I opened the door and walked inside, turning on the work lights in the garage. They were strung along the ceiling on hooks, plugged into each other in one long chain. Walking upstairs, I grabbed a beer, then started back down because I was way too worked up to sleep.
Instead I walked over to the oak veneered plywood I’d been prepping, testing the surface to see how the matte medium was coming along. Dry. I’d been working on it for close to a week. Now it was finally ready, which meant I could start my first real painting since I’d gotten out. Between work—both legitimate in the body shop and side stuff for the club—and finding somewhere to live, I’d been too busy.
Tonight it was exactly what I needed.
I took off my club colors, grabbing my rolling mechanic’s stool and tugging it toward the workbench. My paints were waiting, along with the brushes I’d bought to replace the ones I’d lost when they locked me up. A couple of the old ladies had gone to my old apartment and boxed shit up after the arrest, but they hadn’t known how to pack the brushes. These ones weren’t nearly as good, but they were the best I could swing for now and I didn’t want to wait any longer.
An hour later I took a break, finishing off my beer as I studied the outline of the Reapers symbol I’d started. They’d asked me to do a sort of mural for the chapel. Originally I’d planned to paint it on the wall, but Pic suggested I do it on a board so they could move it around. It was a solid idea—a board like this could last for decades.
Damn, but it felt good to be painting again.
So maybe I didn’t get to have Mel—at least I still had this. I was good at it, too. I’d done some custom design work for guys even inside. Now that I was out again, I’d already talked to a couple of them about hand-painting their bikes. One was a weekend warrior who had too much money and didn’t mind me holding on to his bike for a couple weeks while I did the art.
Guess some of us live to ride more than others.
Not that I cared either way, so long as they brought cash.
Cranking up the music, I leaned toward the board again. Looked good. Real good. Maybe I’d take my brother Bolt’s suggestion and set up a website for my work. See if I could drum up some more business. It occurred to me that a guy with his own business—a commercial artist—might be the kind of guy a girl like Mel could settle down with. Christ, but I needed to stop thinking about her.
Wasn’t gonna happen.
Time to get over it.
? ? ?
Justin Bieber was singing in my bedroom.
The fuck?
Blinking, I stared at the ceiling, trying to wake up. Maybe figure out who I needed to kill to make the unholy wailing end. After an eternity, the noise died and I rolled over, pulling the pillow over my head, trying to figure out what crime I’d committed to deserve that nightmare.
That’s when it started again.
Fucking hell, it was my phone. I reached for it, a random picture of Puck’s middle finger flashing across the screen . . . And yeah, I recognized the finger because I’d seen it pointed at me at least ten times a day for more than a year. Sort of his morning salute back in prison . . . I frowned, answering.
“Like your new ringtone?” my best friend asked.
“Eat shit and die, fuckwad,” I managed to growl, but the insult wasn’t my best work—brain was still foggy.
“Someone didn’t get laid last night,” he replied, and I could practically smell him gloating. Dick. “Saw you took off with Mel and didn’t come back. Disappointed in you, bro.”
I hung the phone up, dropping it next to me on the bed. Damn, I felt like hell. Staying up all night painting can be worse than drinking, at least in terms of hangover. I’d finally passed out around six that morning—according to the clock it was only nine now. Used to be I’d pop something to wake me up, but I’d stayed clean through prison and I planned to keep it that way, so no joy for me.
Justin started howling again. I grabbed the phone, resigned.