“Look, I appreciate the guilt and you taking a tremendous step in your evolution, but you need to talk to someone about your hand.”
“You mean, ’cause you don’t see nothing, there is nothing, right?” Nope, no believing in a curse for Chuck. Logic. Always logic. What if Slade’s years of abusing brain cells had brought on delusions?
Chuck winced. “My opinion doesn’t count. You believe it’s there. A problem to be solved. Which is why I think you should talk to a professional.”
“So they can tell me I’m batshit crazy? No, thank you.” Slade talked to enough counselors during his stints in rehab.
“No! So they can help you get to the bottom of the issue. Find out what’s going on.” Chuck sat on the edge of the couch, hands resting on his knees. Calm. Rational.
Holier-than-thou. No, not fair, when Chuck sat listening to a story too far-fetched to be real.
Fuck. If the one man who’d always offered unconditional support called bullshit, Slade stood a snowball’s chance in hell of finding someone who'd understand. “You don’t believe me.” Hard to blame Chuck. The whole sad ordeal sounded like the plot of a low-budget B-movie. A brief touch of pain flared on the back of Slade’s hand, a reminder of the agony.
Chuck held Slade’s gaze. “I believe anything you tell me is your perception of the truth. I’m your brother. I love you, man. I’ve got your back. I gotta tell you, though. You’re starting to worry me.”
Slade hated confessions. “I’m starting to worry myself.”
“What else has been going on? Anything?” Good ole Chuck. Changing the subject when shit got too real.
“I sold some more tattoo designs.” Work: a nice, safe topic Slade fully understood.
“Show me.” Chuck nodded to the laptop peeking out from underneath a few magazines on the coffee table.
Slade pulled his laptop onto his lap, accessing his portfolio. The first image showed a woman’s naked back as she sat on her heels, peering over her shoulder with a come-hither smile.
“Oh, she’s beautiful,” Chuck remarked.
Slade chuckled. “Her boyfriend stayed with her the whole time. Took several visits.”
A rose and vine scene embellished her skin from her right shoulder to her waist, an artfully draped braid and a silk scarf shifting the rating from R to PG-13—one of Slade’s finest works. The blonde flirted outrageously with both her boyfriend and Slade during her multiple tattoo sessions.
They’d even invited him to join in a threesome a few times.
Slade clicked on the next offering, the same as the first picture, painted on a Harley Davidson gas tank, woman, art, even the scarf, perfectly captured.
“Fucking amazing!” Chuck pulled the laptop closer, spreading his fingers on the touchpad to enlarge the image.
“I’m also doing a matching helmet.” Slade shook his head. “Client’s paying damned good money. I hope they don’t break up. I’d hate to see my work spray-painted over.”
He’d once painted a woman on a man’s gas tank. The couple fought, she walked out. Her new boyfriend took offense to his nearly naked girlfriend’s image on someone else’s bike and fixed the problem with a can of black spray paint. Weeks of creating a masterpiece, ruined in five minutes—what a waste.
“I’ve got a few more helmets ready to ship out, along with the gas tank.” Slade idly flipped through several more pages of tattoo and helmet designs.
Chuck stopped him occasionally, pausing to study an uploaded picture. “You should start painting ag—”
“No!” Slade managed digital, tats, and motorcycle art fine. Something about oil paints, canvasses, and the creative process brought out cravings for heroin. Or at least for a joint. Nope. He’d backslid four times already. Never again. No more rehab hell.
Or Grandma and Great-Aunt Judith’s tough love, which finally made the therapy stick.
“You were an amazing artist.” Chuck backpedaled. “Are. Youarean amazing artist.” He rolled up his sleeve, showing his dragon tattoo, a birthday gift from Slade the previous year.
“Thanks.” Losing painting hurt like a muthafucker. In the end, the temptation wasn’tworth the risk.
“Other than a mark on your hand. Did the guy hurt you? Remember the time some asshole smacked you in the head with a beer bottle?”
“No, he didn’t, and I needed stitches for the beer bottle.” Slade left out details about the bar camera not working or no one else seeing the twink on the night in question. He’d started sounding crazy even to himself.
Chuck placed a hand on Slade’s shoulder. “Well, then, don’t worry. I’m sure it’s nothing. In the meantime, want me to find a good counselor?”
