my sweater as we walk.
“Do you mind walking on this side?” Killian takes my arm and pulls me to the inside of the sidewalk. As if he’s less likely to get hit by a moving vehicle.
“I’m surprised you haven’t thought about it,” I muse. “A lot of people must be waiting for you to die.”
His eyes swing to me, confusion and outrage mixing together. “What?”
I laugh. “I mean, art appreciates after the death of the artist, right? You’re an artist. Surely there are some sickos who are waiting for you to drop dead.”
Killian nods. “This reminds me, I need to buy a lock for my door.”
I burst out laughing. He can easily tackle me to the ground if I decide to attack him. Not that I’m tiny, I’m just very selective with my work out routine and I’m not at my strongest right now.
Killian points out a lot of places as we walk. We’re walking close enough that the backs of our hands brush and neither of us pulls away.
As we walk through Bryant Park, under trees which are just starting to turn green, I turn to Killian.
“What’s your favorite part about living here?”
“I’ve never thought about it,” he says. Of course he hasn’t.
“You live here,” I say. “You must have given it some thought.”
He turns to assess me. “What do you like about it?”
“I can’t answer that, I’m basically still a tourist,” I say.
“If you had to guess.”
I twist my mouth to the side, watching a dog running across the grass. A light breeze plays with my hair, the scent of soil and freshly mowed grass fill the air. Car horns sound every so often, filling the breaks between conversations.
“I like the freedom. It’s not the city itself, it’s what it represents. Possibilities, choices, and freedom.”
The next day, he takes me to the Garment district for no reason other than I like clothes. Which is reason enough, if you ask me. I take out my phone and take a photo ofThe Garment Workersculpture as we walk past.
“I like the areas of New York where you can feel the history,” I say. “The years, and years of work and effort to make this industry what it is.” I look at Killian. “Pick a color.”
He heaves a sigh. “Not this again.”
“Do it! You know you want to.”
Rolling his eyes, he says, “Yellow.”
