Page 112 of More Tricks

“What always happens when you drink bad tequila, poor life choices,” I answered. “Damn fool is sharing all the secrets as he tried to smother his sorrows in a bottle of paint thinner.”

Sprocket took the other side, but our height difference made this awkward in another way. Finally, I gave up and just let Sprocket handle the problem as I got to the top of the stairs first to open the door for them.

“The fuck is going on?” Eagle demanded from his nephew. “God, why does your breath smell like it could be lit on fire?”

I chuckled to myself. “That’s about all that shit is good for. Found him in the clubhouse knocking back shots like it was water. Kind of impressive for it being El Toro if you ask me.”

“Sprocket put him on the couch, and someone find a bucket that boy can puke in,” Eagle instructed, then he turned to me. “So?”

“There is a chance it might not be her,” I answered in a low voice. “I stopped to talk to him because I wanted to know if he remembered her fighting with Gabby about getting her ears pierced without permission. One piercing seems too far off the mark for it to have been done professionally.”

“No, Gabby took her on her tenth birthday to get her ears pierced. It was all she wanted for her birthday,” Eagle shared. “I remember Gabby telling me how still Elena sat for the lady doing it, saying she wanted them to be perfect. Elena is just as particular as Gabby is about details. It would have bothered her to have it off-center.”

“Then these aren’t her ears,” I stated, pulling the box out of my back pocket. “My money is on that wasn’t her finger either. They’ve kept her too long, and I doubt they would waste a hospital trip to keep her healthy. If you don’t treat a missing finger, you could bleed out.”

Eagle’s shoulders sagged in relief as he guided me toward Picasso’s room. “Tell him. He won’t listen to me, but I bet he’ll listen to you.”

“That is if he doesn’t cuss me out again,” I muttered, entering into the space.

There he stood before his easel, a new canvas set up that he was sketching something out. Keeping silent, I approached and tried to figure out what he was trying to process. It was a tree, but not one I would think of depicting life. Instead, it looked like it was sick, dying, gnarled, and knotted. The branches seemed to be trying to reach out and grab the viewer if only they could make it off the canvas. What I was more curious about was to know who exactly this was depicting. Himself? Me? Our enemies? Maybe even the world as a whole.

“I'm almost positive they aren’t hers,” I whispered.

His hand faltered for just a moment before he continued. I understood this state of mind. It had been building and building up inside him until he was ready to burst. Now he was using that emotion and spilling it onto this canvas. So I watched and waited, picked up a pad of drawing paper, and started to sketch him. I was trying to capture everything I could feel flowing out of him, curious to see if that could translate into an image when there were no words to explain it.

Having no idea how long we stayed like this until Eagle opened the door to call us for dinner. That seemed to be enough for Picasso to break out of his trance and jump in surprise when he saw me sitting on a stool next to him.

“When did you get here, spitfire?” he asked.

Flipping the pad around, I showed him my drawing, knowing that would give him a better answer.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he questioned as he slid his hands up my thighs until his fingertips slipped under the hem of my shorts.

I narrowed my gaze at him. “You really don’t remember me coming in here and telling you that I’m pretty sure those aren’t Elena’s ears?”

His whole body snapped back at my words. “What?”

“When I looked at them more closely, I noticed that the earrings had been shoved through the lobes and were super off-center. Eagle and I talked about it, and there’s no way they could be her ears,” I explained.

Picasso dropped his head on my shoulder, letting out a heavy sigh. “God, I can’t believe I said those things to you before. I’m so sorry, spitfire. I was so mad I couldn’t help but take it out on everyone. That’s why I knew I needed to come in here and draw, paint, something to get my feelings under control.”

I gripped the back of his neck and gave him an awkward neck hug. “If anyone understands that, I do. Art is what helps us process, and you haven’t been able to do that while Eagle’s been out of commission. Now that he is healing, the weight of responsibility has been lifted from you. Thank you all the same for apologizing and admitting you were an ass.”

“Hey now,” Picasso warned, nipping at my neck. “Don’t push your luck.”

“Ha,” I laughed, pushing him off me. “That’s what I do every damn day, and I don’t see it changing anytime soon.”

His hand snapped out, grabbing me by the throat as he pulled me in for a kiss, slow and wanting. I could feel my body perk up at the idea of maybe getting some action, but we both groaned when there was a sharp rap on the door.

“Let’s go, I want to eat,” Cognac hollered.

Hopping off the stool, I tossed open the door. “I’ve got something you can eat, lover,” I teased Cognac, who was leaning near the door making sure we came out.

A slow, sultry grin crossed his face. “Damn, who could pass up an offer like that.”

“Hey,” Eagle barked. “Sit the fuck down for dinner.”

While many of my ideas had fallen on deaf ears, moving the pool table and putting in a real dining room table where we could all sit had stuck. Now, for almost every meal, we all gathered and ate together. It had become something I looked forward to. We made a rule that at breakfast, we couldn’t talk about anything to do with this job. It had to be about us. Dinner was the opposite. It was our chance to compare notes of events that happened during the day.