CHAPTER NINETEEN
As we make our way around a bend in the path, we come upon a group of artists doing their thing. A couple of them are packing up to leave, but there’s still a guy drawing portraits, a woman in rainbow-colored clothing juggling three bowling pins, and a guy in dreads strumming an acoustic guitar with a girl singing next to him.
We stop several yards away and watch in silence. The guy is playing a song that I remember from one of the many Red Hot albums my mothers have played over the years. I see movement out of the corner of my eye and look down to catch Sam’s fingers playing an invisible guitar on his thigh. I don’t even think he realizes he’s doing it. Amber’s voice plays in my head: Find his buttons. Push them.
“You should come out here and play sometime,” I say casually.
His fingers stop moving, and he slides his hands into his front pockets. “Nah. It’s not for me.”
“Why not? I hear you’re pretty good.”
He turns his head toward me. The lamplight coming from our left hides the details of his face in shadows, but I can feel the intensity of his gaze. “Who told you that?”
“My sister. She told me you’re going to write some music for the band, so you must be decent at it.”
He shrugs and goes back to watching the people in front of us. “Maybe.”
The person drawing a portrait by portable-lamp light is almost finished. It’s not a terrible job, but I’ve seen better. He gets paid ten dollars for his efforts and then sits there looking around for his next customer. He catches my eye and wiggles his pencil at me. I shake my head no.
“You should give it a try,” Sam says, a challenge in his voice.
“Go sit for that guy? Are you crazy?”
“No, not sit for him. Draw.”
“Noooo way.” I shake my head vigorously.
“Why not? I hear you’re good.”
He’s mocking me with my own words, but he doesn’t mean it in a cruel way. He’s smiling too hard for that—the white of his teeth is reflected easily in the meager light. We might be flirting, but I’m not sure.
“Who’d you hear that from?” I’m feeling emboldened by the darkness.
“Your sister. When you were in your room. She told me all about you.”
“Is that so?” Oh, how I wish my sister were here so that I could interrogate her for an hour and learn everything she told him. “What did she say?” Please, God, don’t let it be anything embarrassing!
He shrugs as he looks at the portrait artist. “Well, based on what she said, you could wipe the floor with that guy’s stuff.”
I laugh. “My sister is my biggest fan. I’m not sure I’d believe what she says, if I were you.”
“Yeah, well, sisters are like that.”
“Do you have one?” Maybe Sadie is a sibling?
He shakes his head. “No, but I’ve got a brother, and that’s close enough.” His voice softens, like he’s fallen into his own thoughts and doesn’t realize he’s still talking out loud. “Sometimes you think they’d jump into a fire to save you.”
“Yeah.” I get choked up thinking about it. My sisters would do that for me, and I would for them too. But I can’t claim anymore what a big sacrifice it was for me to come to Manhattan for Amber, because I’m having too much fun now for it to be considered anything but pleasant. I realize in that moment that Sam makes me feel lucky to be here.
“I really admire those guys,” Sam says, gesturing with his chin at the musicians.
“Because they’re good?” I must be the one who’s tone-deaf.
“No, not really. I wouldn’t say they’re outstanding based on what I’m listening to now, but I admire them being able to come out here and play for strangers . . . hoping to make a living at it but probably surviving on ramen.”
“Yeah, that takes a special set of ball . . . zzz . . .” I can’t believe I just said balls in front of a guy I’ve just met. I think I’m just a little too relaxed around him now.
“You said it.” He disregards my choice of words like it’s no big deal.
We stare at the guitarist for a little while longer before I build up the guts to speak again. “So, why don’t you do it? You’re a good musician. Maybe it would be more fun working out here than throwing things around in your bedroom.”
I can see the stress taking over his body as his shoulders stiffen. “Hell no. Why don’t you?” His voice has lost its earlier softness.
“Because I can’t play a musical instrument? Trust me . . . no one wants to hear me strumming a tune. They’d probably take up a collection to make me stop.” I smile at him, trying to take some of the pressure off.
“No, I’m serious.” He turns to face me, and I do the same automatically. It feels like warm air currents are traveling between us, flowing back and forth, heating up the space around us. I’m a few degrees warmer already. Damn.
“Really,” he says.
“What’re you talking about?” My heart starts beating fast again. I cannot keep it under control with him this close and staring at me so intently. I can’t even focus on what he’s saying. My head is full of air right now. Helium, maybe.
“Why don’t you come out here and draw something? It doesn’t have to be a person’s face. Why not draw that tree over there?” He points.
I look over my shoulder, following the direction of his finger. “It is a pretty tree, but no, thanks.”
“Why not? You afraid?”
There is that damn word again: afraid. It makes my blood boil. Now there’s a different kind of heat between us. A challenge is in the air. “No, I’m not afraid.”
His smile becomes decidedly evil. “Prove it.”
“You prove it.” Oy. Here I am with my seven-year-old retorts again.
“I can’t draw.” He laughs, scoffing at the very idea, as if that’s what I was talking about.
“No, not draw. Nice try. You know that’s not what I meant. Why don’t you come out here and play a song? Any song. You could play ‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat.’”
He folds his arms around his top half like he’s trying to get warm all of a sudden as he looks to the side. “I would never play that in public.”
I try not to grin too hard. He looks like a little boy being stubborn. “Okay, so what would you play in public?”
He shrugs, looking around . . . anywhere but at me. “I don’t know. I don’t do that stuff.”
“Why? Are you afraid?”
He glares at me. “No, I’m not afraid. I just don’t do that shit.”
I shrug, trying to act all casual, when inside I’m throwing a party. I’m pushing buttons! Woo hoo! “Sure seems like you are.” I pause to look at the musicians. “Look at them . . . They’re even younger than you are, and they don’t seem to be very afraid.”
“No, they don’t. And neither does that guy drawing faces, and he’s not even any good at it. The last one he did looked like Scooby-Doo, but you don’t see him backing down.”
I laugh, realizing as he says this that the portrait did bear a striking resemblance to a certain cartoon character. “Scooby is the dog. You’re talking about Shaggy.”
“See? You saw it too.” He grins at me in triumph.
“Whatever.” I shake my head, trying to get rid of my smile. I know where this is headed, and I need to stop it in its tracks before it gets too far. “Are you hungry for dinner by any chance?”
“What would you say about making a friendly wager?” he asks, ignoring my dinner invitation.
I can feel my blood pressure rising. Uh-oh. “What are you talking about?”
He takes a step closer to me, closing the distance between us and ratcheting up the heat. “I’ll bet you a hundred bucks you won’t come out here and draw a picture of anything. Not anything. Not a face, not a tree, nothing. Because you’re too afraid.”
I imagine myself sitting in a folding chair like that guy over there and sketching just an outline of a tree, and fear strikes me like a bolt of lightning, right in the heart. Now who’s pushing buttons? “No thanks.” I look away, shrugging, trying to convince Sam that none of this is affecting me.
“Too scared, huh?” His voice is soft, but it’s no less sinister to my ears. He’s the devil on my shoulder, daring me to give myself a heart attack. The angel on my other shoulder is telling me to run all the way back to the apartment and lock myself in my room, that it’s okay to be afraid and to prefer my own company to that of strangers.
“I told you I’m not scared.” I grit my teeth to keep them from chattering. It’s suddenly very, very cold out here in Central Park.
“Then take the bet.”
I hate that he’s pushing me into a corner. We both know he’s as scared shitless as I am. Well, fine. If he wants to play that game, I can play too.
“I will if you will,” I say, staring him down.
Now he doesn’t look quite so excited, as he takes a step back. “What?”
“I’ll take the bet, but only if you take the bet too. We both go out. You play a song, I draw a picture.”
“Nah. That’s not the bet I said.”
“So? Can’t handle me upping the ante?”
“What do you know about antes?”
“I play poker at the farm.” The contribution of one of our guests—Victor Lunel—was to teach all of us how to gamble. I’m actually pretty good at it; Amber says my innocent look allows me to get away with way too much bluffing. “Don’t try to run and hide from me, Sam. Do we have a bet or not?” I think I know how the champion of the world poker tournament must feel when he takes the title. I totally called Sam’s bluff, and now he’s going to have to fold and beg for mercy.
“How do we know who’s winning and who’s losing?” he asks, caution flavoring his tone. I could be wrong, but it’s possible he’s considering taking me up on this ridiculous challenge. Oh, crud.
“Well, I guess if we both do it, we both win.”
“And if I play a song and you bawk, bawk like a chicken and run away without drawing anything?” he asks.
“It won’t happen, but in that case, I guess I’d have to give you two hundred bucks.” I pause and then continue on a happier note. “But if I go out there and draw a picture and you chicken out and don’t play a song, you pay me two hundred.”
“I can handle it.”
I hate how confident he sounds. I need to push him harder, make him back out before we’re both pushed to the limit and peeing our pants in public. “And . . .” I hold up a finger.
He grins. “And?”
“And . . . when I win and you lose, you have to wear a sign on your chest and your back that says, ‘I’m a lily-livered chicken’ for an entire twenty-four-hour period; and you can’t stay in the apartment all day either.” I don’t know who I am right now, but I like it! This new me isn’t afraid of anything, openly flirting with this gorgeous man in the dark in Central Park. I think some crazy New York magic has happened to me. Either that or I’ve caught a virus and I’m feverish. I resist the urge to check my temperature.
He strokes his beard a few times as he checks me out. “Damn, girl. I thought you were a nice little hippie chick all about peace and harmony, loving thy neighbor, and all that jazz.”
I can’t stop grinning. “Nope. I’m one of those badass hippie chicks you’ve heard about, who you should never enter a bet with because they always win.”
He drops his arm to hang by his side. “You know . . . I don’t think I’ve ever heard of one of those before.”
I hold my hand out for him to shake. “Hi, my name is Emerald Collins, badass hippie chick from Glenhollow Farms. Nice to meet you and it’ll be nice to beat you too.”
He slides his hand into mine and slowly tightens his grip. I’m tingling all over with this simple touch.
“It is really nice to meet you, badass hippie chick. My name is Sam . . . the man you will be paying two hundred bucks to tomorrow afternoon.”
I snort. “You wish.” We should stop shaking hands now, but we don’t. Instead we stare at each other, the warmth from our skin making its way up my arm and into my heart. I can feel my pulse beating at my neck. He moves closer. And for a moment, I think he’s going to lean down to kiss me, but then his cell phone buzzes and he backs away, dropping contact.
“Yeah?” he says to the caller. He walks away and continues his conversation in low tones I cannot discern as words. The funny, silly, warm mood that our bet created has dissipated, and in its place is this feeling of dread. I cannot believe I just agreed to come out to Central Park and draw something in front of a crowd of strangers. What the hell! I’m not a badass hippie chick! I’m a bawk, bawk, bawking chicken!