PETE: After dinner.
LUCKY: Yeah, you need to eat. More than dick.
LUCKY: And the boys are coming over, so probably after that too. Unfortunately.
You two are ridiculous. I’m finishing up now, I’ll be on my way soon. Do I need to stop for anything?
I start putting away my brushes, my phone buzzing away on the drafting table while I do.
It’s nice to be needed again.
As stupid as that is, especially after self-isolating, it’s really nice to feel like people want to see me at all, let alone naked.
Which also feels pretty good, even if the two who want to see me naked are also kind of needy dorks who love me.
LUCKY: No stopping.
PETE: Just come home.
LUCKY: Mark is cooking, Norm is bringing dessert, we already bought beer.
LUCKY: Is Justine still there?
I roll my eyes because they’re definitely being ridiculous.
I’ve been coming here almost every day for the last six months without incident so there’s no reason for them to worry.
Mostly.
I glance over to the bed where my backpack is, my stomach twisting a little as I think about the latest thing I found waiting for me on my windshield.
It was a doll head.
One of those that have the eyes that open and close when you move them around but it was just the head. The eyes were popped out and the sockets were filled with black paint. At least I hope it’s black paint. I don’t know what else it would be but I also don’t want to find out.
And underneath the doll head, was a note.
One written in black charcoal, and all it said wassee me.
Instead of running back inside or pitching that shit off the parking structure, I shoved it in my backpack as quickly as I could in case one of the boys showed up or something. I know I shouldn’t be keeping it from them but I don’t want to go down that road again. It’ll only scare them.
It sure as fuck scares me.
But I’m not going to be that girl anymore.
So, I finish up with my station, making sure to be extra careful with the portrait of Mr. Bissonnette himself—dick—then fire off a quick message to my…boyfriends?That just seems weird but I don’t really know what to call them, set my phone down then dispose of the water and chemicals I was using and shut it down for the day.
I don’t need this job, not financially, but it’s been good for me.
Not that I’ll ever admit that, but it has. I think it’s why I finally snapped last week. Coming here every day, having a reason to get out of bed, having someone kick my ass into gear if I don’t. I think that’s all why I got keyed up enough to call Lucky, why I started feeling anything but hollow, and now I don’t dread it quite as much as I used to.
Even when I have two very sexy, veryblessedmen I’d rather be with waiting for me to come home.
Art has always been a pretty big part of my life in one way or another, and I find the restoration work relaxing. I wasn’t particularly great at painting but I know my way around oils, andafter I got emancipated I worked my ass off to get into art school. Did I end up homeless and living out of my shitty car because of it? Yes, but I needed to be around like minded people because years in foster care with this unscratchable itch to create was driving me crazy.
Every penny I earned went to paying for school, solely because I needed to do it. I honed my skills, I learned to play every instrument imaginable, I started reading and writing music, and I trained harder than ever to use my voice in a way that empowered me instead of staying quiet. And I dove deeper into painting and art history as filler.
Which is why Justine got me this job.
