For The One (Gaming The System Book 5)

by Brenna Aubrey

  Cabinets and standing equipment lined the walls, along with a roll of different backdrops hanging from the ceiling. A large, high-end drafting table dominated the room, located just under the skylight. Upon that table were a variety of brushes, palettes, boxes of charcoal, pastels and containers of special pencils and erasers, all perfectly organized. I reached over to pick up a shiny metal ruler.

  “Don’t touch,” he admonished. After a stern frown creased his brow, he added, “Please.”

  My eyes widened and I pulled my hand back. Apparently, the studio was sacrosanct. “I don’t see any of your rules posted in here like in your smithy.”

  “That’s because people are not permitted to come in here—besides me.”

  I blinked. “Mia said she’s been here.”

  “She stands in the doorway, as does everyone else. I don’t like having people in this space.”

  “Do you want me to go stand over at the door?”

  “No. Just—if you don’t touch anything, that would be good.”

  I was a bit overwhelmed at the special status of being able to enter the artist’s temple when his closest loved ones could not. Did that reveal a certain level of special trust? A lump formed in my throat at the thought.

  I fidgeted in my spot, then stuffed my hands in my pockets as if to reassure him that I would behave. “Deal.”

  He went to one of the easels and removed a blank canvas from it, setting it carefully on the ground. Then he opened up a big cabinet and flipped through a few boards without looking at them. It was as if he knew exactly what he was looking for and exactly where it was.

  Moving from the cabinet back to the now-empty easel, he slowly, tentatively set a board on it. Once I got a look at what was on that board, I about fell over in shock. I most certainly couldn’t breathe.

  It was an absolutely exquisite acrylic painting of me… Holy. Shit.

  Though he’d hinted that it might be lurid, in reality, it wasn’t at all. The image was a close-up of my head and shoulders, depicting me staring over my bare shoulder. I had no shirt on, but as I was turned away from the viewer, there were no anatomical details. Even if he had chosen to be more explicit, I could not have felt more special in that moment than if Dégas himself had painted me with not a stitch of clothing on.

  It must have taken him forever, and it was so lovingly detailed—the glint in my eyes, the strands of hair splayed across my shoulders, the curve of my earlobe. I labored to draw my next breath. “I don’t ever remember you taking a photo of me. How—how did you do this?”

  He seemed confused by my non sequitur question but answered anyway. “I don’t paint from photos. Photos are two-dimensional. My memory remembers everything in three dimensions. And I’ve seen you enough to recall the details in order to create this image.”

  “So is that the reason you didn’t do a full-frontal depiction? Because you haven’t seen me naked?”

  He looked away and shrugged.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off the painting. It made me feel strange inside—special, like a queen. Janja, ti si kraljica. Those words in Papa’s voice popped into my head. Telling me I was a queen. I’d never felt like one again until this moment. I swallowed.

  “Do you like it?” he asked.

  I was blinking tears from my eyes. Like it?

  “It’s stunning. I’m just so…”

  “What?”

  “Overwhelmed…” I shook my head. “You’re amazing, Wil.”

  He didn’t reply, but he did turn back to look at the canvas.

  “Would you paint me if I modeled for you?”

  “Naked?” I laughed at his shocked face, which was good. It helped those strong emotions dissipate, and I welcomed that. Because with those memories came pain. And I didn’t want to remember. Not now.

  “Yes, naked… Clearly, you don’t need me to be here for a head shot.”

  He looked from my shoulder to the canvas and back again. “I don’t need you here while I paint.”

  I smiled. “Okay, shall I just model for you now then?” I reached as if to pull my shirt up again—mostly because I wanted to rile him up a bit, but also because I couldn’t get over my sheer awe of his talent. He oozed with it, and I was confused and a little at a loss for how to act.

  His brows rose in alarm. “Don’t take your shirt off again. I just got things under control,” he said with a glance at his crotch.

  “I’m sorry…I’m just being goofy because I’m uncomfortable.” I sighed, dropping my arms to my sides. “You know, it’s really not fair.”

  “What’s not fair?”

  “That you’re handsome, smart and mega-talented. I have no idea why you seem to be of the opinion that you need to prove your worthiness to anyone.”

  His eyes lowered, that same troubled look clouding his features. Would he finally talk about it or would he be tight-lipped again? And what did it all have to do with his mom and Disneyland?

  I figured this was as good a time as any to spring it on him. “I have an idea…we should go to Disneyland to have fun while working on your crowds issue.”

  He stiffened, big hands curling into fists at his sides. “I’m not going to Disneyland.”

  “Hey, if you want me to help you, you’ve got to be open to my suggestions. We don’t have to go anywhere near Adventureland or the Jungle Cruise, okay? To be honest, it would be no big loss for me. They tell dorky jokes, and I really don’t need to see the ‘back side of water’ for the zillionth time.” When he didn’t say anything, I pressed it further. “Come on, Wil. It’s the happiest place on earth. You can go with me there, can’t you? We’ll just go for a few hours.”

  He took a deep breath, then let it go.

  “If you don’t say ‘yes,’ I’m whipping my top off again.”

  He held his hand out. “Okay, okay. Yes. I’ll go.”

  “Damn,” I harrumphed. “I kind of wanted you to touch them again.”

  This time he rewarded me with a deep color on his face. “You like teasing me too much.”

  I laughed. “Well, you’re going to have to learn to tease me back.”

  His stern expression dissolved into a soft smile that made my stomach flip. “When will we go?”

  “I’d say next weekend, but I have to work all day on Saturday. A weekday would be better—and definitely less crowded—but you have to work.”

  “I can take a day of leave,” he said. “They wouldn’t say anything because I never take a day off. We can go on Wednesday.”

  “So we’d be disrupting your regular schedule and working on crowds. Two birds with one stone. I like that.” Once again his face clouded, so I continued on. “I have to work in the morning at the Refugee Support Center. The group therapy session ends at ten. If you come to get me early, you could sit in, if you want.”

  He looked like he was about to say no, so I scooted up to him and—very slowly, so he knew what I was doing—put my arms around his neck. Then I rose on my tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. “Please?”

  He heaved a great sigh. “I’ll be there. Just give me the address.”

  A little while later, he took me home, and after having spent practically the entire weekend with him, it almost felt like I had a William-shaped hole in my life. I was amazed and a little frightened at how much I really was looking forward to next Wednesday.

  Chapter 16

  William

  As Jenna asked, I’ve arrived at the Refugee Support Center early. When I give my name at the front desk and tell them why I’m there, they are expecting me. Ann, her friend who I already know from the RMRA, comes out to escort me back.

  “She’s busy right now. Things got a bit emotional this morning, so while I think she originally wanted you to sit in on the circle, it probably wouldn’t be best right now.”

  I have to admit that I’m relieved. I’ve been in a few group counseling sessions when I was a teenager and they did not go well.

  When I enter through the door, I’m in a large r
oom set up like a classroom with desks and chairs. There are computers along the wall, as well as groupings of couches and comfortable chairs near bookcases loaded with novels and nonfiction titles. In the back corner is a ring of seats with six people talking quietly.

  Nearby, just opposite the support circle, Jenna stands beside a young woman, her head bent. They are talking quietly, and the other girl—a teenager, I think—is dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

  Ann appears at my shoulder, speaking quietly. “Anchali is having some anxiety from some bad memories that were brought up in the session. Jenna is talking her down. It will be a little while.”

  I watch Jenna as she comforts the young lady, touching her on the arm much the way she does with me. I realize these things that I appreciate are things she shares with others, too. And while that might make me feel less special, it doesn’t.

  Jenna likes to help others. She’s open-minded and sees things from different perspectives. Yet just last weekend, she told me that she wished she could see the world as I do. That thought elicits a warm feeling in the center of my chest.

  As I watch her now, I can see that she likes to help people. And it can’t be easy helping people here, in a refugee center, when she still has such awful memories of the war she lived through. But she listens to others tell their stories and helps them however she can.

  Just like she’s helping me. And though I know that it’s in her best interest, I’d like to think that she’d help me anyway, without her tiara on the line.

  Ann is speaking to me now. “Can you help me with Raul? Jenna asked him to make a sign, but I need to get the classroom ready for our next session.” She points to a young man with black hair and bronze skin sitting at an art desk.

  I’m wary of approaching a stranger so I walk slowly, trying to formulate what to say. What kind of help does he need? He appears to be drawing something. As I get closer, he glances up at me and then looks away.

  “Hello. I’m William Drake. Do you need any assistance?”

  Without looking at me, he shrugs. I stand there for a moment and watch him continue to work. He’s creating rather complex lettering in a very modern, urban style, similar to some of the more artistic street tagging I’ve seen on random concrete walls and freeway overpasses. Ann said it’s a sign for the support center, and it looks like he’s doing the outline.

  I stuff my hands in my pockets, unsure of what to do. I continue standing there before interrupting to offer a suggestion.

  “You’ve created an interesting font. But if you are going to overlap the letters like that, then the bottom leg of the ‘n ‘should be on top of the ‘g’ instead of beneath it, as you have it. It’s more aesthetically pleasing to have the letters overlap all the same way.”

  The young man sits back and studies the lettering for a moment, tilting his head. “I guess that might look good.”

  I bend over to grab a stray piece of paper and a woefully dull pencil, then quickly sketch out what I mean. “I’m not well versed in urban-style art, but it might look like this.”

  The young man is watching every move I make without saying anything. “How did you do that so fast?” He speaks with a heavy Spanish accent.

  “It’s just a mock-up, but you can also make sure you center your word on the page by counting the number of letters in the word. Then, pick the middle letter and start with that right at the center of the page. Like this.” As I demonstrate, he puts his pencil down to focus on what I’m doing.

  “Where did you learn that?” he asks.

  “I just drew a lot—like you are doing. I was never any good at school besides art classes. I tried college and it wasn’t for me. But the instructor there said I could study privately with her and a group of other students. You could study with friends and learn by critiquing each other’s work. That’s mostly the way I learned.”

  “I’m still in high school.”

  “Start with an art class there.”

  “But don’t they just teach you stuff you don’t want to do?”

  “You have to learn the basic exercises in order to do the stuff you want to do. It’s about building your skills and technique.”

  I pass along a few other tips, and then he pulls some sheets from his binder, showing me some of his previous work. It’s impressive. I ask him about certain choices he’s made and find I’m learning new things, too.

  “I’m Raul,” he says suddenly, holding out his hand. I stare at it for a few seconds then realize he wants me to shake it. I’m not a big fan of shaking hands, so I hold mine out as a high-five and he smiles and hits it.

  “I’m William.”

  “Are you going to teach here?”

  “I’m here to pick up Jenna. I’m not a teacher.”

  He tilts his head to the side. “You should be.”

  Something about how he says that makes me feel good. He turns back to his paper and begins working again on a new sign using my suggestions as examples. Then Jenna is by my side, watching him.

  “Hey, R,” she says. “Sorry I couldn’t get to you earlier. I had to help Anchali.”

  Raul looks up. “That’s okay, your boyfriend was helping me. He’s pretty good. I just need to know how to spell some of these words for the sign you want.”

  Jenna looks at me out of the corner of her eyes as she bends to write down a phrase for Raul. She’s blushing. I’m thinking about Raul’s assumption that I am Jenna’s boyfriend, and it makes me feel warm, too, right in my chest. Is Jenna thinking about it, too?

  I watch her as she’s bent over, the curve of her legs, her butt, her hips. I want her to be my girlfriend. I want it in every sense of that word. But it’s more than just about kissing or having sex with a woman I find incredibly desirable. I want to spend time with her. I want to spend my days with her, along with my nights.

  Suddenly, I want to hold her hand so I reach down and take it. Her head jerks toward me, then she smiles. Her fingers close around mine, and that warm feeling in my chest starts spreading.

  “What do you think of our center?”

  I nod. “It’s a very interesting place. I bet they are sad you are leaving.”

  Raul’s head comes up. “You’re leaving?”

  Jenna’s head jerks sharply toward the boy. “No worries, R. I’m not leaving anytime soon.”

  “But—“ I begin.

  “Wil, it’s time to go. ‘Bye, Raul!” She’s tugging me along and waving goodbye to Ann while giving her some instructions. Then she grabs her things, not speaking again until we are in the parking lot.

  Letting out a breath, she says, “If you come back here, please don’t say anything about my leaving, okay?”

  Jenna is still holding my hand, so I tighten my grip. “They don’t know?”

  “They don’t need to know. Not yet. I’ll give them notice. The Faire doesn’t even leave the area for two and a half months.”

  “You don’t have the courage to tell them now?”

  Her eyebrows bunch together. “It’s not about courage. Jeez, William. Sometimes you can just be so…”

  “Abrasive?” I’ve heard that one before.

  “Judgmental of other people’s choices. I have good, valid reasons for leaving.”

  Running away, I mentally add. “You also have good, valid reasons for staying,” I say aloud.

  She drops my hand and blows out a breath. “Let’s just get in the car.”

  Sitting with her arms folded across her chest, she’s silent most of the drive to Disneyland. So I begin speaking to her about the urban art that Raul was creating while pointing out some examples I see on our drive through Anaheim.

  Some of it is just crude, ugly tagging, but there are some examples of truly beautiful artistic expression. It makes me hope the creators of that art will someday learn and push their craft to a professional level. I realize how good it felt to teach someone else a little of what I know—and for him to appreciate that knowledge I shared.

  “I liked teaching Raul.”


  “Good. Teaching can be fun.” She smiled, and I could swear the light inside the car grew brighter.

  “Have you ever thought about becoming a teacher?”

  She looks at me for a long time. “Yeah, actually. I think maybe, someday…when I’m done filling my need to wander.”

  I frown. The less said about that, the better. “I was surprised to see Ann. I’d forgotten that she worked with you.”

  “Yes. That’s how we met, and when I started going to the RMRA, she got really interested in it, too.”

  “Is she also a war refugee?”

  Jenna nods. “Yes. From Somalia. She and her family escaped the war there by fleeing to Kenya before making it to the US.”

  I think about that as we continue to drive. “And Raul? Where is he from?”

  “Honduras. His mom was killed on their journey here, which was almost completely on foot, all the way up from Central America. It was horrible.”

  I picture Ann and Raul and their families walking through jungles or across deserts to find safety, and I’m suddenly sad that others have been born into such unfortunate situations. Like Jenna, for example. I can only imagine she saw more death and horror in the first five years of her life than I’ve ever seen—movies included. I realize how lucky I am, especially as I think about the news reports of the refugees from Syria who are escaping under similar circumstances.

  “What was your journey like?” I ask.

  “Huh? Oh, you mean from Yugoslavia?”

  “Yes, was it like that? On foot?”

  She pauses for a moment and glances out the window. “No, we were put on a truck in Sarajevo—my aunt, my sister and me—and driven to Zagreb in Croatia. There was a checkpoint along the way, and…” She shudders and shakes her head. “Anyway, it was not like Raul’s at all. We had some family in Zagreb and stayed there until we could fly to America. I was lucky.”

  After hearing her story and some of the things she’s been through, I don’t think that she’s as lucky as she feels she is. I just think she’s strong. Incredibly strong.