Five

Raven

I’d rather put on a pink dress and twirl a baton for a beauty pageant than share my photographs with another artist. Unfortunately, that won’t get me the job I want. I saw Sasha’s advertisement in the paper this morning. As soon as I read Paid Photography Apprenticeship, I hurried out the door, portfolio in hand, and hunted down her address. Now I’m sitting across from her, chewing my cheek, dreading the moment when she asks to see my work.

She holds out her hand, probably unsure why I have my leather album in a death grip. “Can I see your work?”

Yep. Dreading this moment.

“Sure,” I say, wowing her with my intellect.

Her platinum hair is cut in a severe bob, framing her straight black brows and purple eyes. Not blue irises with a tinge of violet. Those suckers are Barney the Dinosaur purple. It takes dedication to wear colored contacts, serious style commitment. A friend in Toronto does special-effects makeup, and every time we’d go out, she’d change her eye color and apply a faint scar for kicks. Hopefully my ordinary black hair and wardrobe aren’t marks against me.

Unable to delay my blistering insecurity, I hand over my album.

The photos are from last year’s trip to the Sandy Lake First Nation Reserve. My first trip there. Only accessible by plane most of the year, I drove in with a supply truck on their winter ice road. I snapped action shots of teams playing broom ball, close-ups of kids chasing stray dogs, stills of elders digging in at a community feast. My favorite is of a young girl ice fishing, brazen, holding her catch by the gills. I see myself in her: the shape of my face, the color of my skin, the shine of my hair. My grandmother was born in Sandy Lake. My trip there was a way for me to say thank you and good-bye.

Sasha analyzes each image.

Unable to handle the suspense, my gaze drifts to the spiky wall clock above her diamond-backed dining chairs, then down to the triangular coffee table between us. One wrong move in this place, and I could slice an artery. I pull her album toward me, flipping pages as each excruciating second drags. Two images in, my insecurity doubles, because holy shit is her work sick. Each photographic portrait is unique, the setting and lighting telling a story.

“Your work is solid,” she says. “You have a good eye for composition.”

I sit up taller, hand frozen mid-flip. “Thanks, that means a lot. Your photos are unreal.” I study one of an older black man, deep lines etched in his face. Gray stubble dots his chin and cheeks, longer whiskers above his lip. Light reflects off his smiling eyes. Behind him, blurred tombstones fill the space; it’s a portrait of love and loss.

She crosses her legs, and her boxy skirt crinkles. “Thanks, but this job isn’t about taking those shots. I need an assistant, someone to help with the grunt work. It’s not glamorous. You’ll be hauling gear and setting up lighting. And Vancouver’s weather can be a bitch. We can’t always reschedule, so rain and cold come with the territory.”

I nod as I flip the page. A young girl beams at me, ankle deep in a puddle, her pigtails flying, water splashing as rain pounds in blurry sheets. It’s glorious.

Sasha points at the photo. “That one took close to a hundred frames. I had to convince her folks to let her splash around.”

Overwhelmed and impressed, I shut the book. “If you’ll have me, I’m in. I’ve taken enough classes and worked on my own to know the basics, but this stuff”—I point at her book—“this is what I need to learn. Getting to the heart of people, seeing beyond the frame. If you give me this job, I’ll work my butt off for you.”

She bounces her platform shoe, her purple eyes intense and trippy. “Okay. I’ll give you a shot. Can you start next week?”

Once we iron out the details, I hurry from her loft, camera and portfolio in hand, barely fighting the urge to dance in the street. My credit cards have been replaced, and I secured a job before cashing my last teaching paycheck. Things are looking up.

Most things, at least.

There is still the Sexy Beast Issue that’s plagued me the past week. That man is trouble. I tried to toss the note I wrote him, tried to put it out of my mind, but it’s hard to ignore the truth in my own words. I don’t want this to end. Can’t wait to see you again. I’ve seen him, all right, in nearly every dream this week, even when zoning out while awake. Sitting across from him at dinner the other night, his knee brushing mine, was worse than getting tattooed without ink—all the pain and no pleasure.

I curl my fingers around my camera, itching to snap some frames. Sasha’s work was beyond inspiring, and it will help me shake thoughts of Nico.

I tuck my portfolio in my purse and start walking. No direction. No plan. My black Doc Martens pound the pavement, my shorts and tank top not quite warm enough as evening sets in. Pumped to shoot, I ignore the chill. The neighborhood gets seedier with each passing block, more bars on windows, more litter on the streets. Bring it on. The rawness of life is what I’m after. The ugliness people try to ignore. Too often pedestrians march past homeless people, gazes averted, as if they don’t exist.

My grandmother existed.

I scan the streets, breaking the scenes into pieces with my mind. Angles cropped. Compositions imagined. Even before I raise my camera, I fracture the world into frames.

A man and his dog catch my eye, a bulging garbage bag by his feet. He’s asleep on a step, and his filthy shirt has ridden up, exposing sores on his side, red and seeping. The slope of his strong nose and long black hair tell me he’s First Nations, but I don’t know his story. I lift the camera hanging from my neck, hoping to conjure it.

Snap. His fisted hand by his chin.

Snap. His mangy dog resting its muzzle on his leg.

Snap. His gaunt face beside a newspaper article: Meatloaf Mondays.

A man knocks my shoulder as he hurries by, and I tug my purse closer. I’d rather not have a repeat of Wreck Beach. All personal property present and accounted for, I skirt around a lamppost. The smell of pizza wafts from a restaurant, and my belly rumbles, until the sickly-sweet scent of raw sewage overpowers it. Holding my breath, I hurry along, then stop short.

A couple of women have their backs to me, similar hair to mine. Squinting, I stare harder. Having black hair doesn’t mean one of them is Rose, but—there’s always a but—one of them could be. Every time I spot a woman with a familiar trait, my pulse taps a nervous beat. Would she be happy to see me? Pissed I tracked her down? Does she know I’m the reason our father beat her senseless the night before she left? She may hate me. She may not forgive me. But she’s my last chance to have an Unconditional Someone.

Every Christmas and Thanksgiving, Lily and Shay go home to their families. I’m always invited and often tagged along, but they aren’t my people. They don’t joke with me about childhood stories or boast about my accomplishments.

With my grandmother gone, Rose is all I have left.

Tonight, at least, I have my camera. My security blanket. I raise it and snap frames. Hands. Knees. Slim legs. When the girls angle their shoulders toward me, I lower my lens. Way too young for Rose.

Another cool breeze sends goose bumps down my neck, gradual darkness turning the concrete from gray to iron. People lurk in the growing shadows. The vibe on the street creeps into creepier. I’m about to hurry to a bus stop when a huge, hulking man comes into view.

My heart does its flipping thing.

Illuminated by a streetlight, Nico’s hands are planted on his knees as he leans forward to talk to a boy seated on the sidewalk. His face is intense, as though he’s in cop mode, but he’s not in his uniform blues. The kid looks to be in his twenties, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. I should look away, walk away. Instead I lift my camera.

Click. The head of the phoenix curling up Nico’s neck.

Click. The bulging bicep that stretches his short sleeve.

Click. The set of his square jaw.

Then I shoot an ass montage.

Every angle and viewpoint I can manage, wide shots and close-ups, details and panoramas, because God in heaven, that ass. Twenty shots later, his head whips around, and his sights lock on me. I freeze, sure he knows I was scoping his chiseled form, practically drooling. He says something to the boy then straightens. His long strides eat up the distance between us, and I enjoy every purposeful step. Dark jeans hug his hips, his white T-shirt tight enough to outline every edge and groove of his arms and pecs.

Forget the ass montage; the man needs a portfolio for each muscle.

When he reaches me, I realize my camera is still in front of my face. He puts a finger on the lens and presses it down, forcing me to acknowledge him. I’m not a short girl. I’ve dated guys taller than me and some shorter, but Nico’s massive frame towers. “You taking pictures?”

I rock on my feet, unsteady in his presence. The hair on his buzzed head is the same length as the scruff on his jaw, his lips slightly parted. If he didn’t ruin things after Aspen, I’d press to my tiptoes and rub my cheek against his five o’clock shadow.

Since he did ruin things, I say, “Can vegetarians eat animal crackers?”

He frowns. “Excuse me?”

A bus screeches by, and I drop my camera around my neck, looking anywhere but at his eyes. “I have this thing where if someone asks me a stupid question, like something really obvious, I reply with the dumbest question I can think of.” Don’t look into his eyes. Don’t look into his eyes. I drag my gaze up, and my heart stutters. Those ocean eyes.

He rolls his tongue over his teeth. “Are you calling me stupid?”

So hypnotized, I almost fall into him. “No, I’m calling your question stupid. Yes, I was taking pictures.” I jiggle my camera. “That’s usually why people carry these contraptions.”

“I don’t remember you having such a smart mouth in Aspen.” He licks his lips.

I so want to lick those lips. “Selective amnesia. Sarcasm is my signature move.”

His gaze drifts down to my boots. “I remember other moves.”

Although not verbose, the Sexy Beast likes to banter. “Do you, now?”

He steps closer, his chest brushing my camera lens. I tense my abs, heat spreading south. “Some,” he says. “I remember you smiling.”

My lips twitch, but I keep them flat. His charm is a weapon I’m ill equipped to handle. Standing here, so close, I can easily forget the nights I spent staring at my cell phone, plotting his demise. Dismemberment by captive killer whale was high on my list, a close second to pitching machine shots to the balls. Still, some twisted part of me wants him to ask me out again. If he did, I could wrap my arms around his waist and kiss his stubbled cheek and say, yes, yes, yes. Or I could turn him down and flip him the finger. Also a feel-good option.

He doesn’t ask, though. “You shouldn’t be in this neighborhood at night. It’s dangerous.”

A moment ago these shadowed streets were the last place I wanted to be. But with Nico’s size and presence, I feel safe. Physically, at least. Emotionally, not so much. “I was heading home. Didn’t realize how late it was.”

He looks at his black boots, then at the streetlights, then at me. “Can I give you a lift? There’s something I need to do, but if you come, I can drop you home after. I’ll be worried if you take the bus on your own.”

Worried. About me. A shiver courses through my body, and I don’t think it’s from the cold.

When I first flirted with photography, I couldn’t get the shutter speed and aperture right. Too slow or too fast, too much light or too little—whatever I did, my shots weren’t crisp. I’d download them to my computer and trash everything. Fastest index finger in the West. Then I photographed Shay at the bottom of one of her ski races, and the images rocked. Each one was clearer than the last: blue sky, bright snow, excitement in the air. Everything just clicked.

Like my night with Nico.

For years I’d kept men at arm’s length, didn’t even realize I was lonely. Then the Sexy Beast slammed everything into focus. Maybe it was my vulnerability that trip, or simply our connection, but once back home, when I returned to my easy nights with men, no strings, no emotion, I knew what I was missing. One night with Nico, and I craved that closeness—someone to confide in, total honesty. My thoughts shifted to Rose. If I could have a sister in my life, real family, I wouldn’t miss the feelings Nico inspired. I would have an Unconditional Someone.

But Nico’s the one in front of me, asking to give me a lift home. I could stay aloof like I did after dinner last week, not let him any closer than need be. He hasn’t pushed me since then. Hasn’t called or sought me out. Maybe he’s just being a good guy.

“Sure,” I say. “Lead me to your chariot.”

He presses his hand to the small of my back, firm but gentle. His hand is so big the tips of his fingers span to my ass, probably on purpose. I should shake him off, not let him cop a feel, but I’m greedy for his touch. We walk in silence, him guiding me through the streets, hand on my back.

When we get to a parking lot and his truck beeps, I plant my feet. “So there’s this thing, called global warming, and it’s liable to melt the world. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

He faces me, a smile spreading. Not a full grin, just the corners of his lips tugging upward. Boyish for such a masculine man. “Sounds familiar.”

“I’m pretty sure your truck is responsible for vaporizing half the ozone.”

“Doubtful.” He moves around me and opens the door of his Ford F250, massive like him. Imposing, like him. He holds out his hand. “Your chariot.”

What he lacks in words, he sure makes up in charm.

Once on the road, he turns his ear-bleeding country music down. “Why were you on Hastings this late?”

“I, if you must know, just got a job.”

He glances at me, then back at the road. “That’s great. Teaching art?”

“No.” I point to the camera still around my neck. “Gopher girl for an awesome photographer. I’m not cut out for teaching. The whole being around kids thing was a challenge.”

“I imagine a roomful can be tough. But photography, that’s your passion?”

“It is.” I run my hand over the grooves and edges of my Nikon D750. Ever since Lily came by my house on my seventeenth birthday, she’s made a point of buying me gifts. When she asked my dad what we were doing to celebrate that day, he sneered at her and said, “Celebrate what? That she drains our bank account?” He was pissed I’d used his track money to buy vegetables.

I pull the camera over my head and secure it in my purse. There’s a Sports Illustrated magazine on the floor. Swimsuit edition. Considering Nico hasn’t dated in sixteen months, I bet the pages are sticky.

Chuckling to myself, I say, “Lily got this for me. I love shooting street life. That and colors. I’ve been going to Kitsilano Beach in the morning, early to catch the sunrise.”

He turns the wheel, edging onto a side street. I’m not sure what errand he has to run or where we’re going, but I watch each shift of his wrist, each twist and tilt. Thick veins pulse under his dark skin. I don’t normally ogle men as they drive, don’t study their movements and hand work, but Nico’s forearms flex in the most delicious way. Forearm porn.

He fists the wheel at ten and two. “I’d love to see your shots sometime.”

I eye the portfolio tucked in my purse. “Maybe.” Art is personal, those pictures a window into my world, my heritage. Keeping my distance from Nico doesn’t include sharing that. “What about you?” I ask. “What were you doing in that fine part of town? Detective stuff?”

Frown lines pucker his brow. “Things aren’t looking good for Josh—my brother. Have the girls told you about it?”

“A bit, not much. I know he stole a car or something.”

One hand clutching the wheel, he rubs his neck with the other. “Or something. They found meth when they impounded it. He had a minor drug charge the year prior, so they got a search warrant. He’s been out on bail for seven months, but the trial’s not far, and we’re running out of options.”

“Did he do it?” I wince, unsure he wants me butting in, but he doesn’t shut me down.

He seems to contemplate the question, then he shakes his head. “No. No way. He made a lot of bad choices, but he’s not a dealer.”

“So you spend your free time looking for leads?”

He nods. “That, and I volunteer at a rec center in my old neighborhood twice a week. It was a haven for me growing up, and I like to give back. Try to keep the kids there involved and off the streets. One of them did something stupid recently, and we’re about to teach him a lesson.”

At those ominous words, I glance in the backseat but don’t see any ropes or duct tape or weapons. That rules out kidnapping. “Am I about to participate in an illegal activity?”

He keeps his focus on the windshield. “I’m a cop, Raven.”

“Are you implying cops never break the law?”

“You watch too many movies.”

“You don’t watch enough.”

Smirking, he keeps driving. We pull up to an apartment building, the porches crammed with plants and tiny barbecues. I wait as Nico disappears inside and reappears with a boy. The kid’s skinny as a sapling, probably thirteen or fourteen, a dark mop of hair covering his eyes as he drags his sneakers in an attempt to delay whatever torture the big guy has planned. The boy slides into the backseat and crosses his arms.

Nico shuts his door. “Tim, this is Raven. She’ll be coming along with us.”

Smiling, I offer a small wave.

A mumbled “Whatever” drifts forward.

Instead of starting the car, Nico pauses. “Pretty sure that’s not how you greet a lady. Mind trying again?”

Tim’s eyes are hidden under his hood of hair, but I bet he’s rolling them. “Nice to meet you.”

At that display of teenage sincerity, Nico grunts and reverses onto the street. A silent ten-minute car ride later we pull up to a white building. Several cars are parked outside. The lawn is tended, small flower beds lining the entryway. A large Canadian flag hangs over a sign that reads, Royal Canadian Legion. Nico nods for me to get out, and we wait for Tim to join us. If molasses were thickened and forced through a pinhole, it would move faster than this kid.

Nico places a hand on his shoulder. “When we go inside, you straighten up and give these folks your attention.” His voice is stern, his wide stance intimidating, even for me. “You show respect. You return what you stole, then you apologize and listen. Got it?”

Tim’s Adam’s apple bobs down his neck. “Got it.”

I follow the boys into the open space. Round tables, plastic chairs, and what looks like a small kitchen fill the room. The average age of the twenty-odd people seated, mostly men, hovers around a hundred and five. If I hadn’t seen the sign outside, I’d guess these seniors were here for a game of bingo. But this is a gathering of war veterans.

A man stands when he sees us and motions Tim forward. When the kid doesn’t budge, Nico nudges him. Tim’s sneakers squeak on the floor as he trudges toward his punishment.

Nico comes to my side and lowers his voice. “Tim stole from their collection cup last week. I heard talk of it at the rec center and told Mr. Miller about it.” He gestures to the old man lecturing Tim. The veteran’s white eyebrows are as thick as a forest. “We decided making him return it in person would be punishment enough. Have him apologize and learn what the money’s used for. If there’s a next time, it’ll be a different story.”

Tim shoves a hand in the front pocket of his baggy jeans, pulls it out, and passes over a wad of bills to Mr. Miller. More words are shared and Tim stands taller, nodding and shifting his feet. Even from this distance, I sense a change in the boy, who then proceeds to meet with every person in the room, shaking hands and speaking softly.

A glance at Nico tells me how important this moment is for him. “Do all the volunteers at the center do this sort of thing?”

He shrugs. “Doubt it. Most of them do it as résumé work, not to make a difference.”

“But you think you can? Make a difference, I mean. You think delinquents like Tim can really change?”

“If my brother and sister can turn things around, anyone can.”

He doesn’t elaborate, and I take the cue, touched how much he cares for not just his family, but for punks from his neighborhood. Only a good man would go the extra mile, give up his free time and devote his energy to others.

If someone had taken a second to talk to my grandmother when she lived on the streets, to connect with her, maybe she’d still be alive. If someone had spent time with me, maybe I wouldn’t have nearly burned Gord Dwyer’s barn to the ground, on a dare. That was the last night I hung with Mitch Harris and his band of losers, smoking pot and vandalizing the town. The possibility of hurting Gord’s horses had me sick to my stomach, but it was my grandmother’s brief appearance in my life that night that woke me up.

Rose had taken off years prior. My parents alternated between ignoring me and yelling obscenities. I was angry. All the time. Didn’t know how to channel the guilt and loneliness broiling inside me. Then my grandmother turned up. She shared her stories until the sun rose and told me I was a good girl, as though I were still a child. Like I hadn’t done despicable things. Overwhelmed, I broke down. Confessed to the hell I’d caused that night.

She didn’t shout at me or write me off. She touched my face and said, “There is darkness in all of us, but there is light, too. Yours still shines, Raven. How brightly is up to you. Find a way to make amends and always remember the sickness you feel now.”

The next day, I marched into the police station and faced the music.

Nico must see potential in the kids he helps, see them for what they are: full of crap. The pricklier the pear, the sweeter the fruit. Like my grandmother saw me. My awareness of his size and strength and beauty, inside and out, amplifies as we wait. If he asked me on a date right now, my answer would probably be yes.

Back in the car, Tim sniffles a few times. Nico asks him what he learned, and the two discuss how vital the money he stole is to the programs offered by the legion, how members of the serving and former Canadian Armed Forces are often in financial distress, loved ones sometimes unable to support themselves after losing a spouse.

Then Nico’s tone hardens. “You did good tonight, Tim. Real good. But this was a one-time pass. You steal again, you face the full punishment, and you won’t be welcome back at the rec center. Do I make myself clear?”

I can almost hear Tim swallow. “Clear.”

Tim’s heartfelt apology when we drop him off is more rewarding than landing my job, but Nico’s intensity lingers as he drives me home.

I try to bite my tongue, not stick my nose where it doesn’t belong, but the longer he broods, the tougher it gets. “Seems kind of harsh, warning to cut him off. I mean, I get the one-time-pass thing—if he does the crime, he does the time—but won’t pushing him away ruin the good work you’ve done?”

“No.” There’s no hesitation as he flexes his hands around the wheel. “One thing I’ve learned from my brother and sister is give them too much slack and they fall. I was too easy on them. Offered too many chances. My brother screws up again, he’s on his own. Tim makes a bad decision, he won’t have me to bail him out. They know right from wrong. Real consequences push them to be better.”

Uncompromising much? “You could be right, or you could be setting yourself up for a lonely, disappointing life.”

If my grandmother had laid into me and told me one more screw up would ruin my chances at a bright future, I’d have gotten defensive. Instead she showed me compassion, and I soaked it up like the needy sponge I was. Nico’s hard-nosed ways make me wonder what he’d think if he saw my record. Arson. Vandalism. Heroin possession. Would he still want to ask me out? Would he think I’d worn out my chances?

Do I still want to say yes?

Silence extends as we drive, my mind spinning to the stupid stuff I did as a teen, circling around Nico’s honor and his stringency. Shaking my head to clear it, I focus on his forearm porn. An excellent distraction. The clench and release of his muscles have me clenching, too. I’m a little sad when we get to my place.

As I reach for my things, he puts his hand on my wrist. Tingles flutter up my arm, making my belly dip. Definitely lots of clenching. “I’m sorry, Raven—about Aspen. I wish I could go back and do things differently.”

Keeping my distance from Nico would be a hell of lot easier if he wasn’t so freaking nice. If he didn’t give his time to others, asking for nothing but goodness in return. Sighing, I lean back. “You don’t have to keep apologizing. I already forgave you.”

“Doesn’t feel like you forgave me.”

I fight my instinct to lean into him. “Why? Because I wouldn’t go out with you?”

He smiles at his lap. “Yeah.”

Seriously. This guy rumbles out one syllable, and I want to crawl over the center console and straddle the real power in this mammoth truck. There’s no mistaking the thick line pressing against the zipper of his jeans, the zipper I’d love to tug down with my teeth.

“See something you like?” he asks.

My eyes snap up to his. Forward Nico takes this attraction I’m avoiding to a whole other level. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

His boyish grin makes an appearance. “I would.” Then, “Will you go out with me?”

There’s that question I’d hoped for earlier, but none of my options feel right. Saying yes means facing potential hurt again when I’m gearing up to find Rose. If my search for her falls apart and he kicks my heart to the curb, I’m not sure I’ll snap back so quickly. But flipping him the finger after he trusted me with Tim and gave me a ride home doesn’t sit well, either.

I settle on a straightforward “No.”

“So you haven’t forgiven me, then.”

“Persistent, aren’t you?”

Instead of answering, he hops out of his side of the truck and has my door open before I’ve collected my bag. He grabs my thighs and angles my body toward him, wedging his waist between my legs. “Go out with me.” This time there’s no question in his voice. “We can take it slow. All I’m asking for is one date.” His hands travel up my thighs, just an inch. Enough that my eyes nearly roll back in my head.

He isn’t making this easy.

Unable to resist a touch, I place my fingertips on his forearm and trace the grooves that flexed each time he turned the wheel. His grip on my legs tightens. I lean toward him, my lips brushing his ear. “Thanks for the ride.”

Grabbing my bag, I try to hop down from my seat, but he barely moves, so I end up sliding down his (rock-hard) chest and thighs, then I duck under his arm.

Looking for Rose is about as much drama as I can handle right now, and everything about Nico is too much. Too much charm. Too much heat between us. Too much him. And he doesn’t know the details of my past, the stains on my character. I’ve never hidden my infractions from people. I was a stupid kid who did stupid things. It’s not who I am now. But I’m not so sure Nico would see it that way. Better to focus on my job and finding my sister, not giving the guy who hurt me a second chance.

Without a backward glance, I slip into my apartment.