“I think I hit a new personal best, Josh.”
I forced myself not to turn toward the deep and sexy timbre behind me. It was as if we were playing some unspoken cat and mouse game of not acknowledging the other existed. Or maybe I was playing an imaginary game by myself since he didn’t look like he had to pretend I wasn’t there at all. To him, I just wasn’t.
I couldn’t figure out why I hated that so much.
“Another personal best? No one likes a showoff, Anthony.” Dad snickered and moved toward the back door leading into the garage.
“That idea I had for the chrome, I tried it out on this one since you said the customer didn’t know what they wanted, and I think it worked out. If not, it’s quick and easy to dismantle, just thought I’d try it. I’m just going to get a quick cup of coffee since I worked through my break, but go back and take a look when you can.”
Dad headed into the garage while Anthony went into the break room. I loathed the coffee here, but there was a vending machine with cold drinks. Either thirst or pettiness lifted me out of my seat and toward Anthony.
As I counted out quarters for my iced tea, I noticed Anthony at one of the tables, taking a sip from a steaming cup of coffee as he scribbled into a sketchbook with his other hand. When I glanced in his direction, I couldn’t tell exactly what was on the page.
He didn’t notice me standing there, but I didn’t take it personally—this time—since he was drawing with such determined passion, I doubted he noticed anything around him. He had that look in the garage when he was building one of the cycles. His determination and focus were so damn sexy. Sometimes, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from him, and I hated myself for it.
“What are you drawing?” I asked, trying to sound bored since curiosity wouldn’t let me stand silently.
His head swiveled around, his eyes widening slightly when they met mine. I was surprised by the sheepish grin curling the sides of his mouth.
“I guess you’d be the only one around here to appreciate this. It’s a character from a comic book. My comic book.”
My jaw dropped before I shot over to where he was sitting, forgetting for a moment I wasn’t supposed to like this guy, or at least look like I didn’t.
“You’re making a comic book? That’s amazing! Can I see?” I tilted my head, and I was again shocked when he slid the book over.
My hand flew to my mouth as my eyes scanned the page. Dad had said Anthony had an amazing eye and not only knew how to fix things, but recreate them in ways he’d never seen before. I ran the tip of my finger along the indentations made by his pencil and whispered a “wow” before I could help it. The hero had his fists clenched as if he were about to fight, but the look on his face haunted me. He was angry with wet eyes, as if his life or the lives of those he loved depended on the outcome of whatever battle he was about to rush into.
“I’m still figuring it out, so it’s still just shit.” He slid the sketchbook back and cleared his throat.
“Maybe it’s shit to you, but I’ve never been gutted by a hero’s face before. I’d love to know his story.”
“You would?” A chuckle escaped him as he studied me. “Why?”
“Look at his eyes.” I pointed to the crinkle between the brows. “His face is clenched as if he’s in a rage, but his eyes show so much hurt. Like he’s avenging something or fighting for someone he loves. And you managed to show that all with just a pencil. It’s not shit. It’s breathtaking, Anthony.”
He shrugged, a little blush filling his cheeks. The spark I’d felt when we’d spoken on his first day was back.
“Thank you.” He lifted his head and peered at me with a wide smile. “I guess it would help if I figured out the story part of it. Drawing comes easy, but writing the scenes are difficult for me.” He drained the coffee from his cup before closing the book.
“I could help you with that,” I offered, wincing when I realized what I’d said. “If you want to brainstorm or figure out some story ideas, I wouldn’t mind at all.”
“Really?” He stilled. “It’s not like it’s going to be real or anything, just something I’m doing for me. I guess it’s stupid to spend so much time on it.”
“I’ll tell you a little secret,” I whispered. “I have dozens of notebooks filled with words. I have a ton of stories written that I doubt I’ll ever have the guts to do anything with, but writing is like breathing to me. And if I do something with them someday, great. But they’re for me, and not a single word on any of those pages was a waste of time.”
Our eyes locked for a long minute before he finally stood.
“I need to get back and see if your father thinks I’m a genius or a nut with what I did with that bike.” We shared a laugh.
“Sure. Thank you for showing me.”
I shifted to walk back to my desk when he grabbed my wrist.
“There’s some dialogue and some direction in there too. A few other drawings. I may have enough for an origin story. I can show you what I have tomorrow morning and you can tell me if it sucks. I’ll even buy you that weird latte you like for your trouble.”
“Pumpkin isn’t weird.”
He snickered at my glare.
“But sure,” I told him. “I’d love to.”
He squeezed my wrist and smiled, the pure hope in his eyes draining a little air from my lungs.
Anthony was more tense than usual when he handed me the tattered sketchbook on Saturday morning during his break.
“Tell me what it’s about,” I said as I sat across from him, flipping through the sketches on each page. I didn’t have to lift my head to see the tension radiating off of him.
“Noel is an avenger. He’s not a good guy in the official sense, but he fights criminals and supernatural villains when no one else can defeat them.”
“Right, but,” I trailed off, my eyes darting from the page to the deep furrow in his brow. “Why is he doing it? Like Batman for example, his parents were murdered, so with every villain he catches, he’s avenging their death. You can tell Noel is passionate and troubled—”
“You could tell that and you’re not even halfway in?” He crossed his arms over his broad chest, his wide shoulders rigid as if I’d struck a nerve. The defensive glare he threw me led me to believe I’d stumbled on to something.
All of the pieces I’d written, both for school and myself, always had a piece of me in there somewhere. Oftentimes, it was something I was working out on the page because I couldn’t say it out loud.
Anthony’s hero had the most haunting, sad eyes. He was a loner, not unusual for a vigilante, but the pain etched on Noel’s face said more than any of the dialogue Anthony had shown me so far.
“I think there is a reason why he’s fighting. Filling in the gaps of his story will be easier if you can zero in on his goal. That first sketch you showed me gave me chills. I knew right away that he had a bigger reason why than just catching bad guys.”
“Maybe he used to be the bad guy. Maybe he hurt a lot of people and he’s trying to make it right.”
Anthony’s dark eyes bore into mine, almost as if he was issuing a challenge.