Page 78 of Liquids

And here I am on an oil rig in the middle of a storm. I fucking survived. Mark, losing Charlie. I want to punch something. Punch him. Maybe the fact my life is better isn’t all because of Rig with his big hands and his plans and his ability to take me apart in bed. Maybe I’m a fighter, too. Not in the same way that Brit is, that Rig is, but fuck it, I’m not a fucking pushover. I work really fucking hard. I keep people alive, just like Rig does here.

I can feel his eyes on my face and mine dart up to his.

“You okay? You seem …” He licks his lips. A worried frown is creasing his forehead.

“I think I just …” I stare off toward the water, the roiling waves. “… had a bit of an epiphany.”

26

FLOW - SIX MONTHS LATER

Ablush Chicago sunset is burning down over the industrial buildings in this trendy part of town. I haven’t seen Rig in a suit before, but seeing him in it tonight makes me wonder what size it is, because it fits him like a glove. My eyes drift over his shoulders and arms as he runs a finger under his collar.

“How do people work wearing this shit?” he says as his eyes narrow on me. “You nervous?”

I was until he said that, and so I grin, looking at all the naked pictures of him on the walls of the gallery. “I would have thought you’re the one who should be nervous.” I wave my hand around.

I’ve done drawings and paintings of him fighting now, close-ups of his battered and taped hands, a fist in a face. They have a raw power that I really like. There are a lot of pictures of his ass, which, it has to be said, I do have a bit of an obsession with painting. My favorite is one of him with his hand on his cock. You can’t see anything; his hand is cupped over his junk, but it’s very suggestive, and the painting is big, too. It’s currently occupying the wall at the end of the gallery. The lady who often staffs the front desk here fanned herself when she saw it, then slapped a three-thousand-dollar price tag on it. No one will buy it for that much. Luciano, the owner of this place, insisted that it should be the cover picture for the show’s brochure.

Rig smiles. “Don’t have a problem with people seeing my body, babe. The art’s okay, but let’s face it, the real star of the show here is me.”

I punch him in the arm, and he grabs my ass and pulls me in for a kiss.

“Don’t mess up my clothes!”

“You look better a bit messed up, babe. But you always look great.”

I can’t believe I look that good in his old T-shirts I sleep in, but they don’t stay on long, if I’m honest. The gallery staff is buzzing around, putting out canapés and champagne flutes. There’s a rap at the door, and I turn to see Jake and Marge, Agnes, and June lined up outside the tall glass windows, smiling and waving.

“Jesus Christ,” Rig says as he heads over to let them in.

“Where’s Marni?” Jake asks, looking at me. And my eyes drift over him. He’s always asking after her: I’ve got my suspicions that he’s had a thing for Marni for a while.

“Coming with Konstantin.”

If Jake’s interested, he’s got his work cut out. Konstantin doesn’t allow her out of his sight these days. Possessive as hell might just cover it. But she seems happy enough. Konstantin makes decent money working for a crime syndicate, and she’s always wanted a guy who could keep her in a style to which she was unaccustomed, even though I worry about how much danger she’s in.

“Jesus Christ, is this show all pictures of you?” Jake says, and Rig laughs. “This is like TMI,” he adds, putting his hand over his eyes.

“Not all of them. I’ve done quite a few guys from the rigs,” I say, pointing to the series of drawings of riggers on the far side of the gallery.

“I’ll head over there, then,” Jake says with a wink.

Luciano appears from the back, his smile wide enough to light the room. “How’s my star couple?” he says, with a clap of his hands.

Rig rolls his eyes.

Luciano strides up to me and pulls me into a hug. “This is going to be stellar! I have had so much preshow interest, Carlotta, after I emailed it to the gallery list. I sent THE PICTURE …”

Luciano has taken to calling it this ever since he saw it. “Of Rig’s junk?” I say, raising my eyebrows.

“Yes, yes,” he says impatiently. “I also sent it to a few friends in the queer community. You know the size …”

Rig leans in. “Of my junk or the size of the painting?”

Luciano waves him away. “Of the painting, of course. It makes such a statement. At the end of a hallway, over a bed …” Mischief lights up his face.

I suspect Luciano is well entrenched in the scene in Chicago. We got the gig at this gallery through Angelo. Luciano is his cousin. Though I still don’t know how we did that, Angelo has been so disgruntled about Marni and Konstantin that he’s stopped telling us about the fights back home. Konstantin had a sit-down with Angelo and said if he wasn’t prepared to leave his wife, he needed to back off from Marni. Angelo didn’t take it well. Luckily, people are still happy to let Rig know because they’re trying to persuade him to fight again.