by Heart,Skylar
It’s not the first time he’s asked me this. Damon loves shooting with human models. He’s always got people coming around for shoots, or he’ll be out in the middle of nowhere. He’s probably one of the only people I let take my picture, just because he’s done it so often and they always come out so well. “Sure. Where do you want me?”
He looks around. “Grab the chair, the red one. Gives it some color.”
I grab the chair as I play at being offended. “Hey!”
Behind me I hear him laugh. “You know I mean well.”
“I know you do.” I put the chair in front of the camera and sit down on it. “What do you want me to do?”
“Just… be yourself.” Photographers and their helpful guidance… He smiles as he starts shooting, constantly fiddling with things and checking the laptop next to him.
“Myself. And what is that like?” Being myself, I tease him, try to get him to react, but the question starts nagging at me. When am I ever really myself? When do I not put up a front? When is there ever a time—
“Whoa! Like that!” Damon’s voice breaks through the daze.
Hunter stands in the doorway, his helmet in one hand and his jacket in the other. He is looking our way, and his eyes are intense. His muscles tense, moving the tight-fitting shirt and making my stomach flutter.
I swallow hard. My world has just been narrowed to this, to us. That is when I don’t have to put up a front. When Hunter is around.
Hunter’s eyes flit to Damon, a flash of something going through his eyes. Anger? Jealousy? But when they return to mine, there is pain. Pain, and then the shutters come down. Distance. Because, of course, now he knows about my illness…
My breath stutters and I rip my eyes away from him. Suddenly acutely aware of the lights, of the camera, of Damon. “I’m sorry.” I stand up, my voice rough, and flee outside, into the open. I need air, space.
“Lizzy.” Tamara comes over to me, a smile on her lips that soon falters when she sees me. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just… a bit overwhelmed.” How else can I describe what just happened?
“Are you okay? I was worried.”
“I’m okay. I think I may just have caught something over the weekend. I’m good now.” Physically, that is. Emotionally is a whole different thing.
“Did Hunter drop by? He suddenly left yesterday.” Her voice is careful, and I’m not surprised.
“You told him, didn’t you?” She’s the only one who could have told him. The only other person who knows.
“I told him what?”
“About my illness.” Is there no one who can keep their mouth shut? I twist around, stomping back inside.
“Lizzy, please. I didn’t.” Tamara follows me.
Like I can believe her. How else would Hunter know? I grab my things and storm out past her.
“Lizzy…” She calls for me, but I keep walking. I can stay at the library until class starts. A class where Hunter will also be… Great. I keep walking. There has to be somewhere that I can just be me. Where I don’t need to worry about other people. But right now it seems like everyone keeps hovering over me, and I can’t escape it, no matter how much I want to.
Chapter 12
Hunter
Lizzy storms out of the workshop and I’m about to follow her as Tamara comes into the room. She looks my way. She’s not amused. Definitely not amused.
“Hunter. I need to talk to you. My office.” She walks, her strides short and measured.
Uh-oh. I follow her. I feel like a little kid who is about to get scolded, and I’m pretty sure that is exactly what is going to happen.
“Close the door.” Tamara stands at her desk, unpacking her bag.
I close the door but keep standing. I’m not sure I should sit down for this.
“What the hell happened? What were you thinking?” She puts her hands on her hips, anger flaring in her eyes.
“I’m sorry, I wasn’t…” I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t think it would upset Lizzy this much.
“No. It’s obvious you weren’t thinking.” She shakes her hair over her shoulder. “How are you going to fix this? I can’t have Lizzy stay away because you mess up. I can’t have you take away one of her safe places.”
A safe place? I don’t think it was safe for Lizzy or me, not with the each around. It hasn’t been safe from the start. “She dared me. She dared me to say something. I didn’t mean to talk about it. I hadn’t even… It wasn’t even the reason I went to see her. I didn’t know of her—”
“Don’t.” Tamara glares.
“—illness.” I finish my sentence, glaring back. “I was worried about her. I was worried that her fainting was my fault.”
“And why would that be?”
“Because I could see that she was not feeling well last week.” And because I was just as much of a wreck.
“Ugh. You’re so…” Tamara shakes her head.
“Egotistical?” Yeah, I realized that as soon as I got to Lizzy’s place.
“I was going with self-absorbed.” Tamara shows me a small smile. “It’s been weird since the start, right? I didn’t help last week. I’m sorry.”
“You encourage us to get along, but then you tell me off for getting close to her. You can’t have it both ways.”
“I know.” She lets out a sigh. “Let me show you something. Have you seen some of Lizzy’s earlier work?”
“I haven’t, but you’re going to show me, right?” I follow her as she walks out of the office and to the room next door. This door doesn’t open often, as we store old projects here, projects that Tamara has used for exhibits and stuff like that.
She opens a drawer and starts rifling through the papers before she pulls out some. “Here. These used to be on the halls of the old building.” She takes them with her to a table in the main room. She spreads them out and steps back.
I swallow hard as I look at the images. They’re obviously Lizzy’s—her style is very distinct, even at this early stage. I reach out to one. It’s dark. That’s the only way to explain it. It’s mixed medium, some charcoal, some paint, some other things. But the only feeling I get from it is fear and darkness. “Wow.”
“Compare it to this.” She pulls another piece in front of it. This one is lighter, it appears happier, but there is also something distorted about it. It almost feels ‘light’ in the wrong sense of the word, like it has no substance. The image is busy—there is lots going on, but it doesn’t feel right.
I grab a few others, the distortion different for each and every one of them. I ache for the girl who made this, where Lizzy was at at that point. “The start of her illness.” Like she is trying to hide it, but it still shines through, so strongly.
“This is her safe place. No one questions what she makes here.” Tamara makes me look at her. “These were on the walls at the old building, or I would not have shown them to you. She is okay with other people seeing these. Yeah?”
I nod. Seeing these images doesn’t scare me, it only makes me want to help her more. But at the same time, I know that wouldn’t be right. I can’t want her just to cure her.
“Hey, I remember some of these. I was there when she made the final one.” Damon stands next to us, smiling. “God, she’s so strong. She just doesn’t realize it herself. It’s what makes taking pictures of her so interesting.”
I look at him, anger welling up inside me that he’d say such a thing about Lizzy. But then he looks up, a glint in his eyes.
“You want to see the pictures I took just now? They’re very… interesting.” He dares me. That’s just what it is, a dare.
“Sure.” I don’t know what he wants, but it seems that he has some purpose with this.
He walks over to his camera and grabs his laptop, then puts it on the table, on top of Lizzy’s work. “I was playing with some settings and the light, so I needed a model to compare the images next to each other. She usually doesn’t mind modeling for me.” He clicks on an image. “Th
is is when we started.” Lizzy smiles at something Damon says off screen, calm, comfortable, as she leans on the chair. First, there is a little frowning, just slightly as she tries to keep her face pleasant. A darkening of her eyes is the only real clue that there is something going on in her head. Suddenly the images change. Lizzy stills. Sure, the images stand still, but you can see the way her muscles tighten and how she holds her breath. Her eyes have widened and she’s focused on something to the side.
“This is when you came in.” Damon’s voice reaches me, but I keep focusing on the images.
The next image is barely different, apart from the look in her eyes. Raw longing. Not just the physical type, but the emotional type. My heart races as the pictures keep changing. Longing, confusion, fear, annoyance. Pain. Then she looks straight at the camera, like a deer caught in the headlights of a car. And she flees, the last image nothing but her dress trailing after her as she disappears from the frame.
I swallow hard. Sure, I was some of it when I came in, but not the full range. I was too focused on what Damon was doing to really focus on what was going on with Lizzy.
“She’s amazing, she’s gone through so much. But I’ve never seen her act like this.” Damon’s eyes are on me.
“So?” I don’t care about things she has done in the past. Just these images, seeing the way she reacted to me so clearly, everything has become so much more complicated.
“Don’t hurt her.” He picks up the laptop, walking away.
“Or what?” I can’t stop my stupid mouth.
“Or I’ll make sure you can’t hurt her again.” He glares at me, conviction in his eyes.
Damon isn’t big, by far not as tall or as broad as me. But I believe him when he says the words. I believe that he will do anything it takes to protect her. Because that is the type of dedication that Lizzy brings out in other people. Everyone wants to protect her, myself included.
But I’m not sure if I can protect her, or if I’ll only ruin her more. Because that is what I do. I ruin people, I break them. They die.
The cold beer flowing down my throat feels good, just right. There is nothing better than drinking and feeling just a little bit more sane after a crazy day. I like this bar—it’s one of the few that will still pour me a drink and which is within walking distance of my studio. I down the glass and motion for the bartender to pour me another one.
It’s still early, but that’s good, because I’m pretty sure that I shouldn’t stay up late. Classes tomorrow or something. Classes… Why do I even torture myself like this? Why do I still go? It’s not like there is any use for it. I don’t need a college degree to make art, I don’t need a college degree to make a living with my hands. Why do I even try?
The next beer disappears quickly too, and I can feel the liquid courage rush through my veins. Much better. I step to the back of the bar, to the pool tables. I gotta do something with the evening, right?
I put some money on one of the tables and a guy looks up. “Wanna shoot some pool?” I ask.
He eyes me up and down, sizing me up. “Sure.” He grabs a cue and the balls and starts to arrange them. “You’ve done this before?”
“Often enough.” I shrug. It’s been a while. Tessa used to love shooting pool. She was crazy good at it too, which surprised people. So often, she’d dare a guy to a game, the guy would accept, thinking that a girl was an easy target, and she’d destroy them. And the look she’d give them… I’ve had my share of fights after Tessa insulted one of those guys, just with a look just with one movement of her head.
The guy breaks and I look on. Tessa taught me one thing about pool, being able to read the table, not just the balls, but also the opponent. Finding their weak spots before they find mine. The guy steps back and apparently I’m solids.
I lean over the table and take a couple of shots, only partially focusing. The guy isn’t bad, but I’m used to playing against Tessa, and she was better. I miss and it’s the other guy’s turn again. Bummer.
He goes at it again, and it doesn’t take long before I’m up again. We go back a forth a couple of times, until all my balls are sunk. The guy looks at me. “You’re gonna try?” The eight-ball is in a difficult place, but I’ve won in a worse situation.
“Always.” I take a shot and miss. Too bad. “Your turn.”
The guy tries to hit his last but one ball and inadvertently sinks the eight-ball. He frowns. “Sucks.”
“Definitely does.” I lean back against the wall behind me. “Another round?”
“Sure. You get the balls, I’m buying a beer. You want one too?”
“Thanks.” I nod as I start gathering the balls. This may be the best evening I’ve spent in a long time.
When the guy returns, I break and claim solids again. Then we start—at first it’s fun, but soon we’re trash talking and a couple more people are hanging around us. I’m not sure this is a good idea, though. As the beer keeps flowing, I’m not sure I can control myself.
I bump into one of the guys standing at the side. “Get out of my way,” I rumble as I focus on getting my last ball into a pocket. I call and as I line my cue up, it’s only a split second before someone hooks his foot behind one of mine and pulls.
I stumble, barely catching myself on the edge of the table, or I might have lost some teeth. I swivel around and turn to the guy behind me. He looks at me straight. “What’s your issue?” I growl.
“I don’t like punks like you acting like you own the place.” He steps forward, straightening up.
My blood boils and I put the cue aside, straightening up too. He squares his shoulders and his hands ball into fists.
“Maybe they shouldn’t let an oldie like you onto the floor. Where is your walker?” I run my mouth off, of course, because why wouldn’t I?
The first swing he takes at me doesn’t hit me, but as I evade him, another guy behind me grabs me from behind. And the man’s next fist is right into my stomach.
I elbow the guy behind me and kick him with my boots, luckily a bit more substantial than the meager sneakers he’s wearing. I’m able to get free, but not before the first guy has hit me again. The pain only fuels my own anger. The anger that hasn’t stopped being right under the surface since I lost Tessa.
I lash out, my knuckles hitting muscle, but luckily in the right spot. That is going to hurt. A kick in my back has me sprawling on the floor, eating dirt as another shoe hits me in my ribs. Fuck.
I roll over, getting back to my feet. When I stand up, the world starts to spin. Crap, too much beer. I storm forward, lashing out at the men. One of them grabs me as the other elbows me right in the face.
“Stop!” The bartender pulls at me, getting me from between the men. “Get out, all of you. No fighting here.”
I blink, my face warm and wet. When I touch my lips my fingers come back red. Double fuck. I carefully touch my nose, which makes blinding flashes of white light go through my head. Fuck, bloody nose—let’s hope it isn’t broken. I try to breathe through my nose and nearly puke. Luckily the booze kinda dulls the pain.
Someone pushes some tissues into my hands and then I’m pushed out of the bar, into the open air. “Go home. Sleep this off.”
I don’t say anything. I don’t really have anything to add anyway. I try to assess the damage, but everything hurts—breathing, moving, all of it. I lean against a lamp post. Tessa’s face flashes before my eyes, her victorious smile after a fight, the way that she could even make a black eye look like a win.
“H? Hunter?” It takes me a moment to realize that there is someone talking to me instead of the voice just being inside my head.
I open my eyes, but I close them quickly when the world is still spinning. It was long enough to see Tamara stand in front of me. Crap.
“Here, drink this.” Tamara puts a bottle in my hand.
I wince as I lift it, the muscles in my chest and arm sore, and then put it to my mouth. It’s just water. I take a couple of gulps, which makes the nausea go
away some. “Thanks.” I try to give her back the bottle.
“Drink all of it. You’re going to need it.” Tamara’s voice is short, curt. She’s definitely angry.
And I’m not surprised. “Thanks.”
“Oh, damn, H. Why do you keep doing this?” I feel her hand on my back. “Let’s walk a little, yeah?”
I stumble ahead, the world still largely a blur. “Why are you here?” It’s… suspicious. Why is she always the one who finds out when I get into trouble?
“I went to a party. I was on my way home. What are you doing here?”
“Drinking.” Go booze!
“I can see that. Did you have fun?” It doesn’t sound like she’s asking a question, but I do feel like I need to answer.
“It was fun until a guy tried to trip me.”
“And you fell on his fist?”
I did, sort of, at some point, I think. “Um…”
“Don’t answer.” Tamara’s disappointment hurts. Why is she always the one who finds me when I’m drunk? Why is this always happening? Why am I such a kid who can’t hold his liquor?
“I’m sorry.” I’m sorry for angering her, again. I stumble over a wobbly brick and Tamara catches me. I let out a hiss as she holds onto my ribs.
“Sit down.” She guides me to what I assume is a bench or something else to sit on. I trust her implicitly. I guess that is why her approval, or her disapproval, means so much to me.
I hear her fumble through her bag and then she stands in front of me. “Look up at me.”
I angle my face upward, swallowing down bile as I move. I try to open my eyes, but it feels safer to keep them closed.
Tamara takes the bottle from my hands and I hear it move around until she touches a wet piece of tissue to my face. I pull back my head, but stop at the sound of her voice. “Don’t move.” She touches my nose and I pull away fully. “That doesn’t look broken for now. Let me just clean you up, yeah?”
I nod, trying to sit as still as possible, not moving. Tamara cleans up my face. I can’t imagine how bad I look, I usually don’t dare to look in a mirror after a night like this.
