Thrash (3 page)

The unfortunate truth was that I wasn’t much good at abstract.  I had tried it frequently, in an effort to please my mother, but it really had required a different type of thinking.

When I found those old paintings in the trash can, years later, I had stopped bothering.  

I had returned to my traditional styles.  Meanwhile, my mother’s tight smiles became sour every time she spotted charcoal and paint on my hands.  If she had not become involved in that campaign for her friend my graduate year, I might never have had the space to keep painting.

I certainly never would have been able to send that application to the Initiative.  

My family had already mailed my applications and references to all the standard colleges.  That was just how it was.  

Ironically, I never even saw which ones accepted me and which ones sent rejections.  My parents handled that, too, showing me three and asking me to choose.  

When the call came from the Initiative, it did not go over well.  

Had I settled for a few art classes on the side, things might not have become so hostile.  But, shaking and sweating, I had refused to back down.  I hadn’t fought them out of anger.  I had been desperate.  

I had
known
what I needed.  I knew where I needed to be.  

To my surprise, the Initiative kept me on anyhow.  It took me a few years to realize my parents had probably put pressure on the school for accepting me against their wishes.  Parents will do what parents think best, after all…

I am not sure which member of the board had the balls to make sure I got to stay, but someone had.  I was sincerely hoping that, one day, I would have something to give that person or those people back in gratitude.  

But first things first.

The warning about the ‘starving artist’ life had not been a joke.  I’d been splitting packs of ramen for three weeks.  I hadn’t had a cigarette in years – which had actually turned out for the better.  But a life without any wiggle room for small purchases was enough to run a woman ragged.  

Worse yet, I had never been taught to run a budget.  That had run me to desperation more than a few times.

Everything I knew about rent and chasing after payments and sorting out mix-ups, I had learned the hard way, through experience gained in a terribly short time.  

Determined to continue my work, I’d grabbed the experience by the balls and held on for dear life.  But suddenly having to fend for myself for the first time had left me with a bad case of anxiety.  

The reality of living day-to-day had been a brutal lesson to learn.  And I spent enough panicked and sleepless nights in the past few years to miss my parents’ money.  But I had never actually regretted joining the Initiative.  Maybe it was the fact that I was pursuing something that really mattered to me, but somehow all the struggling still felt worth it.  

Layla, at least, seemed pleased with what I could do.

She smiled at me.  “I won’t lie, I’d hoped for someone with an approach like yours.”  She had set aside two pieces: a solid monochromatic design I had done for a local temple and a conceptual acrylic that I included more out of love for the style than wisdom.  Still, how to make a mural or logo with that?

“You like those?”  I asked tentatively.

“Mmm, something between them I think.  If that makes sense?”

Honestly?  I wasn’t sure.  “Could I see the space?”

“Space -?  Oh!  The wall?  Yes.  Of course!”  She folded her hands together and leaned back.  “First things first.  When can you work?”

“Anytime, outside of gallery nights and Saturday mornings.  I sell some pieces down at the pump house in the morning, but other than that I am completely flexible.”

She nodded.  “Well, you definitely have what we are looking for, and we know that custom art doesn’t come cheap.  I’m prepared to offer three thousand for the entire thing,”

I tried not to let my eyes bug out of my head.  My rent was low enough that I could get by on less than a thousand a month.  A payment like that could set me up to do what I wanted, when I wanted for a bit.

Shit, I’d have to be careful, but I could plan for the future with that.

“I think that’s a fair deal.”  I agreed, and I held out my hand.  If I struggled to keep it from shaking, well, Layla would have to forgive me for that.  Really, though, she had just made my month.

She took my hand and smiled serenely.  “Good.  Let me take you through to the clubhouse and get you set up.  You’ll want to meet the guys and get a sense of what they want.”

“Wait.  We’re going in?  The clubhouse, I mean?”

She blinked at me, a funny twitch teasing the corner of her lips.  “For the mural.”

“I thought you wanted something for the garage.”

“Oh, no.  I’m sorry.  Our club, Fire and Steel, it needs a new mural painted.  Leadership has changed, and it’s time for a new look.”  

She was working hard not to laugh at me.  I could tell.  

I was supposed to be angry about it, too, but all I felt was my nerves.  I wasn’t sure I was ready to be around a bunch of motorcycle club men.  At least in the garage, I could have hidden in Layla’s office if necessary…

The idea of having to take the next job that came along – regardless of what it was – was enough to kick me out of my seat.  I nodded, swallowing hard.  At least here there were women like Donna and Layla around.  If there was any trouble…

I hoped I was reading them right.  

When Layla stood, I noticed something I hadn’t seen before.  She was pregnant, the shallow round of her belly distinctive.  

She noticed me staring.  “I’m five months.  Not huge yet, but starting to really feel it.  This is my first.”

I tried not to blush, but I couldn’t help it.  

“You look beautiful,” I said, the artist in me taking over.  I’d love to paint her.  Pregnant women did have their own unique light, and she was so pretty, kind and tough and sad all at the same time.  And the way her belly changed a woman’s posture was really interesting…

My brain was already running a mile a minute when she replied.  “Thank you, I don’t always feel it.  You ready?”

I nodded and followed her lead.

I had been told not to do this.  But I followed Layla out the side door and across the parking lot to the clubhouse anyway.

I expected to find something akin to the inside of a strip club, but the place was more like an old, rundown, roadside joint.  The seating and the tables looked as though they had been born there.  The entire wall was backed with shelves and glasses and a fully stocked bar.  

Two old geezers sat at the bar, beers in their hand, one of them with a portable oxygen tank at his side.

And then I spotted him.  The man from the gallery.

Thrash.  I wasn’t sure if I was about to have a heart attack or hit the floor.  I definitely had to put a hand out to keep steady.  

I’d seen the name on the check: DeMarcus Fletcher.  Thrash had suited him better, but it had been an odd nickname.  Here, it fit.

He had blended in at the gallery, just another man looking over the art.  He had been attractive and completely at home.  

Somehow, he seemed just as comfortable here, but everything about him was different.  He wore a leather cut over a tight black tee.   

I swallowed hard.  That shirt was pointless.  He might as well have not been wearing it.  Even from across the room, I could see the striations and thick, ripe musculature of his upper body through the cotton.  His jacket the night before hadn’t been tailored, but it had hugged his body well, hiding as much as it complemented.  He had looked so sleek.  Here… He was sleek all right.  Like a panther.  I actually had to let Layla walk ahead of me.  There was enough heat coming off my body to stop her in her tracks.  

So much trouble…

That was when I noticed Thrash watching  me.  His eyes were bright with humor as he looked me over.

He recognized me, too, apparently.

I wanted to say something, anything, but I was frozen in my shoes.  I’d dropped my portfolio at some point.  My grip on the back of the chair beside me was almost painful but I couldn’t seem to let go.

“Thrash, you wanna take Nora into the conference room?”  Layla asked.  “They’ve already got the primer out and ready to go, and I don’t want to be around the fumes.”  She gestured to her belly.

“Okay,” I said, trying not to wet my lips and let her know just how much I hoped he would say yes.

“Sure.”  He shrugged like it was no big deal, his eyes turning to Layla.  

It was ridiculous, but the glass castle of my hopes crashed around me, and in that moment I struggled to keep it to myself.  

Layla was explaining something or other to him, but I didn’t hear it.  My mind was racing.

If I had had a few days to bounce back from meeting him last time, I might have been fine, but… Ha.  Who was I kidding?  That man had gotten my full and undivided attention, and I had latched on a little too hard, a little too fast.  That was
my
mistake.

Do not let it show!  a voice in me hissed.  Wake up before you make a fool of yourself!

I looked at him carefully then – not at what I wanted, but at how he stood, how he was behaving.  He recognized me, sure, but that smile was distracted, private.  He was not truly sharing it with me.  I was just a vendor to him.

I let out a soft breath as slowly and quietly as I could and straightened my hair.  By the time he turned back to me, I was able to give him something close to a professional smile.

“Right through here.”

I followed him to a set of heavy doors.  They were nicer quality than I would have expected in a place like this.  

The room he led me into felt… well, it almost felt sacred.  It probably was for the motorcyclists who called this place home.  Everything was old and weathered, but it had been well cared for in the way that valued things are.  

There was a beautiful oak table with names intricately carved into its wood.  My fingers lingered over it as we passed, and something inside me quivered to see how few of the carved slivers were fresh.  This was antique, a piece of real wood from days long gone…

“And here she is – the lady in need of a makeover.”

As ‘Thrash’ spoke, my eyes drifted away and up, all the way to the monstrosity on the wall.

I didn’t manage to hide my upset a second time.

It was awful.  Not just the design, but also the way it had been rendered.  The paint quality had not been suitable for a mural, which meant it was flaking badly and in serious need of a – what had he called it?  A ‘makeover.’

I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or smack him.  I kept both to myself though.  

This was his home.  He could mock the mural.  I would be wiser to do my job.

The design really was poorly done, though.  There was a skull and cross-bones, which wasn’t an especially creative choice in the first place.  On either side of the cheap grin ran two rows of skulls.  The only valuable thing about this bit of kindergarten art lay in the various handles had been listed along the base of the mural.  
Those
were people.  Those were lives and loyalties.  There was my motivation…

I tried to remind myself that the previous artists had probably done the best they could with what they had, but the sum total reminded me of everything stereotypical I had ever heard about motorcycle riders.  The mural was violently ugly and it felt… almost childish.  It held none of the complexity that one might expect from fully grown men.  Or maybe it was precisely what one should expect.

I shied away from that last thought, recognizing it for what it was – my old, bitchy past, sneering down at everyone not ‘on my level.’

Instead, I tried to focus on what I could do to keep Fire and Steel’s personality but fix some of the… spatial problems.  

In the end, it really would be up to the men and women here what got painted.  I just hoped I was up for the challenge of it.

After all, club murals were very different from my usual work.

“What do you think?”  Thrash asked.

I kept it to myself, but I looked at that crumbling ruin of a wall and wanted to pull out my hair.

For god’s sake, the grim reaper stood in the middle of the skulls, behind the skull and crossbones, his face more a blurry scowl than a smirk.  The name “Bones” and “President” had been painted in tellingly enormous letter under it all.  

I rolled my eyes and then looked over at Thrash.  He stood there, assessing me, his eyes glued to my body.  

It was like he had pushed a button.  I could feel heat rising up my neck into my face.  Well, there went the respect thing.   Thank god for my annoyance, too, because I was seriously going to make an idiot of myself if I didn’t focus on my job.

“Do you know what you want on the mural?”  I snapped.

Those eyes shot back up to my face, but he didn’t shut down or grow cold.  Instead, he looked me over then cut the shit and got back to business.  

“We’ll all have a sit down and discuss it.  But I can tell you this.  We want something… different.”