a hard time wrapping my head around why they would want me to. If it weren’t for those people who read my books and enjoyed what I did, I wouldn’t have made it to where I was today.
And for that reason alone, I would never turn someone away who wanted my autograph.
I only hoped that it didn’t bother Presley too much, because if it did, that could be a problem.
A big one.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Presley
After following my directions through the city, Jake pulled into the parking lot of the art museum, and I felt my heart race. It was this place that made me giddy with excitement. Probably the same feeling Jake had when he walked into a bookstore.
This particular gallery was privately owned and one of the best in the art district, at least in my opinion. I’d stumbled upon it years ago, and came to visit often, but not nearly as much as I would like. In fact, I’d come in once a week if it wouldn’t freak out the owners.
I stepped inside and a smile instantly landed on my face as I took in all that was familiar. The pristine white walls and the art that decorated them, the lighting, the concrete floors, the soft music that drifted from above… I loved every square inch.
When Jake took my hand, I was fairly certain he could tell I was shaking.
“This is nice,” Jake said as he glanced around, leading me closer to the wall with the paintings.
The gallery wasn’t very big, but it was open and airy and bright, which made it feel bigger than it was. On the walls were various pieces from both local and national artists, in a broad range of experience. In a word, it was fantastic.
“I love it here,” I told him, allowing him to lead as we perused the pictures on the wall.
I noticed the owner talking to someone, so I offered a small wave and earned a smile in return.
“Which one is your favorite?” Jake asked.
“You’ll see,” I told him, not wanting to give away the surprise.
“So we haven’t gotten to it yet?”
“Nope. Not yet.”
We continued along, stopping momentarily to look at ones that Jake liked, and I could tell he was looking at the cards beneath that detailed the name of the artist and the artwork, so it wasn’t surprising that he came to a jarring halt when we got to the one that happened to be my favorite.
“That’s yours,” he said, his voice soft.
“It is,” I told him. “That’s my dad.”
I loved this particular piece, and I had a similar one hanging on my wall in my bedroom. It was one of my father sitting at his workbench, writing something down on a sheet of paper, his tools scattered over the top of the bench. I remembered the day. He’d recently gotten a new bike, or the shell of one, really, and he’d been noting what parts he needed and which people he would contact to get them.
“Wow, Presley. This is … phenomenal.”
“Thanks.” I really wasn’t sure what to say to that. Jake seemed genuinely impressed and I couldn’t help but be proud of that.
“When did you do this?”
“Last year. It’s one of the last ones I did.” Since the inspiration had seemed to leave me, I hadn’t done any more, but I continued to hold out hope that I would get that back soon.
It seemed that the more time I spent with Jake, the more I wanted to draw. And after today’s trip to the bookstore, I even had an idea of what it would be.
“Are these for sale?” Jake asked, looking around.
“They are,” I confirmed.
“So, how does it feel?” he asked.
Confused, I looked up at him.
“How does what feel?”
“To have this here? Honestly, I think it’s the best piece they’ve got.” His eyes were locked on my face, and the sincerity in his tone made warmth fill my entire body.
“It’s a little surreal. I never thought I’d get to a point in my life where my art was in a gallery.” It was true. I tattooed for a living, even came up with some rather interesting designs that I was incredibly proud of. But this … having this particular piece in the gallery… There wasn’t a day that went by that I didn’t think about it.
Jake pulled me to him, wrapped his arms around me, and kissed the top of my head. “I’m proud of you, Pres. This is amazing. I can see why this is your favorite place.”