Mr. Wyatt nodded and left. I quickly counted the money and felt my stomach drop. It was only $250. I couldn’t pay bills and buy food with this meager amount. I was working my ass off and barely surviving. I left work feeling completely disheartened.
I walked into my apartment twenty minutes later and flipped the light switch, relieved when the lights turned on. I wasn’t sure how long I’d get by without paying my electricity bill before they cut my power. I collapsed onto the couch and let out a long, agonized breath. I needed to do something. I had to find a way to make some money.
There’s one place I could go for some quick scratch,my subconscious teased.
It was tempting. I missed the club. I missed the dark world where I was king. I missed the adrenaline rush of doing something I knew was wrong and getting away with it.
God, I missed the drugs.
I’ll always be here, waiting for you,my addiction whispered seductively in my head. My hands began to shake and something that felt dangerously like physical withdrawal racked my body. My heart started to pound and sweat dribbled down my back. I felt sick and dizzy. The need to use was overwhelming.
Get it together!I screamed silently to myself.
I needed to lose myself in something safe. I got up and rushed back to my bedroom and threw open my closet door. I dug around inside with my heart slamming angrily in my chest.
Get a grip, Maxx!
I finally found my sketch pad and a box of charcoal. I sat down cross-legged on the floor. The lighting was shit, but I didn’t need to see. I needed to feel.
My fingers moved almost mechanically at first, but then the fluidity of drawing took over. My breathing began to slow. My heart calmed down. The sweat dried on my skin. Minutes turned into an hour, my fingers never stopping.
When I was finished, I straightened my back, feeling stiff from sitting in the same position for so long. I stretched and held up the pad in front of my face and couldn’t help but smile.
The style was uniquely mine. Tangles of long hair becoming snakes as they reached down from the sky. Fingers sprouting up from the ground like talons.
It was warped. It was fucked up.
But it looked pretty freaking awesome.
I knew that I was good. Enough people had told me throughout the years that I believed it.
I thought with regret about that meeting with Mr. Randall all those months ago. I had really messed up something good.
It was the story of my life.
I walked over to the corner of my room where I had stacked at least two dozen canvases. I slowly went through them, pulling out the ones that stood out. The ones that best demonstrated my ability.
Feeling impulsive, I pulled out my wallet and found the card Tatum Randall had given me over six months ago. I was actually surprised I had kept it.
Maybe there was a part of me, even when I was bombed out of my mind, that held on to this small possibility.
I quickly dialed the number on the crisp, white card before I could talk myself out of it. I chewed on my thumbnail as the phone rang and rang.
“Bellview Gallery, how can I help you?” a woman’s voice chirped in my ear.
“Um, hi, is Mr. Randall available?” I croaked.
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Maxx— I mean X,” I fumbled, sounding like a moron.
“X?” the lady asked incredulously.
I gritted my teeth. “Yes, X. He’ll know me,” I said through clenched teeth.
“Okay, then, hold on. Let me see if he’s still here.”
I was put on hold and had to listen to five minutes of really bad elevator music.
