“You’re new,” said the woman beside Shaggy. Her hair was cut short, hanging in greasy straight strands to her chin. She had large ears, the tops of which poked out the sides of her head. When she tilted her head, the light from the lit tiki torch flashed at her nearly shoulder-length hoops.
“Yep,” I said, hating questions like that. It was like someone commenting, “You’re short.” What was that supposed to accomplish?
“I’m Jacob,” Shaggy said, sticking one long-boned hand out toward me. I realized then why he wore such an oversized coat, because even at two or three times too big for him, it barely grazed his bony wrist in length.
“Mira.” I kept my hands in the pockets of my own coat. This wasn’t a fucking business meeting. A nod would suffice.
“You alone?” the woman with big ears said and blew out a stream of smoke.
“My boyfriend,” I said, and then paused briefly, “is out in the car.”
Jacob dragged his cigarette along the concrete wall of the basement he stood next to and then flicked it into a large trashcan. “Come on,” he said, grasping the handle of the heavy metal door behind him. “I’ll give you the tour.”
That was my chance to turn around and leave. All four of them still looked at me, but not like I was a sideshow attraction at least. I knew that outwardly, there was nothing strange about me. I wasn’t too short, I wasn’t too thin, and my hair was only mildly wild, my riot of curls somewhat tamed by the large headband I wore. In fact, compared to the woman beside big ears, who had half of her head shaved but not in a way that made any kind of stylistic sense, I looked … normal. Which was a shitty fucking word, I decided.
But none of them asked why I was there. No one picked my brain for answers.
Jacob opened the door and the dull, anonymous beat was replaced by actual instruments, and lyrics.
I wasn’t sure what I expected, walking into that basement. Maybe a dungeon, something out of Silence of the Lambs. But it actually looked … normal.
Fuck that stupid word.
There was a small lounge area, with two plump but old chairs that communed on either side of a table that had a book shoved under one leg to keep it level. The floors were concrete, the walls covered in concert posters or various blown up photographs. There was a pink lightbulb in a lamp that had seen better days, but it was … clean.
I followed Jacob through a narrow hallway, into a much more open space. The floors were still concrete, but there was a bunch of pub tables and chairs scattered throughout the space, and a small kitchenette with worn cabinets along one wall. People held conversations over the tables, one couple doing some kind of tarot reading and another standing in the kitchen sharing a bag of chips.
Everywhere I looked was like looking at people I’d never seen before in the same space. Some looked like they hadn’t yet let go of the punk era; some looked like they were the exact kind of people I was worried about being swarmed by, with their hair in braids, feathers and yarn strung through each plait; and some looked like they were barely old enough to be at a bar—not that this was one. In fact, while most of the people had drinks of some kind—not one of them looked alcoholic.
“This is the dining room.”
I looked at Jacob, perplexed. “Dining room? Looks more like a dorm communal room.”
Jacob ran his hand over his chin, where I counted maybe two or three hair follicles. He wasn’t the kind of guy who could grow a beard, which meant he didn’t need to shave. But as his hand drew away, I saw the tiny razor nicks biting his skin. Up closer, I could see that his coat may have appeared nondescript when I’d first seen it, but it wasn’t. When Jacob lifted his hand to point toward an opening in the wall, the back of his collar rose, and I saw the familiar RAF SIMONS tag at the neck.
My eyes were attracted to money. My fingers itched for it. My mouth hungered for it. Briefly, I contemplated how to snag the coat from him. It’d hock a pretty penny from one of Jerry’s connections.
But then, in the midst of my plotting, the reminder that Six was waiting for me burst through like a sledgehammer through the wall of my mischief. There was no way I could sneak a thousand-dollar coat into his car and pretend I found it.
When I audibly sighed, Jacob looked at me in question. “You okay, Mira?”
I didn’t like the way he said my name, as if he was trying to make Mira accented somehow. It was just Meer-rah. No need to make the R sound guttural when he spoke straight otherwise. “What’s there?” I asked him, pointing to where he’d gestured.
I only half listened to him describe the hallway to the living room where most people showcased their work. I took in the rest of his clothes and confirmed that they were all fancier than fit. His hair screamed too poor for a brush but his clothes, and the way he wore them unselfconsciously screamed something else. His teeth were white and straight, but his face showed scars. Meth, maybe?
He was a contradiction, and I hated how much that intrigued me. He had classical, Nordic features. Long, narrow nose. Hooded blue eyes. Oval face. He was neither attractive nor unattractive, even with the sore scars that dotted his face.
Jacob noticed me looking and stopped talking, taking his turn to search my face as well. Fortunately, I’d never fucked with my face. Easier to hide in plain sight when there was nothing to scrutinize.
“You done?” he asked frankly, but not rudely. He didn’t appear concerned that I could see him more clearly than he could see me. But he didn’t look vulnerable either. His eyes were calm, clear. He was sober, at least in that moment.
I shrugged. “Nice coat.” If I couldn’t steal it, I could at least be honest about admiring it.
He wrinkled his brow and looked down at it, as if he forgot he’d even been wearing it. That told me that wealth wasn’t something he found—like I did when I stole. It was something he was born into. He didn’t wear the coat to gloat. His experience with expensive things was as real to him as his name.
So, what was he doing in this underground not-quite-but-sort-of shithole? While clean, the place had a dark air about it, like we’d ventured into a secret space to smuggle levis into the Soviet Union—not to talk about art, or, like the people at the table—give tarot readings. This place was secret, but not at the same time.
Which reminded me of an earlier thought I’d had. “There’s no booze.”
“Right. It’s called the Dry Run. No alcohol, no drugs. We have snacks and water and soda, but there’s a zero-tolerance policy for any other stimulants, depressants, hallucinogens, or narcotics.”
I nodded, feeling like I’d found myself in some middle school anti-drug club. “Is that why you were smoking outside?”
“Smoking cigarettes is allowed, as long as it’s outside. If you want anything else, you have to go off the premises.”
It was like I was in some kind of halfway house. Which was probably the point, given the different types of people here. Addiction didn’t look the same on everyone.
“Come on,” Jacob said, pointing his head toward the doorway to the living room, which I was sure he knew was a ridiculous name.
“So you gotta be sober to be in here, but it’s still quasi-underground and only at night?”
“Precisely.”
The word sounded rich coming from his mouth. “So, we’re all here so we don’t scare the people above ground, right? Only can come at night, or else we might frighten all the rich bitches upstairs?”
“It’s underground,” Jacob began, pulling back the curtain that separated the hallway from the next room. “Because it’s our space—not theirs. It’s only open at night so we can play music as loud as we want. We might be accommodating those ‘rich bitches,’ but we’re doing it selfishly too.” He gestured for me to go ahead of him into another large room, twice as big as the last. And it was filled—wall to wall and throughout the middle—with all kinds of paintings and photographs and even sculptures.
It was sensory overload at first. So many different styles all coexisting in
the same place. Along the left wall were large photographs, nearly as tall as me. My gaze traveled the wall for as long as I could see, but blocking it were folding partitions that separated the room, each covered with art. “What is this place?”
“Dry Run,” Jacob repeated. He started doing a walk around the room and people parted for him like he was Moses parting the red sea. It was almost comical, the way people looked at him. I realized then he was the first person to jump at giving me a tour. He must have had some kind of ownership over the place.
“Is this under one of those houses up above?” I asked, because I couldn’t believe that that narrow salon above ground had this much basement space.
“No. It’s under the first four in a row.” He tucked some straggly strands behind his ear as he stopped in front of watercolor display. The owner built this place.”
“Are you the owner?”
Jacob laughed and looked at me with a grin that probably caught a lot of coeds. “No. But I live above the third building.”
A mental image of the front of the homes flitted in my brain. “The counseling practice.”
“Yes.” He tucked his hands in his pockets and moseyed further. A few people nodded at him, one woman looped her arm through his comfortably and looked at me suspiciously. Gently and almost like it was her idea to do so, he removed her arm from his. He patted her shoulder like she was one of his disciples and not someone he’d ever get into bed with, which she must have realized too judging by the comical pout that puffed up her bubble gum colored lips.
She looked at me again with more than a little venom in her eyes, so I grinned back. I wasn’t interested in Jacob; I was interested in watching someone else hate me without knowing me. She acted like art club was a club club, where one goes to meet men and bed them. But Jacob took this place seriously and was gracious to every person he stopped to talk to. He wasn’t here for bubble gum lips. He was here for everyone.
I realized I was following him still, and I wasn’t sure if that was intended. Was he still giving me a tour? Or was this the last, spectacular stop? He didn’t look to see if I was following, but still I was.
He stopped in front of a woman who didn’t have art hung on the wall behind her. No, her art was seated in a chair beside her, turning under the lights that were clipped to the partition behind her. Both were women, but only one held the paintbrush. She had dark, frizzy hair that hung like an old mop on her head. I watched as the artist absently pushed hair behind her ear, revealing a jawline that was decorated in tiny bruises. Her profile was sharp, her features gentle and young. Her lips were pursed as she used the brush in her hand to add the smallest circle to her model’s back. Then, she placed the handle of the brush between her teeth and gently put her hands on the model, gesturing her to turn her body.
And that’s when I saw it, in brilliant sunset oranges and reds—an octopus. It took a moment for my brain to realize that this was the model’s skin, and not an actual octopus. It was so life-like, and what made it more interesting was that it was upside down on the model’s back, and surrounding it was the blackest black I’d ever seen—making it nearly impossible, with the black backdrop in front of the model, to figure out where her skin ended.
The artist stood from her stool and stretched her back before turning to the woman’s side. She didn’t notice the people who had gathered in front of her booth to watch her work. She was wholly focused on the model’s skin—her canvas. So focused, that only her profile was visible.
I watched as she grabbed a narrow brush, dipped it into a charcoal color, and blew on the woman’s skin before slicking the brush along one tentacle, creating a shadow that hadn’t been there before.
“How long has she been doing this?”
“Years. Good, right?” Jacob answered, his voice low.
“No, I mean this …” I waved my hand toward the model, “piece.” It seemed wrong to call a human a piece, but then if I thought about it long enough, how thrilling it must be to be called a piece of art. Instead of just a piece of oneself, the way I viewed myself. I was in a room of actual artists. Women and men who created beautiful, transformative things. It made everything in my apartment feel like preschool projects.
“Two hours. She does one piece twice a week.” I heard his mouth open like he was going to say more, but he stopped and closed his lips.
The woman slicked more paint on her brush and went behind the brush strokes with her pinky, blending the shadow more fully into the tentacle. It seemed like a crime, that this wasn’t permanent, that this model would leave this room and wash off this paint like it was mud.
That’s how I knew she painted the octopus for herself. Like recognized like. An artist doesn’t paint for anyone other than themselves first.
Jacob looked at me. “Ready to move on?”
So, I was still on the tour. “I think I’m going to stick around here.”
Again, he opened his mouth to say something that, ultimately, he decided not to say. He clamped his lips and nodded. “I’ll be on the other side of these partitions if you need me. I’ll circle back around.”
If you need me. Did I look like I needed handholding? I brushed off the brief annoyance so I could continue watching the woman painting. She was absorbed in what she was doing, wholly focused, confident.
My mother had been fond of watching ballets. The way the women—and men—moved their bodies, taut and steady, amazed her. Probably because she was seemingly permanently afflicted with unsteady fingers. She couldn’t create. It was a miracle that she could roll a half decent joint, but I figured people saved their talents for things that benefited them.
The way the woman moved was so … moving. It was as if she was underwater, tangled with the octopus, her limbs moving fluidly to a beat that only she knew. I knew that feeling well. She was poised, her back straight and strong despite being bent over. The acute angle of her arm had a certain kind of intrigue to it as well.
She dropped the paint brush and before she could pick it up, her model placed a hand on her arm, giving her a smile, and bent over to pick it up for her. I understood then why my mother loved the ballet so much. There was so much beauty in watching two people communicate without words, their bodies still young and agile and flexible.
The model handed the artist the brush and the artist turned and that’s when I understood everything.
Beneath the black cardigan, she wore a mustard-colored tank top that stretched over a belly so round that it looked like she swallowed a small helium-filled balloon. She was pregnant.
I didn’t like babies. They were unpredictable, their futures too unknown. I could never be a good mother, I couldn’t risk passing on what my mother had passed to me.
But, still, I stepped closer to the woman. And when I did, when I was close enough to smell the gardenia scent she wore, I could see even more that kept me glued here, watching her.
Her belly was swollen, but she was thin. Thin enough that I could see the polka dot bruises along her protruding collar bone and see the bruise her under left eye. It was quite the shiner, judging by the thick makeup she’d layered over it. There was a certain sheen to that side of her face that didn’t exist on the other.
When she turned to look at me, since I was now unusually close, I could see the bruise lines on her neck that her hair failed to conceal.
She blinked, and I took in the redness in her inner corner of her eye. These weren’t “falling into a wall” bruises. These were done by the hands of another. And I knew it was presumptuous, but I had little doubt the one who’d planted life in her had caused the pain she wore on her skin.
I considered myself lucky. I could hide my pain with the tug of a sleeve, with bracelets or a watch. I could keep my monsters at bay until I was alone and in pain. But this woman didn’t have that option. She had to wear hers like a scarlet letter.
When we’d held our gazes long enough, she turned to the model but kept her eye on me. “Ez, let’s take a break.”
> Ez nodded and retreated the booth.
The woman gestured for me to sit in the chair Ez had occupied. “Want some paint?”
I was stunned momentarily. She didn’t call me out on staring directly at her bruises. She even invited me to sit in her chair, to allow her to paint my skin.
Shrugging off my jacket, I took the seat she offered. I’d looked at her without permission, stared at her scars without her consent. It made me want to put us on equal ground.
I put my arm in front of her and turned it over. She glanced at the line of scars and looked back at me.
“What would you like?”
I almost told her seven. A private joke from the night I met Six. But I wanted something else.
The six lines I’d cut into my skin before were scarred, but they were the angriest of all my scars. “An eight,” I found myself saying, and pointed to the scars. “Here.”
“Lucky number?”
“Something like that.”
“Color?”
I shrugged. “Whatever you think.” And because my curiosity got the better of me, I asked, “What’s your name?”
“Brooke.”
“With an E?”
“Right.” She nodded, and now I realized that I recognized the look in her eyes. Caution. Showing my scars hadn’t put her at ease like I thought it would. “Not the kind that trout are in.”
“I’m Mira.” She hadn’t asked, but I put it there anyway.
“Hi Mira.” She gave me a small smile then and leaned back to grab a brush. The tank top slipped up over her stomach, exposing her belly button.
Absently, she tugged on the fabric and ran a hand over the lower part of her belly.
A memory surfaced, quick like a jab to the gut. The photo my mom kept in her living room, growing up. Her, very pregnant with me. Frizzy hair like Sideshow Bob on either side of her face.
This woman reminded me of my mother. It was a scary, but intriguing thought.
“How far along are you?” I asked, knowing full well it wasn’t an appropriate thing to ask, but asking anyway.
Six Feet Under (Mad Love Duet Book 1) Page 20
