a jumble. It had been a while since I’d felt so out of my depth on a subject.
“Your reaction is typical. Come on.” He motioned for me to follow him to the sunporch.
I trailed behind but left a safe distance between us. One where the buzz of his energy wasn’t quite as palpable. As I stepped into the space, I couldn’t help a sharp intake of breath. The room didn’t look like an art studio. It looked like a disaster zone. Canvases, wood, and scraps of metal were scattered across the floor. Some had bits of paint on them, but others were completely blank.
Dozens and dozens of cans of paint were arranged in the corner of the room, large pieces of cardboard next to them. Tools I couldn’t identify—and in no sort of organization—covered a table along the wall.
“Wow.” It was the only word I could seem to get out.
“It’s controlled chaos. I know.”
But it was beautiful in its own way. “How does it work?”
Brody crossed to his desk, flipping a sketchpad closed before I could see what was inside. “It depends on the project. Usually, I sketch out a concept first. Then I move to stencils. I’ll cut out the forms I need for each color from the cardboard. It allows me to layer the images easily and then go back in for the details. It’s a throwback to when I did these on the sides of buildings and had to work quickly so I didn’t end up in lockup.”
My eyes widened. “You were arrested for this?”
The smile that stretched across Brody’s face was one I hadn’t seen from him before. Full of life and mischief. And it was captivating. “More than once. But I stick to material I own these days. Canvas mostly. But I’ve been experimenting with other mediums, too.”
“Can I see a finished one?”
Brody shifted on his feet. “I haven’t finished anything since I’ve been here. But, um…here.” He flipped open his laptop and hit a few keys. A website came to life on his screen. He clicked a few times and, suddenly, an image of a teenage boy filled the screen. He was well-kempt with perfectly styled hair and preppy clothing. It was shockingly realistic for what I now knew was spray paint.
But seeping out of the boy’s arms was a dark, almost smoke-like substance. And within it were needles, vials, and other drug paraphernalia. Near his mouth were pills and booze. Above his head were words of anger and self-hatred. And in his chest cavity was a stylized broken heart.
“That’s…” I didn’t have the words I needed to describe the scene in front of me. Everything I could think of was far too lacking.
Brody shut the computer screen. “It’s a little too dark for some people.”
“No. It’s not. It’s real.”
He turned slowly to face me. Coming closer than we’d ever been since the day he’d taken his suitcase from my hands on the dock. “Real is the best compliment there is.”
8
Brody
I stepped back from the canvas, the spray paint can faintly rattling as I lowered my hand. It had been so long since I’d worked freehand. And it showed in my technique—or lack thereof. It wasn’t even close to what I wanted. Sure, the piece was a little different than what I usually went for. And that was good. But it wasn’t the image in my head. It didn’t even match the rough sketch on my pad.
I set the spray paint on the floor and peeled off my gloves and mask. The first few years I’d delved into my obsession, my fingers had been continuously stained with color. It wasn’t until I fell in with a crew who was more serious about their work that I’d discovered the miracle of gloves. “Comes in handy if the police stop you for questioning. No evidence.” One of the older guys in the crew had told me.
Now it just saved me from having to scrub my hands with a Brillo pad and losing a few layers of skin in the process. I picked up my sketchpad and studied the likeness looking back at me. Shay with her violin propped on her shoulder, eyes closed, lost in the music the way I could only imagine she looked. Wisps of hair escaping her braid and framing her face. Wild and untamed. Flying through the air and then transforming into something else entirely. Dark red smoke that, if you looked closer, was really a flock of birds. Her passion and