For a moment, I watch the handful of people in the pews, some praying, a couple chatting, but most wait near the confessional.
My eye is drawn to a man in the leather vest of the motorcycle club, his head is bowed, and he is sitting as far away from everyone else as he can. His hair is cut close to his head, so it’s not Rebel. As if I care.
This guy is huge, built like a fighter. The guy you’d run from. Yet he is here, in church, and it looks as if he is praying, sitting so still he is almost like a statue.
The itch to draw him hits me.
I stare a little longer, memorizing the tattoos up the back of his neck, the logo of a skull and two motorcycles on his leather vest, visible above the backrest because he is so large.
The altar in the background sets up the perfect composition of a man contemplating his life choices, the things he does for a motorcycle club versus his faith.
Would I have time to run to the annex for a pad and pencil? As if feeling he is being watched, he steps out of the pew, moving like a man his size and stature shouldn’t be able to. He bends one knee, crossing himself.
When he turns, his face is full of torment. Coming here and praying hasn’t helped him. He sees me staring as he walks down the aisle.
He doesn’t linger, his focus on leaving, a determined set to his shoulders taking over. He is preparing to become someone else when he leaves the sanctuary of the church.
He is big and scary as hell on the face of it, but the man is sad, it’s written in every line on his face and the burnished amber color of his eyes. I bite my lip against the urge to ask if I can draw him, instead, I store away his features.
The door to the confessional opens, and a man steps out, drawing my attention away as he trips and almost falls. He is the opposite of the biker, his face clear, as if whatever he said in there has made him feel lighter, unburdened.
Damn, the secrets Colt must hear. He’s doing a good job. If he can make people feel good, or offer a tortured person a place to just sit and be still for a moment, then maybe all the years I’ve thought Colt is wasting his life are wrong.
Those thoughts stick with me as I sweep the dust off the wall with a long-handled broomstick, then mix a solution with the cleaning supplies and cold water, using the broom again to scrub the wall.
As expected, a lot of the cement falls away. It’s an old wall. I’m not worried about the holes I’m creating. Patrick might have what I need to sand and fill them, but if not, I can find a hardware store.
Raven comes over as the light is fading. I’ve not seen her since I had a few drinks in her bar and she rescued me from her insane brother.
“This looks like the non-fun part,” she stares at the wall.
“It’s all part of the process, if I want to get a perfect painting, I need a perfect canvas.”
“Very poetic.”
"I'm an artist. Comes with the territory.”
Raven smiles and takes a seat on an upturned bucket. “I’ve been learning to play guitar, that’s kind of artistic, right?”
“Of course,” I tell her, crouching down and tugging out some rogue weeds and dropping them into a black trash bag. “How’s it going?”
“Terribly,” she laughs. “The guy teaching me says I should stick to my day job.”
“That’s harsh.”
She wiggles her fingers, showing me her long, black painted nails. “He said I needed to trim these, not happening.” She pulls a face. “Anyway, what brings you here, besides painting this for your cousin?”
“I’m from Baltimore. I moved to LA to go to school and stuck around. This is the first time I’ve been back home.”
“I went to LA a couple of years ago and spent a few months with a friend.” Her voice deepens on the word friend. She means a guy. “It’s beautiful and ugly all at the same time.”
“That’s the perfect way to describe LA. I have a love-hate relationship with the place.”
“Will you go back once this is done?” She waves a hand at the wall.
“That’s the plan.” I let out a deep sigh and stand up, stretching out my back. I never realize how much I’m doing until I stop, and the aches make themselves known.
“You don’t sound so sure.”
