Envy

by Lana Pecherczyk

  Sara.

  She’d torn his family apart, and he wanted to expose her true nature. Was it vindictive? Yes. Was it revenge? Maybe. He wanted to show them all that he’d been right. To shove their ignorance up their asses.

  The destructive thoughts shamed him to his core. If his teachers knew how far he’d fallen, they’d be horrified. Especially Master Yang Lun. The small old monk would likely send him to strip the nails from the community board with his bare fingers for a few hours. Then he’d make him put them back in with his fist.

  Studying under Shaolin Monks had been Evan’s second stop on his journey to learning the art of war. The minute he’d turned fifteen, Mary had shipped him off, just like his six elder siblings had, to spend one year studying under a Master of War before moving onto the next. Their education lasted seven years. Being able to sense a deadly sin was no walk in the park.

  With Grace, it might be.

  He inspected his fingertips, still worn and scarred from the aftereffects of that training. In some places his prints had disappeared altogether from the constant shredding and blistering of skin. He flexed his fists and grimaced at the rubberiness of the action. Still stiff from the fighting ring, and worse from the beating afterward. It had taken longer than usual to heal. He was in no condition to keep someone like Grace safe and out of harm’s way.

  He opened the gallery door, taking a moment to acclimatize to the heat, the assault of sound, and barrage of sin.

  Eye-watering envy.

  At a glance, the crowd consisted of mid-to-upper-class narcissistically dressed bodies. Fit, fabulous and under fifty. Each and every person seemed to be fully aware of their tightly dressed appearance. Evan knew that proud look well because his elder brother, Parker, wore it every day. Cringing, he turned his back on the people to brush dampness from his shoulders, relishing the distraction at his fingertips. When he turned back, everyone had stopped and stared. At him.

  He took a deep breath and adopted the Hollywood persona his brother Tony had told him about. Start off cool on the approach, ignore the looks and act like you’ve got somewhere better to be. Vacantly scan the room, then, when you’re sure you can lock eyes with a beautiful woman, act like you’ve just arrived. Big smile, let it hit your eyes… now show your teeth. They don’t need to know what’s going on under the hood. Just smile.

  “What the hell was that? You look like you’ve eaten a bad burrito.” Speaking of the devil, Tony broke away from the feminine wall of desperation holding him up. He swiped two glasses of champagne from a timid waitress and stood in front of Evan holding one out. The man was ripped as you would expect an action movie star to be. His suit seams stretched at the biceps and shoulders. Evan was sure the thing would rip in two if Tony bent forward.

  It was impossible not to see they were related. Same dark hair and wide lipped smile. Tony’s face managed to put it all together in a face worthy of the screen, while Evan thought his own was a bit more forgettable. Slick versus messy.

  “I did exactly what you told me to do,” Evan growled as he accepted the glass.

  “Nah, bro, that wasn’t it. It’s like this.” Tony lazily lowered his lids, scanned the room like a predator, then grinned, flashing his Hollywood teeth, all the while saying, “You gotta show your teeth like this. Not Jim Carey in The Mask style. But all, I’m sexy and I know it style. And—you should’ve shaved, bro. I get the broken pencil over your ear, but holy shit, are you wearing flip-flops?”

  The pencil was from the hospital. The one the doc worked at.

  “Hey, I brushed my hair. I showered. That’s good enough. Besides, nobody will think that a guy looking like me will be Envy. It’s why you do the whole substance-abuse-cliché, right?”

  Tony’s features slackened, and he looked away. “Right.”

  Jeez. Fucking sore spot—noted.

  The awkward silence extended too long and people stared. A movie star next to the night’s star. He hated it.

  Evan tried to bring the topic back to something more colloquial.

  “So, smile, like how you do it. How Parker does it.”

  He conjured an image of his eldest brother at his recent press conference but failed to remember the exact expression Parker gave when he walked up to the podium last week. His long auburn hair had been pinned back like some Viking motherfucker from the History Channel as he spoke about his latest futuristic sustainable invention that minimized waste. Total riot. It’d been two years since they’d all hung up their capes, so to speak, and Parker was still saving the world. That son-of-a-bitch wasn’t even trying. He deserved to be cocky.

  “Yeah, sorta. But don’t come on too sleazy, sometimes a half smile is good too, and when you know the paparazzi are watching, play it cool. Smirk like this.”

  “Right. Cos the paps are here for me.” Evan snorted sarcastically. “Well there’s only one actor in this group and it ain’t me. So how about I do this.” Evan emptied the contents of the champagne flute down his throat in one burning gulp.

  “That works too.” Tony laughed and clinked his already empty glass against Evan’s. Then he glanced back at the giggling women waiting for him. A redhead finger waved at Tony who then leaned into Evan. “You want me to save you a piece of that action?”

  “Uh. No thanks.”

  “What, you had them already?” Tony squinted at the women. “I haven’t, have I?”

  Evan shook his head. “How the hell should I know?”

  “Do your thing. See if they go for you instead of me. Then I’ll know.”

  Tony referred to their good cop, bad cop play. Evan would go in all broody artist, and then Tony would swoop in and rescue them all with some charismatic charm. He wanted broody, he got it. “You do your thing.”

  “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Nothing. Just not up for it. Is Parker still coming?”

  His brother exhaled in disbelief, one eye still on the girls. “Fine. Your choice. More for me.”

  “So… Parker?” He could be boycotting the night like the rest of the family. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. Mary and Flint would be here somewhere in a show of support. They always were. Liza was undercover in Vice busting a prostitution ring, and Sloan couldn’t be assed taking five minutes from her Fortnite game. Griff? He might turn up with Parks if he deemed it a suitably neutral affair. He was obsessed about following his tattoo to balance and systematically approached the sin of Greed with mathematical accuracy.

  But Wyatt… there was no way in hell he’d come. Once, they’d been the best of friends and Wyatt was the brother Evan had looked up to the most. He’d held the same devil-may-care attitude Evan loved. But now, they’d barely spoken since the day Sara died and Evan accused her of causing the tragedy. Well, Fuck Wyatt. And the motorcycle he rode in on. If he needed someone to blame, then whatever. Blame away. Evan could handle it.

  “Parks was supposed to be here five minutes ago,” Tony replied. “But you know how he is. He likes to make a grand entrance. Even though they’re your paintings, it’s always about him after all.” Tony’s mouth twisted slightly as he took in the artwork closest to him.

  Like most of the paintings, this one consisted of stark black and white lines, similar to a tattoo. But every so often, abstract slashes of color lit up the painting in meaningful ways. He’d titled it: Twisted. If it were up to Evan, he’d never title any artwork, but his agent insisted he do so for the event, so he went for morally ambiguous to fuck with people’s brains. Art critics loved it.

  “If anyone recognizes her, I’ll just bullshit. It’s what artists do,” Evan said, preempting Tony’s protest about the subject matter. “I’ll say it’s a political statement. She’s the symbol of everything wrong with the Deadly Seven and showing her in every day poses highlights that her loss was a tragedy that affects the everyman, or some shit. They already blame us for the bombing why not amplify it? What do we care? We gave up.”

  “You’re so full of it. Did you practice that in front o
f the mirror? And did you have to include her in every single one—and what’s that, a butt tattoo? Wyatt won’t like that. What do think he’s going to do when he sees you’ve shared it with the whole world?”

  “It wasn’t me who inked it. I haven’t even seen it in real life, I swear. I dreamed it. Could be made up for all I know.”

  Tony grunted and took another drink from the fresh glass that had somehow manifested in his hand. They both stood in stoic silence as they surveyed the paintings and sketches. Each canvas showed a different scene, black and white and detailed in its subject, from the tiny cockroach scurrying across the café floor to the label on the Gin bottle on the table. Although each painting showed a different scenario, there was one unifying factor: Sara.

  Evan wanted to take the pencil from his ear and scribble a mustache on the woman. Maybe some devil horns. Knowing these people, they’d probably pay more for it.

  “Fuck Wyatt,” Evan eventually said. “For the last time, I can’t help it. I need to paint the dreams to get them out of my head. I may as well make money from them.”

  “We don’t need money.” Tony shot him a dubious glance.

  “Fine. I did it because if someone turns up with a piece of information about her, then all the better.”

  “She’s dead, bro, and has been for two years. When are you going to give up the ghost?”

  “Evan. Darling. Where have you been?” An anorexic woman dressed in what appeared to be sausage skin was at Evan’s side, fraught with desperation. Her dark hair had been scraped high into a tight-as-tight ponytail, giving her a fake facelift, causing her eyes to tilt up at the corners. Around her neck was the most enormous collection of plastic gems he’d ever seen. Her smile was forced. “The exhibition started fifteen minutes ago.”

  “I’ll get us another drink.” Tony swept the loose hair from his eyes and made his exit. Evan noticed him dump the empty glasses on a waitress’s tray, take the last full flute, and then strolled away, hand in Gucci jacket pocket. Bastard.

  “Sorry,” Evan said to Azaria, his art dealer and agent, and then shoved his hands in his pockets, unable to meet her gaze. She clearly wished he’d taken more effort with his appearance. Despite this, envy emanated from her in waves, forcing him to close his eyes at the onslaught. The hazard with these shindigs was each guest desperately wanted his talent. People admired art because they felt the beauty resonate within them or some shit. He found it ironic it all came from his messed up mind. All he knew was that almost all of them wanted to recreate his talent for themselves, and they couldn’t. He forced his eyes to meet her apprehensive stare.

  “Well, lucky for you,” she said, “we’ve sold all but five paintings—and one of those is the finalé up for auction. The use of color and substance in that one when all the others are devoid of value is genius. So five left is an incredible result for a debut considering you’ve only just arrived. Okay, so we can get around this late business. Work the room, answer some questions. The more you engage, the easier it will be to sell the last four and help us fetch the best price for The Painting Within. And don’t forget the artist Q&A session in fifteen. Everyone is dying to know who the woman with the doll face is.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not telling. It adds to the mystery.” Plus he wanted someone else to point her out, to reveal something he didn’t know.

  She sighed but didn’t push it. She’d tried to weasel that information out of him many times before and he wouldn’t budge.

  Their secret lives had always been very private, but every news network in the country had the rare, blurry footage of Wyatt dressed as Wrath, in full hooded and masked battle gear, clutching Sara’s broken and blood-streaked body amongst the rubble. If they discovered Evan knew Sara, then it was entirely possible they’d figure out who he and his six siblings were. It was a dangerous game he played, but he was beyond caring.

  “C’mon, let’s work the room.” Azaria playfully bumped him with her bony hip and then dragged him to the first cluster of people with an excessive amount of disposable income.

  The group consisted of one female—a bronze skinned beauty that reminded him of Pocahontas with her slick, long hair—and two suited men, professional looking. Professional assholes.

  “Gentlemen and lady, may I introduce the star of the show, Evan Lazarus.”

  The envy in the room manifested three fold as the trio gave him their full attention.

  Evan forced a smile through his teeth.

  “Evan Lazarus,” said the tall, middle-aged man as he shook hands. The man had a mole over his lip, and he tried to hide it with a mustache. But Evan caught everything. He always did. Noticing the finer details was the curse of being an artist. Like his siblings, he went to college after combat training. He still remembered his art professor’s words that first day: Look around you. You’re among the smartest people in the world. You see the world as no one else sees it. You appreciate the world in a way no one else does. Like every other student there, Evan believed him. Then he grew up.

  The man in front of him kept talking. “Pleasure to meet you. Your work is absolutely amazing. I particularly like how the strokes…”

  Evan zoned out as the man said something wanky about his artistic style in relation to some other wanky artist from history. Banksy was thrown in there, which was even more wanky because you don’t touch Banksy. He was a street artist legend of epic proportions. This guy was just trying to impress the people around him with his superior knowledge of the genre. Unlucky for him, Evan mostly had no idea what he spoke about. He’d spent most of his college days sleeping after fighting crime at night, but it had been a good alibi for his secret identity. So he smirked and nodded, wondering if Tony would ever come back with that second drink.

  “Yes, I have to agree,” said the dark beauty, bringing Evan’s attention back to her. “I’ve already insisted James buy the one where your mystery woman is bathing.”

  She kept talking, but he was lost in the way her hair glistened down her bare back, reminding him of Grace’s long lush hair. Her halter dress gathered behind her neck in white strips, then hung low down her chest in a V shape that almost reached her navel. Okay, that was definitely not something he imagined Grace wearing. She was too sweet. Too matter-of-fact for a skanky outfit that had been artfully attacked with a switch-blade. How were the straps staying in place over those mountainous breasts?

  He made himself stare and attempted to feel something, anything, like he had earlier when he was with Grace, but… he glanced down at his dick—nothing. Fuck. That never happened before. Usually, it at least stirred at the site of a pretty lady. He narrowed his eyes at her breasts. Shit. Again, nothing.

  A spike in envy surged in the air and Evan glanced up to see the second man, dark skinned and solidly built, protectively drape an arm over Pocahontas’s bare shoulders. Must be James.

  The unspoken challenge undeniably pulled at Evan’s core. He wanted a piece of him? Oh, bring it on. The night just got more exciting.

  “The one where the woman is bathing is called Wet Nightmares.” Evan asked. “Why did you pick that one?” Of course he’d guessed, but he wanted to hear her say it in front of her man.

  “It’s the way she gazes into the mirror as she dries herself, totally unaware of us. It makes the viewer feel like a voyeur, but at the same time”—she blushed—“you feel excited, aroused.”

  Evan caught her gaze and held it. Right. Aroused. So the opposite of what he felt right now.

  “Yes, well, it’s a talent how you capture the moment,” said the companion. “Don’t know why you called it a nightmare though.”

  Sensing the bad for business discomfort, Azaria made their excuses and pulled Evan away to visit the next group.

  “There—just over by The Painting Within,” Azaria said, leading him onwards, one arm stretched forward with her champagne flute, the other gripping his forearm. “We’ll speak with the Mayor next.”

  As they approached the auction item, Evan halt
ed, surprised. The scene grabbed hold of him. The crowd admiring the painting were completely unaware that they were the people within the painting. He recognized them immediately from his dreams. He’d known each one intimately. Each curve of their face, each dimple, each freckle, every fiber. Sin wafted from the familiar strangers as they admired the artwork. Not only five days earlier had he been in his studio watching his brush reveal the beings in painstakingly slow strokes. His heart raced. He hadn’t thought it possible. He thought he was insane to imagine it. To hope.

  The only thing missing was…

  A sharp rush of air escaped his lips. There she was—the apparition that completed the picture—in a caterer’s uniform, walking away with her tray of empty glasses. He knew her face better than his own. He’d seen it more often than his own reflection. Sara. Wyatt's dead fiancé.

  Alive and breathing.

  He shook his head as if to clear the haze. Maybe he’d drunk too much, but no, that wasn’t right. He’d only had one glass. It had to be her. She was here.

  They all thought he’d had some secret, dirty crush on his brother’s fiancé. But all along he knew, deep down inside, that the twist in his gut had been envy. Hers. She’d envied his family to the point of evil. She was the one who alerted the Deadly Seven to the disturbance at the front of the mid-town apartment complex. Strange, well trained, white-robed warriors had randomly damaged the cars in the street and when his family turned up, they picked a fight. They fought like professionals and when it looked like his family were turning the tide of the battle, Evan felt Sara’s unique brand of sin flare from inside the building. Suddenly, as though called by the Pied Piper, the masked warriors retreated to her, and then the bomb went off, destroying all evidence of their existence. Even the camera footage only showed Evan and his family. He didn’t say anything about Sara until it was too late and Wyatt dragged her lifeless body out of the rubble.