also why, when I get a disturbing text from someone I don’t even know, telling me, ‘Your boy is in jail for beating the shit out of his druggie brother. He can’t have dinner with you tonight. Peace.’ I plot in my head an excuse to miss work so I can see what the hell is going on…”
Suri frowned, then added, standing from the couch, “I have to go, Mom. We can talk more about this later.”
“In jail? Oh my God. He beat up his brother? I swear, you sure know how to pick them. Is everything gonna be all right?” Mom asked as she made her way back to the door and unlocked it.
“Honestly, Mom, I don’t know, but I imagine it will be. Artists are strange people, but I’m drawn to them, pardon the pun, and that will never stop.” She shrugged. “They’re my weakness. Some people hate the world, not because they find it despicable, but because they see so much of it in themselves…”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Luck of the Fuckin’ Irish
King’s shoulder muscles ached and a dull pain radiated through him as he sat in the small, cold cell. He’d been sitting so awkwardly up against the left corner wall, the one space where the nauseating stench of puke and piss didn’t overwhelm him. He pressed his palms against his forehead as he kept replaying ‘Last Stand,’ by Kwabs, in his mind. He recalled doing similar musical exercises during times of stress, becoming a human stereo. He’d always been told he had an excellent ear. He memorized lyrics easily, caught the nuances of melodies, and due to his environment and friends, as well as his mother’s love of music, this came to him naturally.
He hummed the lyrics, rocking back and forth to quiet his thoughts, captured within the sound of his mind. His clothing stuck to his body, so clammy was his skin. Closing his eyes, he imagined the scent of fresh paint. His sense of time was lost since he’d barely had any sleep and there was no window to let him see the sun rise or the moon fall. He’d made one phone call to Shane upon his arrival, asking him to make several calls and send text messages on his behalf. He wanted his boss notified, as well as the guy he was supposed to meet in Brooklyn regarding a shirt design he’d been commissioned for. Then, of course, there was Suri.
Suri…
That was when he had to come clean. King had no idea that he’d entered into an undefined realm of romance, especially since he’d been so adamant about not getting into a relationship. He’d meant it when he said that, but it seemed his heart had other plans. Oddly enough, neither he nor Suri referred to what they had expressly as a relationship, but they both understood that’s what it was. King couldn’t recall ever asking a woman for exclusivity; it would just sort of happen, or be implied. Still, he’d planned to broach the topic with Suri that evening over dinner, and make his intentions clear with no gray area.
He wanted her all to himself. He couldn’t share her, and he knew that if he didn’t spell it out, the door would quite possibly be left open. Mistakes would be made. Jealousy would be sparked, and regret definitely felt. Now, that dinner date simply wouldn’t be happening and he had a hefty situation at his feet that would not, and could not, be swept under the rug. King stretched his legs and groaned. I blame you for this, Tomas. I blame you, and you alone. I should’ve let you choke on that bone when we were kids. Maybe now, everyone would be better off for it.
The dark thought came and went like a taxi cab flying down the street. Another man in an adjoining cell was snoring so loud, the sound vibrated through his chest like heavy bass music. The guy was knocked out after a long night of drugging and drinking. He’d spent the first hour after King arrived cursing and screaming in both Spanish and English, until he wore his voice out. The snoring went on and on like a buzzing saw.
Meanwhile, he continued to fight the darkness within him, but he was losing.
The yearning for vengeance repeated like heartburn. It came knocking at his cerebral door time and time again. Wistfulness consumed him, then beams of life, light, and hope peeped through his mental clouds as the thought of