Thrash (4 page)

Well, I understood that.  

Trying to ignore how close he was – and how warm my thighs and palms had gotten – I started pacing in front of the mural, trying to get a feel of the space.  

I’d need to use all of it, nothing too busy, but not too sparse either.  Also, the wall was enormous – much bigger than my usual canvases.  

The truth was, I had never done a mural like this before.  I was pretty sure I could accomplish what they needed me to do, but I was going to have to plan carefully.  Make sure I had everything together.  

Check thrice, paint once
.  Life was easier when I heeded that rule.

Which reminded me… If they didn’t know what they wanted on the wall yet, that gave me time to do a little research, just to make sure I had the right materials.  And I needed to talk to Layla, make sure the club didn’t spend a bunch of money on supplies.  

I wasn’t sure what the usual practice was, but I preferred to bring my own brushes and basics.  I was fairly certain the client provided the paint, though.  Unless that was why they were paying me a few grand for this job?

I pressed my fingers around the bridge of my nose and then hurried to quit the gesture.  It was an old habit, one born of irritation and arrogance.  

I glanced over at Thrash, but either he hadn’t noticed my agitation or he was purposely ignoring it.

I focused on the wall again.  “I’ll need a list of all your men, and it would help if you’d include a few details about each of them.  What you all contribute to this place.  What you value about one another.”

“Why don’t you get to know them yourself?”  he asked.  

Now that he was out of the room, away from the other guys I could see the hard facade he held up start to break away.  “You could get a sense of who they are yourself.”

“I –” I shut my mouth and eyed him.  “Why would they talk to me?”

“You don’t know?”  He laughed, his posture loosening.  “Big wall.  Our club names.  You’re painting our life up here.  Everyone’s going to find an excuse to come in here.”

For that moment, it was a little bit like I was back at the gallery with that man I had liked so much.  

But the leather, the smells, everything was different.  He was different.

I had enough different to deal with these days.  Still…

As ridiculous as it was, it occurred to me then that if my parents knew where I was they would flip shit.

And, grown woman that I was, the idea of pissing them off still appealed to me
intensely
.

“What do you have in mind?”  I asked, eying Thrash.  

He didn’t have to reciprocate all my hot and botheredness.  The man was playing some sort of game.  I wasn’t sure what to call it, but I’d caught on and I was suddenly in the mood for a little childish fun.

Was he up for that?

His grin said ‘perhaps.’

He turned a chair and took a seat beside the carved table, nodding to the mural.  “Hang around the bar, get to know the guys.  Get to know me.”  His voice dipped a little deeper, becoming smooth as cream in coffee.  

Ohhh, dear god
… If the man had a sister, I knew she would to drown me for my thoughts.

I forced my smile wider.  “I think that’s an excellent idea.  But first, I have to get rid of this.”  I cracked open the primer and poured it into the tray, dipping a roller in.  

The old mural was ugly and trite, and it needed to go.  A blank slate.  That’s what I needed.

I noticed the tight grin that crossed his face then, the satisfaction that filled his limbs.  I didn’t understand the cause, but I went out on a limb and asked, “Want to help?”  I nodded to my supplies.

I grinned like the wicked little girl I had once been as he pulled out a roller and popped it on the frame.  

He rolled the primer over the old mural with as much vehemence as I did, and I decided that as crazy as this was, it felt like a good thing.  At the very least, it looked like it was going to be very, very fun.  

* * *

By the time
we were done, the wall was a shock of white.  

The vast sprawl of nothing was a little daunting, actually, drowning my eyes.  It had taken three coats of primer and eight hours to lay it, mostly because I had to keep going back and smoothing out the drips.  

After a while, Thrash had been called away, but I had kept at it.  The rolling had been calming.  I’d plugged in my headphones and lost track of time, sketching in a fresh sliver of a sketchpad while each coat on the wall dried.

I’d always been like this, losing myself in loose ideas and the balance of shapes and lines.  .  It took me to a different plane of thinking.  

In the chronically-controlled chaos of my former life, sketching had been the one way I felt relief, at peace with something that only made sense to me.  Painting had been my way of taking the reins, not only mapping it out but recreating the world into some sort of sense.

By the end of it all, I was buzzing with possibilities for the mural.  These men worked and lived together, each for his own reasons, but together they had a sense of brotherhood.  

I’d had time to see them interacting, peeking out for some air and watching them drink and talk, come and go.  

It was obvious to anyone who was in a room with them for more than thirty minutes that they cared about one another.  They were men, so they showed it in their own weird way, but it was there.  They slapped one another on the shoulder, grinning from time to time with the ease of familiarity.  They sat close to each other without that old male preoccupation of who-was-in-whose-space.  These men were best friends.  Brothers.  

I didn’t know them, I didn’t know anything about them, not even their names, but I knew within the first hour of being there that they were a family.  It was the sort of thing that went beyond blood, and it was rare.

I felt honored to have had the opportunity to see it.  Now, if I could just figure out how to render it.

After hours of watching men going in and out of the clubhouse bar, I was convinced: these men were more than just tacky skulls on a wall.  These men mattered.

I packed up my things and quietly showed myself out of the conference room.  The primer needed at least twenty-four hours to dry, and it was past eleven at night.  I would check for thin patches tomorrow.

Unfortunately for me, losing track of time had consequences.  The buses were done for the night and there was no way I could afford a cab.  That meant walking, and even I knew that that would be a very dangerous thing for me to do in Braddock.  

I stood on the lit doorstep of the club, eyeing the dark night.  The garage was closed down for the night, small lights staggered along the side of the building keeping the closed doors just barely visible.  I had hoped the garage would still be open.  That Layla would have an answer.  But I wasn’t sure where she went after hours, and, silly as it was, now that I was outside the clubhouse, I was a little nervous to walk back in.

It was easier to dare a few steps into the parking lot.

The door squeaked behind me, suddenly loud in the night air.  A voice called out from behind me.  “Hey!”  It was Thrash.

“Hi.”

“You waiting for a cab?”  he asked.

I was tempted to lie, but there was no point to it.  “Walking home.”  

He snorted softly.  “Like shit you are.  You know what could happen to you here?  Come with me, I’ll take you home.”  

I was tired enough that I just nodded.

It was kind of ironic, actually.  I’d wanted to go home with him since I first met him.  We had fun painting together, proving that maybe he was an all-right guy under all that gorgeous.  I just wondered if he’d let his guard down, or if he’d blow me off again.  

The truth was that, even hours later, part of me was still smarting from the letdown of shattered presumptions.  The result was a wry sense of ‘what if.’

So he wasn’t as interested in me as I had been in him.  If he wanted to spend a little more time with me, why not?  I was willing to take a few chances – within reason.  

You could end up dead in the river
, that paranoid little voice that had become so familiar to me of late warned.

I looked him over.  I looked out at the dark night.  

I had been careful for years.  I had been careful today.  And I would be careful tonight, too.  But I wanted to go home.

And I really wanted to get in this man’s car.  

“I’m not getting on that.”

I held up my hands and looked at him, then back at his bike. Beautiful as it was, that thing was a deathtrap.

It reminded me of a big cat – it was sleek, almost elegant in spite of its size. I would give it an A for aesthetics. But all it would take was one inattentive driver and we would be road-paste. I wasn’t sure I was ready for that level of risk.

I looked over the man who rode it, noticed his comfort upon it. The subtle, unconscious tension of his body told me worlds about him.

For Thrash, the danger was normal. Maybe that was what caused him to enjoy it.

Either way, he looked terribly pleased with my wide eyes.

“Oh come on, it’s not that dangerous.” It wasn’t his grin that stole my breath, so much as the way it lit up his eyes – all mischief and confidence. This wasn’t some brash boy or desperate old man on a thrummer. Thrash knew what he was riding. That bike wasn’t a statement of masculinity or wealth or toughness. It was part of his life. Period.

“Look at this.” He ran a gentle hand over the metal body work. “Good center of gravity. Well built. And I know how to keep her flying smooth. You’ll even have a helmet.” He leaned back towards me to hold out his helmet, the movement emphasizing the strength in his torso.

I cleared my throat and snatched the helmet from him. My hands needed something to do.

I was an artist, damn it. I didn’t just notice the strength of muscles or the light mocha of his skin. My sudden desire to study every striation of his body was more than just a physical ache. It was a deep psychological
need
to understand how he was put together. A craving.

I eyed his center of gravity and the way his musculature rippled. I could almost taste the rich hue of those eyes as they danced with secrets I didn’t know and promises he might just share with me.

I was so caught up in this curiosity that my fear shrank. When he beckoned to me to hop on, I wanted to take the plunge. It seemed so poetic. Just walk over to the bike and throw my leg over the saddlebag. Claim it without a word.

Something stopped me, though. That nattering habit of caution, probably. I took a moment to think it through. “Do you have a car?” I asked quietly.

I wasn’t surprised when he shook his head. A little disappointed, perhaps, but not surprised.

“I don’t. Nothing but the bike, right now.” He looked me over, assessing me the same way I had studied him. When he spoke again, his voice was analytical. “The way I see it, you have three options. You can walk - and you’ll get mugged. Or worse. That’s just how this neighborhood is.

“A cab is more dangerous than my bike. You’ve heard the stories, right?”

I nodded.

“Or you can let me drive you home on this.”

He didn’t push. He just leaned on the bars and watched me as I circled his metal beast carefully.

It really was a beautiful vehicle: great lines, the weight perfect for what it was. Part of me wanted to paint it, tattoo it to emphasize its perfection, the way an inker might a person.

I looked up at Thrash. He was just waiting there like a big cat on his branch, those caramel eyes dancing. He did seem so sure of himself…

What was it that was nagging at me?

Sensing my wavering resolve, he pushed me, his voice light and pointed. “You going to stare all night, or let me take you home?”

I froze and gripped my bags. He was right, though. It was time to make a decision.

Carefully, I climbed onto his bike, squirming inside. I fumbled around, trying to find something to hold on to.

Thrash just grabbed my hands and wrapped them under his arms, around his torso.

Heat rose into my cheeks as I felt that unique firmness of thick muscle and the lightest, divine layer of flesh. Some people liked a lean, ripped body. And that was good. Some men and women were built that way. They were beautiful, and I knew how to sketch them. But when I really sat down and thought about what
I
liked… When I paid attention to what
I
wanted to feel and taste and become a part of, what I found was this: I wanted that complex interplay of flesh and bone and muscle.

Every person had a type or two that drove them wild, and mine was looking at me from his perch upon that bike.

I wanted it all, those eyes, that body, its subtle changes and every movement...

I’d been aware of this man for days, but it really hit me then how much I wanted to not only paint him... I wanted to do a lot of things with him.

Instead, I stayed still, perched behind him as he revved the engine to life. And then we began to move, and the sheer excitement of the unknown distracted me from anything but the sights around me.

“You need to wrap your arms around me. Keep them tight.”

I nodded. Before I could lose my nerve, he revved up that bike and took off down the street, going slowly at first. The rumble of his motorcycle echoed against the buildings.

The way the wind wrapped around my body was alien enough to make me cling for safety, but holding onto him, that pushed it over the top. Adrenaline pumped through my veins as he increased his speed, turning down Fourth Street. I nearly screamed as we tilted and sped down the steep hill. We were so exposed! The drop nearly tore me from the bike.

As I started to lose my grip on him, he grabbed my hand with one of his and pulled it tighter against his chest.

Maybe it was the adrenaline – or maybe it was the threat of road burn and broken bones. Whatever the case, I forgot about my pride then. I gripped him and leaned into his back. I let him be in control.

And that was when it hit me. What I was the most afraid of was someone else in control.

I took a few steadying breaths. They didn’t do much, but it gave me the room to remember that everything would be fine. Braddock wasn’t that big. I would be home soon, my feet back on the ground, my body under my own control.

As for my pride? Well, I had climbed on the bike. I could lean on a man long enough to get home on it in one piece.

When I realized where we were, I gasped with relief. Two lefts and I would be exactly where I needed to be.

So when he took a right, I baulked. “Where are we going?” I screamed into the wind, dragging at his cut.

“Scenic route!”

He took a left down a side road on the flats of Braddock. We entered the neighborhood next to the Mon. It was dotted with small shops, empty factories, and houses.

It was a run-down area, but it really was beautiful, too: desolate and broken, houses falling in on themselves, shingles falling from houses, windows shattered. It was a glimpse into a world destroyed by outsourcing and the march of time. So much sadness. So much memory...

For the first time, I began to appreciate the ride. Being on the motorcycle made the sight feel so immediate and yet so fleeting. I could feel the cool wind of the ocean. I didn’t just see the desolation. I felt it. Experienced it.

I kept holding tight, but I was no longer afraid.

This was what I lived for. Experiences. Feeling. I had needed to be so careful lately…

Thrash made a left and then a right, and I saw the co-op. It was a large studio, an entire floor devoted to housing. It was my home now. It was also where I lost all of my individuality.

It was a peculiar sensation, blending in, becoming part of the hoard. I felt safe. But I also didn’t feel as alive. The co-op had become my freedom and my prison.

To my parents, I had been the flesh and blood equivalent of furniture, a piece of the Bonnet empire to be kept and cultivated into a desirable outcome.

At the co-op, I was myself, but I was also just one of the many. Never an individual. It was a place to sleep, not a place to
live
. Not a place to create.

And maybe that was the point. After all, group residence could only provide so much. Artists had to learn to make it on their own or find a way to thrive in spite of the circumstances. That was just part of our lives. But I was living so tightly… I couldn’t breathe.

I knew now more than ever that I, personally, needed my own space.

That’s why I was taking whatever work came my way. I did what I had to do to put a roof over my own head. No matter what anyone else thought of my goal.

It wasn’t greedy to want a space of my own. It was what I needed to be my best, and I wasn’t asking anyone to hand it to me. I would earn it. That way, no one could expect favors from me in return.

The old adage really was true. No matter what strata you were born into, nothing was really free… “Luck” did not come without cost… And no one gave anything worth having without expecting something in return.

What would this ride cost me? I wasn’t sure. A date? A kiss? As much as he got to me, I hoped he wouldn’t asked me to put out when we got to the co-op. Somehow, I didn’t think he would.

We drove through the city and out, my heart singing to the fluttering pulse of the passing streetlights. The sensation as we passed cars, their drivers safely tucked inside glass and steel, was both surreal and exhilarating. My fingers ached where they gripped Thrash’s chest, but the warmth through my palms made me smile into the back of his shoulder.

When Thrash pulled into the driveway, I climbed off the bike, a bit unsteady but strangely pleased.

“What did you think?” he asked as I handed him the helmet.

I let out my breath, a smile skittering across my lips. “I like the scenic route.” I paced, trying to contain the excitement in my legs. What was this feeling?

“You’re right,” I said. “That was great. I want to ride again.”

I loved the way being on the bike made me feel. And I wanted to feel like that again.

He didn’t laugh at me. He just nodded, satisfied, and popped the helmet on the saddle. “Good, because I want to take you that way again. Maybe tomorrow?”

I hesitated, genuinely unsure if I was actually free tomorrow. My brain was moving slow when it came to those details.

When he held out his hand for mine, I took it and let him pull me towards him.

He was persistent, his hands firm but gentle. “We have a charity cook out, tomorrow night.” He rested his palm against the small of my back, drifting no lower, but no higher either. He kept his voice persuasive, but I could see it in his eyes. He wanted me to come. “All the guys will be there. Perfect excuse to get to know them. I’ll introduce you.”

Well, that was what I asked for, what I wanted. Perfect excuse, right?

Thrash wasn’t done yet. He got cheeky. “All you have to do is agree to go as my date.”

I snorted softly, pleased, a grin quirking my lips. But I didn’t say yes. Not right away. I was far too amused with my own private joke.

My silence got a rise out of him. “I need a plus one, and you want to see what life is really like in the club, yeah?”

I really was having a hard time keeping a straight face.

“What?” he laughed.

“You guys do that? You go to charity events?” I had been to a few ‘charity events’ in my youth, mostly as a poster child for my family’s wealth. If the MC had been at one of those gatherings, it might have been a lot more fun.

Thrash mistook my amusement for a sneer. It was amazing how quickly he became serious. “We don’t just go to them, we host them.” When he looked at me then, I felt slightly uncomfortable. “We aren’t the soulless assholes that everyone in this town thinks we are. If you knew –” He shook his head. “Come or don’t. I won’t ask again.”

I nodded. Odd as the date was, I wanted to go, wanted to see him again. “Okay. Okay, I’ll go. Um, what should I wear?”

“Wear something summery. It is a barbecue after all.”

“A… oh!” If my grin looked a bit ridiculous, I didn’t care. A barbecue. I had been to a barbecue or two for the Initiative. That… that actually did sound fun.

Thrash smiled at me and then slid his helmet over his face. He was gone in a matter of seconds, leaving me standing in the parking lot of the co-op alone. For a moment, I wondered if he was regretting asking me to come with him. Then I decided it didn’t matter. Either way, I would get a chance to meet my clients.

And ride that bike again.

That’s when it hit me: the truth that had been dancing around me all night like a wicked will-o-th-wisp.

I didn’t just want to ride that bike. I wanted to drive it.