Wild card, p.19
Wild Card, page 19
part #2 of Long Shot Series
“No cab? You’re going to hire a car?”
He chuckled. “You’re going to hire a car. I’m just ordering it for you.”
“Goodnight, my trusty gay ninja/assistant.”
“Goodnight, my crazy-ass boss lady.”
And he hung up on me.
I cuddled up against my pillows, my covers and Doris Day pulled close, the icepack tucked between my pillow and my lopsided goose-egg. I clicked play and fell asleep watching the Gallagher clan hustle and flow through their daily strife.
Chapter 6
I had one hell of a headache when I awoke. The fact that the morning sun was shining through my bedroom window with a brightness that would rival the most potent of spotlights didn’t help.
When I held my hand up to shield my eyes I found my arm hurt too.
Jackson’s wife had left her mark on me.
I so didn’t want to go into the bathroom and see how bad I looked.
Doris scratched at my side and reprised her little I’ve gotta pee dance.
Sore and aching, I dragged myself to a sitting position on the side of my bed and put Doris down so she could go use the puppy pads.
I stood up, my head pounding, and shuffled off to the bathroom to do my own business.
I avoided looking in the mirror as I went straight for the toilet. But after that was done I took a deep breath, stood up straight and moved to in front of the mirror.
Jesus...
I leaned in and checked out the bruise on my cheek, the scrape on my chin, the other bruises on my neck, the scratches and bruises on my arms, and finally the raised black, purple, and blue knot on my forehead.
Thank god I’d put ice on it last night. I couldn’t imagine what it would have looked like if I hadn’t.
I gingerly took my nightshirt off and studied the bruises on my stomach from where the bitch had kicked me, and the three huge bruises connected by scratches that covered my back.
My favorite was the one blooming on my butt.
If I ever wondered what I’d look like with a tattoo on my ass—at least, a big black and purple amoeba shaped tattoo—I now knew it would look ghastly.
I wandered into the shower and took the hottest shower I could stand. I stood under that hot spray for what seemed like forever. When I finally limped out of the shower, boneless and in much less pain, I dried off, headed into my bedroom and picked out an outfit that would cover my arms and neck. Thankfully Donna Karan made lovely turtle necks, and not just in black.
I was remembering a Larry King interview where she’d said she never wore anyone else’s clothing. After all, she designed things for herself to wear, not just stick thin supermodels.
The turtle neck was a thin off white that made me look and feel thinner than I was. I wore that with a pair of silky chocolate yoga pants that stopped at my ankles, accessorized those with a pair of white Melville ankle strap sandals—at least my feet were bruise free—and then sat down at my makeup vanity to assess the damage.
Taking a hot shower might have eased my pain, but had left the skin that wasn’t bruised looking red and blotchy.
I reached into my pill drawer—I kept an all-purpose supply of medications (antibiotics, muscle relaxers, Imodium, Pepto-Bismol, Xanax, Vicodin) and pulled out a bottle of Tylenol. I swallowed two of them dry and then went to work pulling back my hair. I thought about trying to cover my worst bruises, which were on the left side of my face, with my hair. But that damnable goose-egg was just a little too far center for any stylish hairdo to work.
Oh well. I fluffed my hair in the front and pulled the rest into a twist in the back. Twenty minutes later I was ready to go, purse in hand, and hardly a limp left in my gait.
The town car Lance ordered for me was driven by a handsome older man, probably about fifty-five years old. He had a bright smile and was very polite—didn’t even wince when he saw my face.
I relaxed into the cushy leather seat of the car and rested my eyes as the car headed to take me to Angel Lassiter’s apartment.
Chapter 7
“We’re almost there,” the driver said.
I opened my eyes and cracked my neck.
Still sore.
I saw Angel waiting on the sidewalk as we drove up.
He was dressed in torn jeans and a battered, once white, tank top undershirt.
His clothes were splattered and stained with multiple colors of paint.
Now that was how he probably usually dressed. Not the trendy/sexy outfit Jill had made him wear. I looked down and saw his trademark worn boots.
I smiled and my face hurt.
He opened my door and offered me his hand.
I took it and he helped me out of the town car.
“Good to see you…” His eyebrows rose up his forehead. “For the record, you got mugged before you got to my neighborhood, right?”
“Yes, I was mugged in a much nicer neighborhood.”
His street, though rundown and covered in graffiti, was bustling with life. Young mothers with strollers and toddlers in tow, men unloading a truck of flour into a bakery with iron bars on the windows, old women clustered on the cement stairs leading up to their apartment building.
“Wanna see my loft?”
I looked up at the building in front of us.
“That depends… what floor do you live on?”
I counted ten stories.
He joined me in gazing up at the building.
“I’m on the fourth floor. So, less than half way up.”
“Any chance there’s an elevator?”
He nodded gravely. “Sure, but it hasn’t worked since 1991.”
Nice.
We made our way into the building and up the stairs, all four flights. I was sweating like a pig by the time we made it. A turtle neck, no matter how thin, was hardly the best choice for urban hiking during the summer.
And, of course, Angel’s building wasn’t air conditioned.
He opened a large iron door and suddenly we were in what looked like a huge industrial arts center.
And there was the cool air and mechanical thrum of multiple window unit air conditioners.
Ah... I wouldn’t die of heat stroke.
Welding equipment sat beside blank canvases—from the rolls of canvas and scattered cut wood slats covering a work table, I’d say Angel built his own canvases.
There was some shabby chic furniture clustered in what looked to be the living area. Further in I saw a kitchenette, and then the painting studio started.
He had multiple works in progress.
He also had a back wall covered in finished pieces. Most of them were large pieces. Some were very large.
Further back, in the corner of the loft, sat a wrought iron bed.
There was something else in the opposite corner, but it was cordoned off with thick sheets of opaque plastic.
I wanted to see everything, so we started with his finished pieces.
There was the lady sunbathing by the lake. The image I saw on Jill’s tablet hadn’t done it justice. I swear I felt warmth emanating from it.
There was one of a shirtless man from behind, sitting on the edge of the top of a building, looking off into the bright blue sky, sparse yet radiant clouds in the distance of the Chicago skyline. I’d bet it was the view from the roof of this very building. There was a Corona and book by his side.
Another piece was of two women, a mother and her grown daughter, sitting at a kitchen table poring over bills. The wan light of sunset came through the kitchen window.
Each painting was breathtaking in its own ways. But in each he showed an astounding feel for light. Though the light was different in each piece, the light was the star of each painting.
There were at least thirty painting on the finished wall.
Ten others waited for Angel to finish them a few feet away. But one grabbed my attention immediately.
It was nearly finished.
And, crazy as it seemed, it was of me... a stunning, glowing me.
I was dressed in a sheer gown that seemed to be fashioned from sunlight. I floated, my hair free and flowing, over an emaciated man who looked almost dead. My glowing hand reached down to touch his face.
There was also a nearly see through, healthy version of the man, his face uplifted, leaning up out of the frail version of himself, his hand reaching up to touch mine.
“I call it The Healer,” Angel said from beside me.
I gulped. I’d never seen something so moving. Beautiful and horrible all at once.
Maybe it was because I’d never seen myself in a piece of art before.
A memory from when we met slid into my mind.
“Is this why you were staring the other day?”
He nodded. “I just knew yours was the face she needed.”
The Healer...
“I could certainly use some healing now.”
A lock of the darkest hair obscured his eyes, and as he swept it back with his hand, he looked deep into my eyes.
“I think I can help with that.”
He took me by the hand and led me over to the kitchenette. His hand had a warm roughness to it that made him seem even more alive than a regular person.
Opening the ancient fridge, he pulled out two Coronas, popping the tops and handed me one. He then pulled me gently along after him toward the section of the loft with all the sheets of plastic partitioning it off.
Once through the plastic I saw a giant canvas on the floor. At least thirty feet by thirty feet.
Nothing had been painted on it.
Angel let go of my hand and knelt down by the edge of the canvas. He beckoned me to join him, so I did.
“Feel it,” he said.
I reached down and felt the smooth, softness of the fabric.
“Silk?”
He nodded. “I found the place that supplies Vera Wang.”
I laughed. “So what are you going to paint?” A thirty feet tall installation would be challenging, but...
He shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not sure what it will be. Probably something contemporary...”
“Contemporary, as in open to interpretation?” I waggled my eyebrows.
“Yes,” he said, “Something rather Jackson Pollock.”
He stood up and walked over to some bathtub sized vats. “These are some colors, water based paints safe for my human brushes to dip in.”
I frowned at him as I got closer. “Human brushes?”
His smile was filled with the joy of childhood. “I’m going to dip someone in the vats, and then pull them along the canvas. They move and wiggle as I pull.”
I just stared at him.
Very proudly he said, “Huge contemporary art created through art therapy.”
“Art therapy?”
Another shrug of his work muscled shoulders. “It can heal the soul.”
I looked over the giant silk canvas, and the vats of paint.
“I don’t think so.” I’d had a very trying couple of days. This was the last thing I needed to do.
“I want you to look at something.” Angel pulled off his shirt—wow... his bare torso was almost as impressive as his art—and turned around to show me his back. “See the scar?”
I stepped closer and saw a long thin line starting at his shoulders and ending about an inch above the line of his jeans. It was an old scar, smooth and faded.
“I couldn’t walk as a child.” He turned and looked into my eyes. “For my first five years or so my mother carried me everywhere, and then I was in a wheelchair.”
My hand shot up and covered my mouth. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
He sighed. “It was hard, seeing other kids, my brother and my sister, running and playing. So my mama took me to an art therapist.” He looked me hard in the eye. “That’s where I discovered all this, what I could do, what I had in me.
“It helped me get through that time in my life. And then, after I spent a few months at the Shriner’s Hospital, they did a surgery and a few months later, for the first time in my life, I could walk.”
My eyes started to burn and I lowered my head. What were my stupid problems? A lying, cheating man and his homicidal wife?
They didn’t seem much like problems when you looked at them stacked against someone’s real problems.
Angel took hold of my chin and pulled my face up so I was looking in his eyes. “You’re thinking too much.”
I laughed mirthlessly. “I think you’re right.”
He held up his Corona. “Then let’s do some art therapy.”
I clinked my Corona with his and took a deep gulp.
It was cold and good. And the alcohol seemed to soothe my nerves right away.
“Okay, then. There are some bathing suits in my bathroom over there.” He pointed to the corner of the room. “They’re all new—got them on sale—one-piece numbers in various sizes.”
I took another long drag from my Corona. It didn’t sound like the worst idea.
Five minutes later we stood by the now open vats of water based paints, I in a lovely orange one piece bathing suit, and Angel standing there in his dark gray boxer briefs.
The colors of the vats of paint were red, blue, and yellow. “Primary colors.”
He held up a ten foot length of rope that had a foot long handle at each end, like for water skiing.
“You take a dip in the color you want, and then hold onto this as I pull you around.” He eyed me with a wicked smile. “Feel free to wiggle around as much as you want.”
I cackled. “I’ve heard that one before.”
He raised an eyebrow at me.
It was my turn to shrug my shoulders. I took another long drink of my Corona.
“Okay,” I set my bottle down and put my hands on my hips. “Let’s do this.”
The paint was room temperature... which even in summer is pretty cold.
I dipped into the red to my neck and then pulled myself up and out. Angel had put plastic from the tubs to the canvas. I lay down on the edge of the canvas and held onto the line.
Angel said, “On three. One... two... three!”
And off he went, the rope slung over his shoulder as he pulled me across the silken canvas.
It tickled, and I wiggled around involuntarily, at first. And then I did some faux ballet moves and ended up spinning around.
By the time Angel stopped I was laughing so hard. The world was still spinning.
Angel looked down at the long smudge I’d made.
“We should do the blue next.” He helped me up to my feet. “So go rinse off in the shower and we’ll dip you again.”
There was plastic rolled out from the canvas to the bathroom, and on the floor of the bathroom. A few minutes later I was clean and ready to go again.
He was right. This was fun.
And healing.
My troubles just melted away with every new color. I giggled and cackled as he pulled me along the canvas. I pretended I was in cirque du soleil, flinging my legs out and rolling around as Angel slid me over the silk.
I was on my third Corona when we finished. Angel had a camera stationed on the ceiling over the canvas and he showed me on his laptop what our little art therapy had created.
I gasped. It was really beautiful. Not like any of his other paintings. It was nothing more than curving lines and explosions of colors. The lines, where they intersected, added new colors to the primary colors.
“Wow...” I had been sitting on the plastic by the edge of the canvas, but now I just fell over on my back, still covered with the yellow paint.
“Wow is right,” he said and lay down so our heads were right beside each other.
I stared up at the ceiling without a thought in my head.
“I love art,” I said in a singsong voice.
“What’s not to love?”
True.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.” I was buzzed and feeling pretty good about things.
I looked over to him. He was staring up at the ceiling contemplatively.
Oh no... I hoped it wasn’t a serious question. I didn’t want this happy buzz to end just yet.
“Your assistant, Lance...”
“Yeah...”
“Is he seeing anyone?”
I laughed a little too hard. The good ones were always on the other team.
“Yes, he is seeing someone.”
“Oh,” his contemplative look turned serious.
“But...” Should I tell him everything, or leave it up to him to find things out from Lance? “It’s complicated. They’re in love... but they can’t... you know, have sex.”
Angel rolled over and gave me a grave look.
“Churchill wants Lance to have everything, even if he can’t give it to him.”
Angel smiled and then lowered his eyes.
“You should really talk to him about it.” I said. “I know he likes you. I’m just not sure how ready he is to...” How to put this politely? “Add a third?”
Chapter 8
“I’d like to see Jackson Burk, please.”
The man at the front desk of Jackson’s building gave me a look, seemingly ready to say something, and then his eyes widened.
He could probably see the bruises under my makeup.
Forty-eight hours had done nothing but make the bruises on me darker and hurt worse.
“Of course, Miss Hamilton...” he said and picked up the phone to his left. “I’ll call up right now.”
The front desk guy knows me on sight, and my name. Did Jackson post a wanted poster up somewhere?
“Hi, Greta. It’s Jimmy from the front desk... oh, I’m good, thank you. I’ve got Miss Hamilton down here in the lobby.”
He smiled.
“Will do.” And then he hung up.
“Take the elevator on the far end up to the top floor. Greta—I mean, Mrs. Becket, will meet you at the elevator.”
Mrs. Becket. Lionel’s wife... who I hadn’t met yet.
I felt my face flush.
Peachy.
I could just imagine what Lionel might have told his wife about the last time I was there.
