by Hazel Parker
It wasn't long before I'd found Willow Springs Lake. I pulled in and rode along the dirt road. I loved the sound of gravel beneath my wheels. There was something gritty about it. I took in the sights around me, noticing a small group of campers that sat off in the distance.
The night veiled my entrance. Only the light from my bike's headlight illuminated the area. I rode for at least ten minutes before I spotted familiar motorcycles. The Bandits were here, and I could feel every set of eyes on me as they turned and watched my arrival. I settled for parking near the edge of the water, slowly taking my key from the ignition and climbing off of the seat.
Though I returned a couple of greetings and a few nods, I still felt like an outsider. Being a prospect for a little over a year had earned me some merit, but so far, it hadn’t been enough to get me in. It wasn’t easy trying to live up to the club’s expectations, but I’d jump at any opportunity to prove myself worthy of the patch. I'd do whatever it took.
I stretched and looked out over the lake. In the twilight of the night, the surface was as smooth as black glass. I grabbed a stone and skipped it across the still water, watching the ripples radiate when caught in the moonlight. Three stones skipped then sunk and, once again, the lake was still.
It was almost peaceful. Almost. There was nothing peaceful about the rowdy men behind me, laughing and drinking around the bonfire.
I stood in place, my hands in my pockets as I looked around at familiar faces. My mouth turned into a grin. I wasn’t one of them yet but I already loved these guys. They were almost my family.
It wasn't long before I'd spotted Warren, Vice President of The Bandits. He stood with folded arms before lifting a hand and waving me over.
“Prospect!” Warren raised a beer to me when he saw me come around the corner.
“You get lost?” Gus, the President, asked as I handed him the cooler of beer he sent me to retrieve.
“Nope. Took the scenic route.”
Warren had the build of a football player. It took more than muscle to stand as second-in-command; it entailed the ability to lead if necessary. Warren had both qualities.
I was taller than quite a few of The Bandits, but I approached him with the same respect I'd approach anyone with. I greeted Warren with a firm handshake, leaning in and placing the palm of my hand on his back as he hugged me.
"Have any trouble getting here?" he asked.
I shrugged, thinking nothing of the gas station incident. "None at all. What's the word? Bandits finally opening their doors for a new member?"
Warren chuckled.
I was anxious, and he knew it.
The other Bandit members talked casually among themselves. I knew they were watching though.
Warren weighed his words, his face telling me that there were things I'd want to hear and things I wouldn't.
"You've almost made it, Solomon," he began, making my eyebrows furrow. "We like what we see. You can hold your own, kid. But the big leagues aren't built on errands and small favors."
Prospects didn't get to argue. They didn't get to have a say. If I wanted the stripes, I’d have to put in the work. I kept a straight face as I nodded, my hands moving from my jeans to the pockets in my jacket.
"We've got a job for you. If you can do this, you'll have proven yourself Bandit material," Warren continued.
He looked over at Gus who remained quiet a few feet away.
The thick of Gus’ beard, white and unkempt, accentuated the biker look he wore so proudly. If you were the type to scare easily, he could smell and play off of it. I knew enough about him to know that his silence didn’t mean he wasn’t paying attention. He'd been listening. And now he stepped closer, taking a long gulp of his beer before looking at Warren.
They exchanged understanding without saying a word then Gus looked at me, his eyes serious and his demeanor unfazed by what he said next.
"Burn down Blue Nights."
Chapter 2
Jenny
Art usually was my salvation. Usually.
For some reason, it wasn’t today.
I stared at my sketchpad, my pencil hovering over the blank sheet. I racked my brain for an idea, any idea, but it seemed my muse had chosen to remain absent. Expelling a small, discouraged breath, I settled for sketching yet another set of construction lines to draw yet another human form. I just couldn’t find excitement in the broad line strokes.
Most college kids hated school, but not me. I didn’t see it as a waste of time. I loved going to class, especially art class. Picking Art as a major hadn’t been a difficult decision. It wasn’t just a hobby anymore. It was a way of life for me. I lived for whatever new thing I could create on my canvas. I liked learning from the university’s best artistic minds.
Well, usually, but not today. Today we were supposed to turn in our sketches for our final project, but I still had no idea what I was going to draw. I’d thought about it the entire hour drive from Willow Springs to Flagstaff. I’d hoped maybe something would come to me. Unfortunately, I came up with nothing. Nada. Zilch.
Looking at the slipshod lines on the white pad in front of me, it dawned on me that I was going to fail this class assignment.
Turn in line sketches—that was literally all we had to do. Just show the basic foundation that would turn into our actual project. It wasn’t even about what we turned in because you couldn’t judge art. It was about direction and clear thought, and I couldn’t even do that.
Our final project was to draw something that excites us in our weakest art style. I’d immediately thought I’d draw a man. Most of my classmates were going for things like food, sex, or portrayals of extreme sports, but me, I was honing my skill of recreating the male anatomy. Drawing people was one of the hardest jobs an artist could tackle and it was my weakest skill. It was the one thing I hated.
My go-to was oil surrealism. It was easily constructed and, without the rules of reality and proper lines, my paintings could be whatever I wanted them to be—they could reflect me, my feelings or something else entirely. I could paint a sky that looked like a cup spilling over. The sky didn’t have to include clouds. It didn’t even have to be blue. It could be whatever I needed it to be. And in turn the person looking at it could interpret it in a completely different way. I loved that about surrealism.
My pencil slid across the page in fast strokes without much thought as I tried to conjure the idea of a man in my head.
How sad was I? We were supposed to draw what excited us and my first thought had been a man. Well, maybe not sad, but probably damaged. It wasn’t surprising though given my daddy issues. Absent father and all that.
I’d always wanted a man who would be there for me. Someone who wouldn’t run at the first sign of trouble—not because they were addicted to danger, but because they cared about me. I guess if I couldn’t have it in real life, I’d imagine it.
I looked out the window, desperately searching for inspiration. From here, all I could see was the new steel and glass of the dining hall. With nothing but school buildings to stare at, I looked back at my pad.
The man was faceless and, if I was being completely honest, uninspired. I’d had such a great idea; I was going to draw a man that was so bold, so bright and brilliant, it excited anyone looking at it. But how was I supposed to draw something engaging, gorgeous, and dynamic if I’d never seen it before? It was frustrating. My imagination wasn’t that good. Humans were drawn lifelike with hard lines, not abstract ideas like the paintings I liked to make.
“That’s all for today, class,” Mrs. Bryan cut through my thoughts. “Turn in your sketches and I’ll see you next Tuesday.”
I packed slowly, dreading turning in my work.
Mrs. Bryan wasn’t a mean teacher, just tough. She demanded we push ourselves artistically and expected nothing less than our best. She was, no doubt, going to give me a mouthful when she saw my sketch.
Sarah and Jo, my roommates and friends, walked behind me as moral support. They’d hear
d enough from me on the car ride up here about how unbelievably uninspired I was.
I placed my sketch on the desk face-down and tried to make a fast escape.
“Jenny.”
She caught me just as I reached the door and, by the way I suddenly stopped, she knew I heard her.
Shoulders slumped, I turned back and pleaded with my eyes for someone to get me out of there.
Mrs. Bryan held her hand out for Sarah and Jo’s sketches. They handed them to her and gave me apologetic looks as they passed me on their way to the door. I could see through the glass that they were waiting out there for me.
Wanting no other witnesses to my teacher’s disapproval of me, I waited for the rest of my classmates to exit the room before walking up to her desk. “Yes?”
“What is this?” she asked. She held the sketch away from her face, scrutinizing the details.
Mrs. Bryan had the look of one who was perpetually in a state of youth. Her face held no lines, though her eyes had the sharp look of someone who had lived. Her hair was wild and frizzy, barely held away from her face with a handmade headband. Her clothes spoke of her profession. There was no mistaking that she was an artist. Though her cardigan was professional, it was highlighter-green and, against her pale skin, it brought out the green of her eyes and the black ink on her neck. During class, I’d noted that her jeans had hand-drawn images on the front and her leather sandals were open-toe and handmade, with dried paint flecks on them.
I wished I were like her, so confident and assured of who she was.
“My final project sketch,” I answered, knowing full well it didn’t pass muster.
“Yes. I am aware. What is it supposed to be? A man?”
“Yes.”
She clicked her tongue. “That’s a little safe, don’t you agree?”
“Well… yes. In theory, but not in application.”
I could tell from her eyes she meant for me to continue.
Gesturing towards my work, I explained, “I plan to sketch him anatomically correct, but then use bright colors to highlight the intensity and show my excitement.”
“Is that so?” she asked rhetorically. “And how do you plan to do that?”
“Well. I’m not entirely sure yet.” I averted my gaze. Though she listened with her face void of emotions, I didn’t want to risk seeing her disappointment. “It’s not all that clear in my head, but it’s coming to me. I just… well, I’m still searching.”
“Jenny, I know art takes time. I, of all people, understand that, but it also takes love. Any kind of love. Love for yourself, the earth, your work, whatever, but you must love. And love comes from living. How can you draw broad strokes of color if you’ve never added any color to your own life?” she asked, critically eyeing my black sweater, black jeans, and black flats.
I drew in color. Shouldn’t that be enough?
“You are an artist and I am asking you to create art. A piece of art is anything that is a source of inspiration to others, something that can be heard in the depths of their bodies, right in the core of their person, where it resonates its deepest meaning. What that meaning is is up to you and you must choose because you are the artist.”
I understood. But understanding and doing were two very different things.
She took a deep breath and turned my sketch sideways, looking from another view before she spoke again. Now that she had the chance to talk to me one-on-one, she was on a roll. “You’ve been playing it safe all semester, Jenny. I’ve told you before and I am telling you again, you must challenge yourself. People think art is easy, and that is a lie. I know you like your surrealism, but an artist needs to know what it’s like to live a little on the edge. You must know what it’s like to do something completely outside of your comfort zone, knowing that it might be a failure but going all in without hesitation anyway. This is your last chance to show me that or you will not pass this final.”
She set my sketch on top of the desk.
The final counted as twenty percent of our entire grade. If she gave me an F on the final project, I would fail the class. Mrs. Bryan made it clear that C’s were average, and that she felt I had been submitting nothing but average work all semester. In her assessment, I wasn’t pushing my boundaries enough.
I nodded and practically ran out of the room. There was nothing more for me to say. I knew she was right. One hundred percent right. I had been playing it safe. It was easy to do that when you’d been painting a certain way all of your life and people liked it. But I was better than safe and I owed it to myself and my college education to do better.
I joined my friends and, together, the three of us walked out the building and through the quad.
The grass was still crunchy from the frost and I pulled my jacket closer around me for warmth. It was late spring, but the chill hung in the air, fighting the return of summer warmth.
“So what did she say?” Sarah asked as we trudged across campus to our car.
“She said what you’d think she said.”
It was a bit rude, but I didn’t want to relive the conversation. Sarah was the kind of girl that liked hearing other people’s bad news. I didn’t think she meant anything by it, but it was true. She got off on it like other people’s bad news could prevent her from facing her shit.
“Well, I think she said your sketches were boring.”
“Okay then. You’d be right. See? You got something from your college education after all. So now we can drop the conversation,” I said with more sass than usual.
It wasn’t that I was mad; I was used to Sarah, but I didn’t like hearing my work being called “boring.” I’d prefer almost any other word—confusing, vague, hell, I’d even prefer ugly over boring. At least “ugly” made you feel something. That was what art was supposed to do. It was supposed to make people have a visceral reaction—even if it was a negative one. But boring? Well, boring was just that. It made people feel nothing. It could knock people to sleep. In no way did I want my work to be linked to that word. Just thinking about it made me feel depressed. I needed a cup of hot chocolate when we got home.
Jo, ever the empath, noticed my mood and threw her arm around my waist.
“Don’t worry about her, Jen. We’ll help you,” she said, pulling away to get into the car. “Seriously, as soon as we get home, we can study some art history. I have a few movies on art styles and we can look some more up on YouTube.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” I said, climbing into the front seat.
Sarah scoffed as she started the engine. “Boring!”
“Hey!” Jo said. “That’s not nice.”
“Newsflash, Jo. When have I ever been nice?”
She had a point. Sarah wasn’t known for her pleasantries. She was known for her blonde hair, carefree attitude, and pretty face. As a result, she often antagonized Jo, our soft-spoken introvert, who was known for her square, black glasses and hair that was almost always on her face. The only time Jo put it up was in art class.
“That is a boring idea, Jo. Say what you want, but sitting at home watching movies on painting is boring. The only person that’s an exception, and I do mean the only exception, is Bob Ross. But I know you won’t be watching him so your plan is boring, which, if you haven’t heard, is the one word our little Jenny has no problem achieving on her own. She needs some excitement. That’s what the project is about. What Jen needs is some inspiration.”
“And she’ll find it how?”
“By coming out with me tonight.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Jo said, from the backseat. “I think watching some movies will give us all the inspiration we need.”
I liked how Jo made it sound like it was our work that needed inspiration. She was the best friend a girl could ever have.
I didn’t often hang out with Sarah. She made it no secret that she didn’t particularly care for college and was only there for the guys. Her parents made her come, so she came. Plus, she had an attitude th
e size of her forehead, though I would never tell her that to her face. So I was a bit hesitant.
Sarah and I weren’t that tight. Sure, we’d gone to the same high school, and I’d offered to be her roommate when we’d discovered that we were going to the same school, but our friendship didn’t compare to my closeness with Jo.
Having said that, I had to admit that Jo could be a bit uptight. My girl was an extreme introvert. Her idea of a good time was sitting still for long enough to start and finish a book. No shade to my girl. I loved her, but the truth was, sometimes she held me back a little.
I could tell Sarah and Jo noticed my hesitation. For once, they were quiet and waiting.
“What did you have in mind?” I asked Sarah.
It wasn’t a hard yes, but it was a clear indication I was interested.
“We’re going to a club.”
Of course she took my hesitation as a firm yes.
“It’s called Blue Nights,” she said, smiling like the Cheshire cat. “And trust me when I say you can find all the inspiration you need there.”
Chapter 3
Solomon
Arson. Okay. It wasn’t as bad as, say, taking out somebody. I’d done a few unsavory things for the club and I would do a hundred more if it meant wearing that patch on my back.
I needed this. They didn’t need to know how bad I wanted it. I was a master at hiding my emotions—a skill I learned out of necessity in foster care.
“I’ll do it,” I said, nodding.
I was a man of few words. They knew that and respected that. Although they tried to be hard with me and keep me on my toes, Evan told me how they liked my commitment to speaking with my actions more than my words. Every task I was given got done—no matter what.
“It needs to be tonight,” Warren said, patting my shoulder heavily.
