(18) It Smells Like Cigarettes and Bitches

                                    

                                          
CHAPTER 18
                          
“What’s in the bag?” I ask, being the first to pull away from CM, my heart in my throat. I gesture toward the duffel bag he brought in earlier.
                          
CM brushes a stray strand of hair from his face. “Oh,” he mutters, squatting down to unzip it. He pulls the sides apart, revealing the bags contents and smiles up at me. “It’s for you.”
                          
“Me?” I cock an eyebrow, bending over and grabbing an object from the open bag. I read the label and look down at CM. “Spray paint.” I say. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
                          
“Ah, great question blue eyes.” CM pops back up to his feet, a can of spray paint in his hand as well. I notice he’s in a considerably better mood than he was in when we first got in here. Thank goodness.
                          
CM gestures around us with one hand. “You’re going to paint, of course.”
                          
The corners of my mouth tilts down. “I can’t draw.”
                          
He rolls his eyes. “Who cares? No one’s going to laugh. Find a spot on the wall, and draw something. Or write something. It doesn’t matter which.”
                          
My eyes widen the slightest bit. “On your wall? No way. I’m not going to ruin your room!”
                          
“Take a look around, Doll. It’s already ruined.”
                          
I move backwards until my back touches the wall. A sigh presses through my lips. “Fine, alright. What would I even do? Does it have to be something depressing? I’m not really a dark person. Seriously, I failed creative writing because I couldn’t produce a decent piece of poetry. The best I can do is write something happy. Maybe something that will bring your mood up when you see it.”
                          
CM looks at me. I mean, really looks at me. The kind of look that they talk about in novels, that even actors can’t produce. The kind that I didn’t think existed. The kind that makes my heart morph into the cartoonish, Valentine’s Day one.
                          
“I expected nothing less from you.”
                          
___ ___ ___
                          
“Don’t look yet.” I demand. I don’t need to look over my shoulder to know that CM is getting impatient. All his sighs and grunts aren’t easy to miss.
                          
“I won’t.” he says. I can picture him holding his hands up in surrender, his mouth twisted with a scowl. “How much longer?”
                          
I smile, because he reminds me of my sister in that moment, whiny. Which is actually really weird when you think about it, but in a nice way.
                          
“I’m almost done, I promise.”
                          
He grunts again.
                          
“Hey, you’re the one who wanted me to do this.” I remind him, a teasing pitch carrying across the room to him. I curl my top lip up at the sight in front of me. Realizing what’s missing, I grab another can of paint to add to it.
                          
“Yeah, but if I knew it’d take you a year…” he trails off, and I roll my eyes.
                          
“Fifteen minutes is hardly a year.” I assess the piece of work in front of me. Happy with it, I say, “Besides, I’m done now. You can look.”
                          
“Are you sure?” he gives me his sarcasm, and I spin around to give him a smirk in turn. Without another word, he maneuvers closer so that he’s standing in front of myself, his green eyes staring down at me with an amused expression on his face. “Move over.”
                          
I do as he wishes, in the process tripping over my own foot. CM’s hand shoots out to grab my arm firmly, stopping me from losing my footing completely. Before I have the chance to be embarrassed or inform my brain that this is one of those moments where I usually blush, CM is able to look at what I’d done on his wall.