by Elle Casey
“Calm down!” yells Zach, re-adjusting his hold to include Tarin’s arms.
“Fuck you! You calm down!” Tarin struggles to get free, but Zach’s arms are like a straightjacket. All the little brat can do is turn bright red with his efforts.
I walk into the room, stepping around the garbage that used to be musical instruments and sheet music. I don’t know what the place looked like before, but it’s a disaster now. I want to cry over the frustration I see reflected here. So much lost. I’m afraid I won’t be able to get it back. When a musician spends this much time wrecking his most valued things and places, it’s never a good sign.
“Get the hell out of here!” he screams at me, spittle flying from his lips. “This is my personal space! You’re not welcome here!”
I don’t know what comes over me in that instant. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s acting like a spoiled child or that he’s talking to me so cruelly, but I lose my cool. I walk right up to him and slap him across the face.
Taking a step back, I stare at him, trying not to let my shock at my own behavior show in my expression.
He immediately shuts up and his body relaxes in Zach’s hold.
Zach looks at the ceiling, battling the smile that is coming over his features.
“Did you just fucking slap me?” Tarin sounds like he doesn’t believe it himself.
“Yes, apparently I just did.” I look down at my hand, surprised at the tingling there. I guess I smacked him pretty hard.
He looks up at his bodyguard. “Let me go, Zach. Seriously. It’s cool. I’m not really down with the man love like you are.”
Zach ignores the veiled insult. “You’re not going to smack her back are you?”
Tarin scowls. “Come on, man, you know me better than that.”
Zach loosens his hold. “I’ll be outside.” He stops at the door. “You want me to send someone in here for this?” He gestures to the mess on the floor.
“No. Leave it.” I’ll be damned if I’m going to let anyone but Tarin clean up after this ridiculous tantrum.
Zach walks out the door and shuts it quietly behind him.
Tarin and I stare at each other. The red handprint on his face makes me ashamed of myself, but I try to focus on the bigger picture and not let it overwhelm everything I’m trying to do here.
“You hit me,” he says.
“Yes, I did. And I’m sorry.”
“Why’d you do it?”
His question confuses me. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“Is it part of your little program? Do you do that all the time?”
“No. It’s not a part of my program.” I feel the heat rising in my neck.
“Why’d you do it then?”
I shrug. “What difference does it make?”
“Is it because I hurt your feelings or because I was having a fit?”
I bite my lip as I consider his words. He’s watching me like a hawk, making me nervous. His gaze shifts from my eyes to my mouth and then to my chest. I know he can see my breaths coming too fast. I could blame my reaction on me freaking out over the destruction, but I have a feeling he’ll know I’m not being entirely honest.
I try to blow him off. “Hurt my feelings? Please.” I gesture to the room around us. “It takes a lot more than you not welcoming me into your garbage pit to hurt my feelings.”
He takes a step closer, the trash on the floor making loud swishing sounds as his feet pushes it aside. “Oh, so you’re such a hardass, no one can get through, is that it?”
Every part of me wants to run away from him. He’s invading my personal space like a boyfriend, but I can’t back away. This is a challenge I will win. “No, that’s not it. I’m not immune to harsh words. I’m actually very easy to hurt if you want to know the truth.” My chin comes up, even though I don’t mean for it to.
“You slapped me because I was having a fit, then. Not because I hurt your feelings.”
I blink a couple times slowly. “Yes. That’s it. You were out of control. I just brought you back down to Earth.”
He studies my face for a few seconds and then shakes his head. “Nope. That’s not it. I hurt your feelings.”
I press my lips together to keep them from trembling. The reaction I’m having and this conversation reminds me way too strongly of another situation and another boy who hurt me terribly. It’s all too much, how Tarin and Austin are so alike in that way, with the power they have to affect me so easily. My chin quivers from the effects of trying to keep my emotions from showing.
Tarin reaches up slowly and touches my chin. “I’m sorry I hurt your feelings.”
I turn my head so his finger will fall away. “I’ll get over it.” I look around the room. “You’ll be cleaning this up when we get back today.”
He laughs. “Like hell I will.”
I turn my head back to stare at him. “As soon as I leave this room, I will instruct everyone in this house not to touch it. No one will cooperate with you until you cooperate with me. From now on, you clean up your own messes.”
“What the fuck is that all about?” He’s on the brink of another tantrum, so I go for the jugular.
“It’s about respect for the people who work for you. Who the hell do you think you are, anyway? Is your mind so warped that you actually think it’s okay to act like a four-year-old child, destroy thousands of dollars worth of equipment and the work of other people, and then call someone in to clean up after you? Like they don’t have other more important things to do? What … you want to pay Marta to wipe your asshole for you too?”
“That’s what I pay them for.”
“No. It’s not what you pay them for, you jerk. You pay them to cook, to clean up after normal usage, to drive you, and to protect you. That’s it. No one is here to babysit you. And you definitely can’t buy friends … not real ones. And you keep this shit up and you’re going to lose the only ones you have left.”
“Then what are you here for?”
I turn to walk away, but he grabs my sleeve. “Answer my question.”
I look down at his hand that’s twisted in my shirt. I speak softly, but there’s no hiding from the threat that lies underneath. “Get your hands off me, Tarin. Right now.”
He lets me go. “Tell me why you’re here.”
Looking at his face, I can tell the answer means something to him. And I can’t lie. I have to tell him the truth. “I’m here to save you from yourself.”
“What if I don’t want saving?” he asks, unshed, angry, frustrated tears making his eyes bright.
“Then I’m either going to drag you kicking and screaming back to where you used to be or die trying.”
“Why do you think where I used to be was so great? Maybe it was worse than where I am now.”
I sense there’s more to what he’s saying than just the bare words, but I don’t have the time or the inclination to delve right now. “I don’t believe that.”
He backs away, nearly tripping over the junk on the floor. “You don’t know shit about me.” He’s angry again.
“I know what I need to know. You have five minutes to get your ass out to the front door.”
“Fuck that. I’m not going anywhere.”
I sigh, pausing at the entrance to the room. “You will either come willingly or you’ll be dragged. And if you continue to put Zach and Leonard in a position to get hurt, I’m going to have to let them go and hire some other people who are more … tuned in to that kind of behavior.”
“You can’t fire Zach and Leonard! They’ve been with me from the start! They’re my friends!”
“I can and I will. You decide if they stay by your behavior. If you give me trouble about going where I need you to go, I’ll take that as your tacit agreement to having them fired.”
He spits on the floor. “You’re a hardcore bitch, you know that?”
I give him a smile that carries no humor, ignoring the pain that his words cause. “I’ve been called worse.”
I
close the door softly behind me. A few more crashes follow but then silence. I go out the front door and get into the car, confident that Tarin will be out within the timeframe given.
I can say a lot of things about him that aren’t very nice, but I cannot say he doesn’t try to be a good friend when he needs to be. Something tells me leveraging his loyalty to the people around him will be the key to winning him over, so that’s exactly what I’m going to continue to do.
Chapter Seventeen
RICKY PULLS THE SEDAN UP to the warehouse I’ve given him the address for. “Is this it?” he asks, looking at the bland exterior with suspicion.
“Yep.” I open my door. “Come on, Tarin.”
“You want me in there?” asks Scott.
“Sure. Ricky, do you mind waiting out here?” I ask, dipping my head down into the car window to look at him.
“Not at all.” He pulls a Kindle out from under the front seat. “Got about a thousand books on here I’ve been meaning to read.”
Tarin snorts from the backseat. “You don’t read books, who are you trying to kid?”
Ricky looks at him in the rearview mirror, his voice stern. “Don’t pretend you know me that well.” He drops his gaze to his Kindle and turns it on, decidedly ignoring the shocked and hurt expression on Tarin’s face.
Boom. Shot to the heart. Everyone’s mad at Tarin for having that tantrum, and I feel like singing and dancing in the rain over it. There’s nothing more powerful than peer pressure to get someone like Tarin back in line. He may be an independent, crazy, loudmouth musician on the outside, but inside he’s like everyone else; he needs connections, he needs to be respected, and he needs love. His friends have given this to him without question and without demanding anything in return before, but that’s over now. Now, he’s going to have to work for their love, just like everyone else. Recalibration engaged.
Tarin gets out of the car and stands next to me. He won’t look at me, but that’s okay. What I’m about to do doesn’t require that he like me right now. Or ever.
“What’s this place?” he asks.
“It’s a friend’s studio.”
“I already trashed one studio today,” he says, sounding just a little bit disappointed himself. My joy edges up another notch.
“It’s not that kind of studio.” I take a key out of my small purse and fit it into the lock. Before I can finish unlocking the door, it swings open, and a man with disheveled hair and paint splatters covering most of his body is standing there in the doorway.
“Scarlett!” he exclaims, holding out his arms.
“Greg.” I move in for a quick hug, hoping this time the paint is dry.
“Oh shit,” he says, backing away. He searches the front of my clothes. “Did I get ya?”
I look down. “Not this time.”
“Awesome.” He looks over my shoulder. “Bring a friend?”
“Yes.” I step inside as he moves out of the way. “And Scott, of course.”
“Yo, Scotty boy.” Greg holds out his hand and they shake.
Tarin walks in last with his hands in his pockets. He nods a silent hello.
“I know this guy.” Greg points at Tarin with a smile on his face. Then he breaks out in a raspy rendition of one of Tarin’s older hits.
Tarin smiles, even though I can tell it pains him to do it. Greg’s kind of hard to resist that way and his voice isn’t bad.
“Man, that piece was awesome,” says Greg. “That reminds me … I gotta show you something.”
Greg walks over to stack of paintings and starts shoving them around, obviously looking for something he can’t remember the location of.
Tarin’s gaze roams the room while we wait for Greg to join us again. I wonder if what Tarin is seeing scares or intrigues him. I hope for the latter. This warehouse has been Greg’s home away from home for years. It’s covered in acrylic paint splatters from floors to walls and even some spots on the ceiling. Good thing he owns the place or I’m sure the landlord would have kicked him out a long time ago. Canvases lean against the walls, four, five, and six deep. They’re stacked up on almost all of the surfaces, sometimes a few feet high. Bigger pieces that are in the process of being worked on are attached directly to the wall. There are cans and bottles and tubes scattered throughout. One corner of the room is dedicated to making canvases with rolls of the heavy material, a chop saw, small pieces of wood, and various staple guns, hammers, nails, and wire.
“Here it is,” exclaims Greg, sliding a canvas out from a big pile. The remaining ones teeter, and Scott gets there just in time to save them from crashing to the floor. He works on straightening them out as Greg walks over to Tarin to show him his find.
“I did this after I listened to Break Me for the first time. I’ll bet I heard that song a hundred times as I painted this. Probably more.”
Tarin takes the painting from him and just stares at it. Greg prattles on and on about the inspiration he received from Tarin’s music and lyrics, but I can see that Tarin is hearing none of it. He’s lost in the colors and the movement of the paint across the fabric. Greg is a genius. His pieces have never failed to grab my lost boys and pull them in, and now I know that Tarin is no exception.
Tarin’s voice is rough when he speaks. “What’s it supposed to be?”
Greg’s tone holds traces of humor. “I don’t know, man. What do you see?”
Tarin tries to give him back the painting. “Nothing. Just some colors, that’s it.”
Greg pushes the painting back at him. “Nah, you keep it. It’s a gift.”
“I can’t. I don’t want it.”
I cringe inwardly, knowing how sensitive Greg can be sometimes about his work.
Greg pushes his lips out and then shakes his head. Finally he says, “You got it bad, dude. Better suit up.” He walks away and grabs an old coffee can, looking inside it as he goes. At the sink on the far side of the room he fills the can partway and locates a few brushes lying on the draining board, making sure they’re clean before dumping them into the water. He disappears into a large storage closet where I can hear him moving things around.
Scott walks over to Tarin and takes the painting from him. “If you don’t want to ruin your clothes, you’ll want to get one of those suits on.” He motions to the rack of car-mechanic jumpsuits hanging from hooks near the door. They’re in several sizes and none of them are clean.
“What are you talking about? Is this guy gonna start flinging paint everywhere or what?”
“Not him. You.” Scott carries the painting over to the door. “I’m going to go wait in the car.” He leaves before any of us have time to say goodbye.
“What’s he talking about?” Tarin asks me. I can’t tell if he’s angry or just confused.
“Three days a week you’ll paint. Get a suit on and get ready to have your first session.”
Tarin frowns, his face going darker than it already was. “I don’t want to paint.”
“So what? Paint anyway.” I move towards the door. There’s a stool there that’s safely out of Greg’s paint-splashing zone, and it gives me a great view of the room. I climb up on it and rest my feet on the bottom rung.
He puts one hand on a hip and gestures angrily with the other. “So even though I don’t want to paint, you’re going to force me to do it anyway?”
“Yes.” I shrug, offering no apology.
“And if I don’t follow your orders?”
“I think you know what happens if you don’t cooperate.”
His nostrils flare as he drops his arms to his side. “This is bullshit and you know it.”
“No, it’s not bullshit, Tarin. You’re a creative person. If you can’t create music right now, you’ll create something else. Work out your emotions in a way that doesn’t destroy your house or your friendships.”
He shakes his head, thoroughly disgusted with me. “Un fucking believable.” But he shuffles over to the wall and yanks a suit off a hook.
Before I can loo
k away, he pulls his shirt off over his head. Tattoos I’ve never seen before glare out at me. A particularly rough-looking one across his abdomen jumps out at me.
Guilty is what it says.
I wonder what he did that was so terrible it inspired him to brand himself with such negativity. It makes me sad to see it. I turn to the side when his hand goes to the first button of his pants.
“What’s the matter? Worried about seeing me naked?” he asks, finishing with a bitter laugh. He’s taunting me. He’s not happy.
I turn back around, my face expressionless. “No. Not at all.”
He drops his pants, and I try not to let my shock show. He’s not wearing underwear and his entire body is right there on display, not more than five feet away. His tan lines only emphasize what I’m seeing just below his waist. My heart flips over at the raw maleness of it. My eyes roam north in self-preservation.
His body is lean, the tattoos roaming over muscle bulges and smoother sections of skin, wrapping around arms and ribs and shoulders. Some are old and faded, others brightly colored.
Guilty.
That tattoo keeps drawing my eyes back down to his waist.
I catch him smirking at me as Greg reappears, coming out of the storage room just in time to save me from saying something really stupid and embarrassing myself. I turn to face him instead of a naked Tarin.
“Ho, yeah, okay … all right,” says Greg, nodding and shrugging. “Painting in the buff. I can hang.”
“Nah, I’m getting dressed,” says Tarin.
When I hear the suit being zipped up, I look at Tarin again, trying with everything I have not to appear affected by having seen him in all his glory. And glorious his body is, too. I’m going to have to drink a lot of alcohol to scrub my brain clean of that image. Guilty, guilty, guilty... I resist the urge to actually wipe my eyes.
Seeing him clothed in the painting suit should have been helping to get me back to Earth, but it isn’t. I can’t get rid of the sensation I experienced seeing him standing there naked with a knowing smirk on his face. He’s completely covered now, from neck to ankle, but my libido still knows that all it would take is one downward yank on that zipper and he’d once again be standing there with just tattoos for clothing. And then it would be all over for me.
