Page 26

Kael

I now have a series of four completed paintings.

I haven’t stopped working on them over the past few days, painting with the frantic kind of frenzied compulsion that was never for me.

I’ve known other artists to eschew a regular routine, even sleep and food, in favor of drowning themselves in their work and not coming up for a breath until they’re finished. I’ve never been possessed like that.

When I was younger, I used to think that was a bad thing.

I never romanticized the idea of the tortured artist. The way I grew up pretty much ensured that I was mature for my age and I just never could get into vices like other people did.

I thought I was missing something fundamental because I didn’t have that same level of darkness churning inside of me, demons eating up my insides until I spilled them out in arresting and terrifying masterpieces.

It’s a little bit frightening being consumed like this.

Every time I stopped painting over the past few days, even if it was just to give myself a little break to work out, get a shower, have something to eat, or nap.

I wished that I was painting. All I could see were the brushstrokes behind my eyes.

It wasn’t until this morning, when I completed the fourth painting, that the fog of half madness lifted from me and I could take a cup of coffee into the backyard, sit, and just… be.

I’m not going to say it was Dravin and what we did that was so inspiring.

Was it incredible? Yes. Do I want to do it again?

Yes. Am I thinking about him constantly?

Yes. But I’m not inspired by him. That’s the wrong word.

He didn’t suddenly produce something inside of me that I wasn’t aware of before.

I’ve been trying to process what I feel about him, but I haven’t been able to do that. So, I’ve painted.

The first one I completed the day he was at the house.

The other three have been filled in from memory and a heady dose of imagination.

Initially I’d planned on taking photos, but for some reason it felt more natural to continue the paintings by feel.

Two were shameless thirst traps that satisfied nothing but my lust.

I can always change them or paint over them completely, but I like them. They fit the other two so well. They’re dark, intriguing, hedonistic, and brimming with life and passion. I’m not going to say that my other work was missing something, but it’s nowhere near this caliber.

Considering this is the first evening I’ve taken to relax, I’ve poured myself a bath.

It’s not something I usually indulge in.

I don’t even truly like bathing, preferring to shower.

Tonight, it just feels right to light a few candles in the bathroom, strip down, and let the water ooze over my body until I’m both heavy and weightless.

I close my eyes, my mind still full of whirling thoughts despite the relaxing atmosphere.

I think about how Dravin promised me that he’d take care of my things from my apartment.

He didn’t give me more than a few minutes to grab the most essential items. I took photos and grabbed my jewelry box because those were the things most precious to me.

My mom’s jewelry, my grandmother’s wedding rings, and the little gold and opal pendant Marcus bought for me on my sixteenth birthday.

Photos were obvious. I can live without a lot of things, but I didn’t have some of them backed up and there was nothing more precious to me.

While I madly scrambled around the apartment in a daze of horror and shock that made everything swim sickeningly before me and simultaneously seem surreal, Dravin kept watch.

As soon as those five minutes were up, he got me the hell out of there.

My first paintings were in that apartment.

Ones I’d done in high school. My collection of vinyl records that I’d splurged on.

He did grab my laptop and tablet when I didn’t even think to do it, but he destroyed my old phone.

He didn’t allow me to hang onto the tech. It’s probably wherever my stuff is.

In an unknown location that he says is secure.

I trust him with that the same way I trust him with everything else now. I might have hated him, blamed him, been angry with him, but I did believe him right from that first wretched second of our meeting.

I think about Dravin and the texts we sent this week.

He called me once to check in. I knew he was at a loss and even floundering, though he tried to seem composed.

I wanted him to come over, but I also couldn’t stop painting.

He seemed okay with that. He told me about the club and said he was making good progress with the security overhaul he and Wizard are doing, and also that he and the guys have been working on piecing together the bike we brought home that day from Dominic’s.

He seemed in no hurry to come over. I get that.

While I was painting, working on my head that way, he was trying to get his pieced into place.

Just because I played it cool doesn’t mean that I haven’t been doing the same.

I’ve had quite a few holy shit moments of amazement that don’t even feel real.

Those thoughts spiral down the path back to that little domed shop and the miles of metal strewn fields.

I hope Dominic is doing well… as well as he could be.

I make a mental note to ask Dravin about it as soon as I see him again.

He has Dominic’s contact info, and they could very well be talking like bros.

I stick my foot out of the bath. I made it so hot that even after being in here for a good while, it still sends tendrils of steam into the air. I’ll call Dravin as soon as I get out of here and ask if he’d like to get coffee. Tomorrow, hopefully.

I laugh right here in the middle of the silent bathroom, giggling until it turns into a burst of real laughter that shakes my stomach and makes ripples in the bathwater.

Coffee seems incredibly normal, especially for us. We’re the antithesis of coffee.

Then again, why be like other people? Why be regular?

Life decided to take the normal choice away from us. Normalcy means giving up yourself and giving up on yourself anyway.

Wanting Dravin is not the easy option. Not for either of us.

He’s more torn about it than I am. I doubt I talked him into any sense of ease or peace.

If we were two people who’d come from different places than we did, without danger dogging our every step, hiding who we really are, maybe attraction could happen how it happens for everyone else.

As it is, there is no easy option available.

We won’t ever be able to date or flirt or fall gently.

For us, it’s a violent sort of passion or nothing at all.

This bath is anything but relaxing and even though the water hasn’t even gone tepid yet, I’m considering getting out and doing something more energetic when my phone rings.

Thinking that it’s Dravin, I pick it up so eagerly from the floor by the bathtub that I nearly drop it into the water.

It’s Tarynn’s number on the screen. I tell myself not to be disappointed.

I’ve dropped off the fucking radar the past few days.

I miss the women who are starting to feel like a part of my life even though I’ve only hung out with them a few times.

I’m so starved for family and they’re so kind that it feels like we’ve known each other for so much longer than we have.

After I say hello, she gets right into something that completely blindsides me. “Does your brother have any allergies? Or health conditions that we might be unaware of?”

“What? I- why?” I need the answer to that fucking stat, and I need people to stop referring to Dravin as my brother. This cover is no longer a good story.

We need to come clean with the club. It’s the right thing to do.

Dravin could tell them the truth and explain that yes, we did share a brother between us, and for personal reasons that have to do with why we left, we needed to invent some kind of other life, and this is what we came up with.

Whatever he told Preacher that Friday night when he caught us kissing.

“Oh well, he didn’t want us to tell you, but he’s here at Crow’s studio getting his back and uh, maybe a little bit more done.”

“Done with what?” My mind travels quickly.

Dravin’s staying above Crow’s shop. As in, a tattoo shop.

He doesn’t have a room at the clubhouse yet that I’m aware of.

I only fucking know this because way back when I first moved into this house, he was trying to get me situated and he was into information overload that I was too bitter and worked up to even process properly. “Tattooed?”

“Yeah.” She makes it sound like she’s personally responsible and wants to apologize to me. “He wanted the whole thing done at once if it was possible. Back. Bum. Upper legs.”

What the actual shit? “Like a bodysuit or whatever it’s called?”

“Kind of. Crow and a few of the other artists cancelled their clients as a club favor and they’ve all been working on him.”

“ At once ?”

“Yeah. For hours. All day. After or during something like that, it’s not unusual for a person to get low blood sugar. We just want to make sure that’s all it is.”

“How is he? What happened?”

Oh my god. I did this. I was the one who taunted him about getting tattoos to blend in with the club back when I was just hurling anything at him to be an asshole. It was easier to be angry than to be anything else.

“It’s nothing dramatic. He’s just a bit shaky. We gave him a bottle of juice and I’m going to go out and get him something to eat.”

“Of course he wouldn’t tap out or let anyone know if he wasn’t doing well. Why on earth would he do that?”