I had his attention. “You want us to fuck? In here?”
“I was hoping you would too.”
“Shit.” He brushed his hands through his hair. “I dunno. Never been nowhere like this before.”
I risked stepping closer, wrapping an arm around his waist. “I want you to fuck me here, Callum, this is my place. I belong here.”
He was weighing it up, I could feel it. His arm landed on my shoulder, fingers trailing down my skin. “See how we go, yeah? I wanna fuck you, just ain’t sure about here.”
I smiled. “No rush. Let’s get you acquainted.”
I led the way through the club, soaking in the familiar ambience. No sign of Masque. No sign of Cain or Diva, either, but the night was still young in Explicit terms. I took a breath before leading us up to the bar. The neon lights lent everyone an electric blue glow, making them appear even more striking in their fetish ensembles. Cara nudged Rebecca and she spun on her stool, smile wide. She looked fucking awesome, as usual, a crazy mane of red-black curls tumbling down her back, cat-flick liner full and dark around her eyes.
“Baby!” she pulled me in for a kiss, full on the mouth. “I’m so fucking glad you came.”
“This is Callum,” I smiled, stepping aside for introductions.
Her smile was warm, without reservation. “I’m Raven, heard so much about you.” She pulled Cara close. “And this little minx is my girlfriend, Cara. Glad you could make it. Missy’s been away too bloody long.”
She held out a hand, bright red fingernails poised in mid-air. Callum took it reluctantly, giving her a solid shake before stuffing his hands back in his pockets. I saw his eyes hover on Raven’s arms. She was inked from wrist to shoulder, swirls of birds and flowers and brightly coloured stars vying for attention.
“Nice tats,” he said.
“Thanks. Work at a studio in Camden, Black Hearts. My ex Jaz runs the place.”
“You an artist?” I watched his eyes light up in a way I’d never seen before. It made my stomach flutter.
“Ever since I was big enough to hold a crayon in my fingers. Canvas before skin, mainly skin now, though.”
“I paint. Street.”
“Reputation precedes you,” she grinned. “I’m involved in the scene, a little. Run some of the street art tours round Camden in the summer. Ain’t a lot of it that’s a patch on your work, though. ”
He stared at her like she’d grown wings in front of him. “You seen my stuff?”
She nodded in my direction. “Missy showed me. You got skills, kid. Fucking loved the blades with the sun, seriously fucking awesome.”
He looked at the floor, scuffing his battered trainers. “Ain’t nobody usually says much about it.”
“Then you’ve been hanging with the wrong people, baby.” Raven’s eyes were so warm, so genuine. I died a bit at the way she handled the man at my side, the way she gripped his wrist without hesitation or concern. “You’re an artist, kid, if ever there was one. Believe it.”
“Just paint what I feel.”
“Your work’s got soul, baby. Beautiful soul.”
I made to offer him a drink, but he was a million miles away. “Designed my own ink.” He pulled up his top, just a few inches, showing her a hollow-eyed face on his hips. “Don’t know if it’s any good or not. Just drew it, like.”
She raised her eyebrows, reaching out a hand. “May I?” He nodded, staring at his shoes as she uncovered his stomach. “Fucking hell, kid. You should be in the studio. It’s a fucking travesty if you’re not.” I considered whether Raven was being polite, putting him at ease on my behalf, but the set of her mouth was deadly serious. She reached into her bag, pulled out her cigarettes. “You smoke?”
He nodded. “Aye.”
“Then I’ll show you the balcony. Missy can get the drinks in.” She winked at me on her way past, leaving just a trail of vintage Poison in the air. I watched the savage follow her, hot on her heel, as though she were Moses leading him to salvation itself. Jealousy nipped, but I choked it dead. It was fucking Raven, Raven, my friend Raven, who’s awesome to everyone in the universe.
Cara sidled up to me, chocolate brown eyes smiling. “She says his art’s the real deal. Been gushing about it for days, even in bed.”
“About Callum?” I ordered four vodka and Cokes, doubles.
“Yeah. Spitting fumes, about them covering up his work. You know what she’s like about censorship.”
I smiled. “Suppression of art by the establishment. I know. I’ll rue the day she ever meets my parents, she’ll want to tear my dad a new asshole. His approach to the Southbank Art Village isn’t going to impress her much.”