Page 13 of Romancing Rayne

“It really is beautiful up here. How far do you think you can see?”

“On a clear day, about twenty-five miles.”

“Wow. So maybe we can see Windsor Castle? It’s about twenty miles away, right?”

“Maybe.”

“Ghost! You’re missing everything.”

“No, Princess. I’m not missing a damn thing.”

As much as I wanted her to take in the beauty of the city, I was content looking at my wife. Maybe Rayne was right. Maybe there was a smidge of a romantic in me after all. If being a romantic meant wanting nothing more than to lay your wife across the nearest flat surface and fuck the hell out of her until she screamed your name, then I was definitely a romantic.

7

Rayne

“I’m not gonna lie, as beautiful as the view is, I prefer my feet on the ground,” I admitted to Ghost as we walked down the Queen’s Walk, cutting through the Jubilee Gardens to get to the street. It wasn’t so much a garden as a green space with a walkway. “I know you said just one more stop, but can we make another one before we head back?” I begged.

“Where’s that?” he asked, eyeing the Park Plaza entrance just across the street from where we were.

“I want to see the Graffiti Tunnel. It’s just behind the hotel.”

“Come on, we need to walk a block down to Leake Street, the entrance is behind those buildings,” he said.

“You know about the tunnel?”

For some reason, it stuck me as odd Ghost would know about a tunnel featuring street artists from around the world.

“Princess, I can tell you every underground tunnel, tube station, evacuation area, where to avoid, and how to evade any terrorist threat within a thirty-mile radius. Do you think I’d take you anywhere and not have an EXFIL strategy in place?”

“Geeze, Ghost, you’re not on a mission, you’re on your honeymoon,” I reminded him.

“You’re wrong. When you’re with me, I’m always on a mission.”

“Okay, Rambo, let’s go look at some graffiti.”

He chuckled and we walked to the entrance of the tunnel; he, as always, tucked me close, making sure he was on the street side.

“Wow. I’ve seen pictures on the internet, but I never imagined it would be so colorful.”

There was graffiti everywhere; you couldn’t see a speck of the original brick wall. We walked farther in, and there was everything from words tagged on the walls to lifelike faces, even beautiful flowers. It was amazing.

We stopped to admire a stunning portrait of a black-haired woman with tears leaking out of the corner of one eye, her hands were clasped together by her face with the word hate spelled out over her fingers. It was poignant and sad in the most profound way.

“Some of the art down here should be showcased in a gallery,” Ghost commented.

“I agree.”

We continued down the alley, stopping to watch an artist spray paint over a rather ugly looking green serpent.

“I wonder how an artist feels when they come back to see their work and find it’s been covered over?” I whispered, not wanting to bother the man working.

“Inspired,” the man said, stopping his handiwork to look over his shoulder.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” I apologized to the man. His hands were covered in paint, and his clothes weren’t fairing any better, even his face had color on it.

“Not interrupting. It’s fabulous down here, isn’t it?”