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“Is it always like this around here?” I ask when Cys hands me a bottle.
She snorts. “Duh. Why do you think I have a hideaway in the basement? I’m a babysitter when it comes to these two.”
Her sisters look over in unison and stick out their tongues before they peel off in laughter.
Cys chuckles too. “But I’m like the cool babysitter, you know? The one who sneaks you drinks.” Right then, she knocks the top of her bottle to mine, causing it to foam. I laugh while trying to catch it all in my mouth. Once she’s satisfied with my alcohol intake, she sets both our drinks on the kitchen counter and points a finger at the floor.
I practically sprint after her when I realize we’re going to the basement. After falling in love with her painting at the gallery, I looked up everything I could find by her. She started off selling on the street, and only just a few months ago did she sell to her first gallery. I’m jealous as hell someone else discovered her and not me. She was only a few blocks from my old apartment too—so close, and I just know if I’d still been in the city I would have been the one to discover her.
My belly does flips when Cys closes the old elevator and pushes a button to drop us to the lowest floor. “So, you’re an artist who doesn’t make art. How do you live?”
I shrug. “Who says I have been?”
The words barely leave my mouth when they swing back to hit me in the chest. I used to tell myself an artist constantly creates, regardless of the medium. The little poems I wrote in my journal, doodles I drew on every napkin—even sex was artistic. The fluid movements and chorus of moans and groans and the explosion of pleasure.
The only problem is, I can’t remember the last time I even wrote in my journal or the last scribbled drawing on a napkin. The one that hurts the most is realizing the distance between me and Archer lately. He’s been so busy planning for the move, and I keep telling myself things will be different once we’re in South America. Once it’s all over, and it’s just the two of us. Except, right now, none of that feels true.
The elevator lurches to a stop, and Cys jerks the door open before stepping into a large concrete room with only the light from the elevator shining in.
“Uh…” I start, but Cys just giggles at me.
“No, you’re not in danger. The building is locked down, and there are security cameras in the elevator and down here.”
She skips off the elevator car and slaps at a switch around the corner.
The space illuminates, and I audibly gasp at the transformation from nightmare to absolute heaven. The shop lights hanging from the ceiling bathe the room in a crispness that mimics daylight, highlighting the canvases spread throughout the large open room. An easel stands to one side with a painting in the works, a camera set up to record the process.
“I’m streaming the painting to my followers,” Cys says as she spins her way past me, excited to show me around as she grabs my arm and pulls me along.
“The lights are high CRI with a five thousand K color temp, unless the property manager asks, then they’re whatever were down here when he handed me the key.” She winks and drags me past her streaming set up and to a line of paintings along the wall.
“I’m in my yellow phase.”
I try my best to keep my mouth from falling open as I walk the canvases, seeing every ounce of the punk princess in front of me. She has an edginess to every stroke, but manages to blend perfectly, so it’s almost subliminal. Anarchy through pop music.
I reach the end where she has all her brushes and paints set up, and I’m turning, ready to bow at her feet when I notice the easel across the room. No camera, no color on the canvas, just a stool with the lighting perfectly highlighting the setup.
Cys stops beside me. “Oh that?” When I look over, she raises her eyebrows and tips her head in the direction of the easel. “That’s yours.”
“Mine?” I huff out a sound of disbelief. “What do you mean, mine?”
She smiles softly, but her eyes give away her amusement. “I mean, a certain someone paid for half the space this month.”
My eyes dart from her to the easel. “Benji?”
“Duh.” She tugs me forward, stopping me right at the stool. “You can use anything I have down here, but if you want something I don’t have, there’s a place a few blocks from here that should have all the supplies you need.”
She keeps going, but my brain is spinning, not processing.
“Wait,” I laugh the word. “This doesn’t make sense.”
Cys tips her head at me, like she sees what I’m missing. “Of course it makes sense. Benji said you’re dying of boredom and need a space of your own—well mostly your own. I paint at night usually, so during the day it’s all yours.”
She goes over to point out all the different brushes and types of paint, but I can’t stop staring at the canvas. The stool. The lighting. It’s mine. To do whatever I want.
I’m still soaking in the incredible feeling shooting through my veins when my phone buzzes with a call. Archer. My eyes fly to Cys, and her eyes lower to the screen.
“My boyfriend,” I tell her.
