Page 11 of Takedown Artist
“I wasn’t scared, Troy. Since I’ve only seen you like that during a match, I was surprised, that’s all,” he tells me, his voice calm and even.
We set the desk down in the hallway, but he looks as if he wants to say more. Knowing he takes a minute to process before he speaks, I wait, giving him what I hope is an encouraging look.
He shifts from foot to foot until his face gets that all too-familiar stubborn look, before he squares his shoulders and meets my gaze with determined eyes.
“No one’s ever stood up for me before. Not like that. Yeah … and uh I just wanted to say that … well I um,” he gulps, then says the rest quickly. “Thankyoufordoingthat.”
His voice cracks, and for just a second, I see the vulnerability in his eyes before he shuts it down. I want to wrap him in my arms so badly, I’m almost shaking with it.
“Even though I’m hella pissed that you had to witness one of the shittier moments in my life. And, honestly, I’m not loving that you had to stand up for me, even though I appreciate it.” And there’s my sarcastic Micah. I knew he hadn’t disappeared entirely, even if it was nice to see his softer side.
“You’re more than welcome.” There’s so much more I want to say, but now isn’t the time. If this encounter has taught me anything, it’s that Micah’s been shoring up his defenses for mostof his life. It’s going to take patience to get past them, but he’s worth it.
We relocate the remainder of his furniture to the hallway as quickly as we’re able. Once his room is empty, I shut the apartment door with a finality that has us both sighing with satisfaction. Thank fuck, because he’s never coming back to this shithole again. I will make sure of it.
We move it all down and into the truck with minimal conversation. By sheer luck, the service elevator is only two doors down from his old apartment. Once it’s all loaded into the back of my Ford F150, we cover it with moving blankets before doing a final tie-down. I resist the urge to say “that’s not going anywhere.”
Micah’s always contained when he’s processing. That’s just his way. Jasper’s comment about his parents sticks with me, and it’s making me think awfully hard about the difference in our childhoods. The more I think about it, the more the ache in my chest throbs with the knowledge that he’s been alone. Maybe for most of his life. Not anymore, I silently promise.
When we collapse onto the leather truck seats, both of us a bit winded in our haste to get this done, he gives me one of his small smiles.
“I’m yours now?” he asks, that sardonic twist in his voice, his eyes still wary.
“Yes. Mine.”
He has no idea how serious I am about that statement. Not yet.
But Micah doesn’t respond, and I’m left wondering if I went too far. Again.
Chapter 6
Micah
Troy was just posturing, right? I’ve been thinking about how he called me his all week long. It scared the crap out of me, but it also felt pretty great. I wish I could believe he meant it. Then again, it’s always nice when someone cares. The thing is, someone like him would never claim a messed-up foster kid like me. He’s going to be a famous professional fighter someday, and having me around would hardly be a good career choice. Yeah. Had to be for show.
This entire week has been weirdly domestic, and I don’t know what to think. We’ve been carpooling to the gym every day. We have breakfast, lunch, and dinner together, and we spend most evenings together or with his parents. They wave to us when we leave in the morning and ask us about our day when we get home.
It doesn’t escape my sense of the ironic that the safest place I’ve ever lived was with a terrifyingly large MMA fighter whose mom invites me to Sunday dinner.
The problem is, I don’t hate it. It’s been surprisingly low-key, which I enjoy, but I also know better. Good things never last. At least not for me.
This is a temporary living situation until I’ve got some money saved for a place of my own, and I need to remember that. Which means at some point I’ll be leaving. I’ve left enough places to know exactly how much that costs, and I don’t think I can afford the payment this time around.
I’ve dedicated this afternoon strictly for drawing, since it’s a Sunday. With the move and settling in, I haven’t been able to put any time into my personal projects. The room I’m staying in has phenomenal light. It has an enormous bay window that gets the perfect late-day sun. I’ve camped out here since lunchtime.
With soft blankets and matching moss-colored pillows, the window seat is a cozy little nest. The entire bedroom is done in different shades of green, and I have no doubt that this is Gloria’s work. The deep forest-green bedding on the king bed, offset by the cream-colored throws, catches your eye immediately. As someone who works with color palettes frequently, it’s really well done while still retaining a masculine feel. I’ve never lived anywhere that looked like this. As if they cared about the comfort of the person staying here.
Manga graphic novels are my guilty pleasure. I love an angsty, morally gray hero. I know that reality is never black and white. After years of working hard simply to get by, I’ve finally reached the point where I’m able to carve out some time to work on my own graphic novel, Revenant Bones.
The sketch I’m working on today is one that’s been rolling around in my head for weeks. My main character, Nox, a demon warrior turned vigilante, and his nemesis, who remains unnamed at this point, are preparing for the final battle. The black and white medium in manga art lets the artist create subtle nuances with shading.
The knock on my door startles me, but I appreciate the respect for my privacy. It’s probably Troy, so I tell him to come in. I’m too warm and comfortable to get up.
Troy enters with a smile, wandering over to check out my sketch. I don’t show my drawings to others, but he always seems eager to see them. My chest fills with warmth as he makes his way over, his spicy cedar scent reaching me before he does.
“Are you drawing? Can I see?” he asks, already leaning in to take a look.
“Okay.”
