I returned to Kush and the bar. “Sorry about that.”
They all stared at the TV now, pointing at Jay and cracking up.
“What is that fool doing?” The bartender clapped. “I can’t wait until he gets money. You know he’ll be entertaining us for years.”
“He’s not the brightest one, is he?” Kush nudged my shoulder.
I decided to chug my beer.
The bartender held up the remote control and rewound it. “Oh wait. This is my favorite part.”
Jay faced the opened balcony like a perverted Spiderman. His bare cheeks puffed back at us. He held his hands up against the curtain as if he was trying to either scare the hell out of the women or peer inside.
Your publicist is going to murder you.
In the next second, he rammed through the curtain like he was on the football field. Everything fell around him, and then the video shut off. Apparently, the recorder had started laughing and dropped the phone.
“How did they get that video so quickly and put it on TV?” I finished my beer and signaled for another one.
“Who knows? But, that must’ve been some woman in that room.” Kush smiled and displayed those perfect teeth.
I considered that for a minute and tensed.
I didn’t even think about who he had run in after. Fuck me! He would probably only do that for Evie.
No. I shook my head. No, Evie isn’t here. That would just be crazy.
“I see you disagree,” Kush said.
“Huh?”
“You don’t think he ran after a hot woman.”
I sighed. “Let’s hope he didn’t.”
“Oh wait. You think he went in there after a man?”
“No, not Jay. It would’ve been a woman.”
“On a first name basis, I see.” Kush chuckled. “Are you a fan?”
“Pretty much. I’m probably in his top five of most supportive fans.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I’ve been following his career for years.
Since little league, actually.
Kush’s green eyes sparkled. “Would you date him?”
“Why?”
“I’m trying to get a read on you.”
The bartender set a new beer in front of me.
“I’m not that hard to read.” I took a long gulp. “Usually a person can read me pretty easily. In seconds, actually. It’s just now, the pages are rough and wrinkled.”
“Are they? The pages look fine to me. Maybe the book needs some revisions.”
“No. The pages need to be taken out altogether and some new sheets sewn in.”
“Hell no. Don’t mess with those pages. Maybe you just need a new plotline.”
I tugged at the top of my hood and returned to the beer. “How far are we going to take this metaphor?”
“I could go all day. Or, I could just say what I have to say, raw with no chaser.”
“Then just give it to me raw. I’m running out of good book metaphors to explain why shit isn’t okay with me.”
“Someone hurt you.”
“You’re a genius, Kush.”
“And you’re fucking gorgeous and glow bright, Pipe.”
“Are you flirting with a scarred man?”
“No way. Never that.” He licked his lips. “I’m flirting with a scared man.”
I glanced back at the TV screen. The bartender had finally shut the TV off. It had to be close to five in the morning. She started cleaning a few glasses with a towel and hanging them up on these odd antler racks inside the ice cream truck.
“Did I end our conversation?” Kush asked.
“No.” I chugged more of the beer. “So, you like men?”
“I like what I like.”
“Men and women?”
“I like what I like.”
“Let’s try to be more specific.”
“I like it all, both, mixed, transitioning. Whatever. It’s not that I’ve dated all types of people. It’s that I don’t limit myself in love.”
“So you’re a whore.”
In a mock toast, he tapped the top of his beer against mine. “Basically, yes.”
“And who is Saka to you?”
“I already told you. She was my muse.”
“What does that mean?”
“What do you think it means?” he asked. “You’re my muse now. What do you think about the experience?”
“I never said I was your muse.”
“That painting is the first in a series. I haven’t picked up a brush in one whole year. Do you even understand what that could mean to an artist? It means that I was broken. Someone broke me. I returned with you. I didn’t pick up a paintbrush until this morning. I didn’t do the thing that gave me passion.”
“Besides fucking.”
“Well,” he tapped my glass again with his beer, “yes. Besides fucking.”
“Did you fuck Saka?”
“I fuck who I want.”
“Again, not an answer.”
“I’m not good with those.”
“I see.” I finished my beer. “Why did you stop painting for the year?”
“Broken heart. The sky shifted to black. Grass to fire. Water to dust. I lost myself. Nothing inspired me. You know what I’m saying?”
“I do?”
His eyes saddened. “You’re broken hearted.”
I shifted in my seat. “I’m just Pipe.”
“That’s why you sit in your studio like a crack addict instead of who you are meant to be?”
“And who am I meant to be, Kush?”
“Once you opened the door and I spotted your face, I knew you were special.” He raised his hands and did this huge gesture of having wings on his back. “You looked like an angel that fell to the earth. Has anyone ever told you that you looked like an angel?”
Malcolm’s voice filled my head. “Because sometimes I like to hear angels cry.”
Kush didn’t wait for my answer. “What would you do, if you found a lost angel?”
“I’m not a lost angel.”
“But what would you do, if you found one?”
“Besides dress it up in cool clothes and take amazing selfies? I don’t know.” I gestured for the bartender.
“You can’t hide an angel. It would be wrong. Not enough people believe in something greater than themselves. You have to show angels to the world.”
I tossed him a skeptical look. “And I’m an angel?”
“Yes. And I’m going to show you to the world.”
“No.”
“Yes. You’re my muse.”
“Look. I modeled for you today because it was something to do—”
“And now you’ll be famous.”
This was why I never dated creatives. Their ideas soared above most. They had these odd outlooks on life that made my views seem realistic. And one should never put realism and me together.
Ever.
“I’m glad I spotted you this morning.” He turned to me and smiled. “Saka may be annoyed for a little while, but I’ll handle her.”
“I only modeled for that one—”
“Just be nice to her, and she’ll warm to the idea.”
He’s crazy.
Ignoring me, he stared off into the distance. “Fame makes you lazy.”
“Fame?”
“I’m Kush.” He placed his hand on my thigh and rubbed it. “One day, I hope you’ll understand truly who I am.”
A little heat came my way, but I stifled it. I had no time for flings or some kooky artist that carried around a big ego and stuffed his cock into everything.
Kush disturbed my thoughts with next words. “I like sex with interesting people.”
“Take your hand off of my thigh.” I stared at it.
He removed his hand but leaned close to me. “Do you like fucking interesting people?”
“I used to.”
“Those cuts made you stop?”
For one whole minute, I’d forgotten about them.
I’d sunk back into the old Pipe, hot guy with money in his pocket. And then Kush reminded me again.
Purple. No. What was our safe word?
“Cat.” I dug into my pockets, pulled out a few twenties, and laid them on the bar.
“You leaving?” Kush asked.
“Yeah. I’ll catch you later.”
“Not that late. We paint at noon.”
“I didn’t agree to that.” I slid off of my stool and left.
“You need me to walk you back?” he called after me.
“No, I can take care of myself.”
“I want to walk you.”
“No.”
“Why won’t you let me treat you right?” Kush asked.
“Because I’m not used to it, and I don’t know you.”
“How do you get to know someone if you can’t even walk them home and make sure they’re safe?”
“I’ll be fine.” I marched off.
“Beware of men with knives.”
“Fuck you and cat!” I gritted my teeth and came close to turning around and slamming my fist into his jaw. He didn’t even sound sarcastic or like he was joking. I just felt guilty, like a hypocrite.
“I can take care of myself,” the guy with knife wounds all over his face yelled bravely to everyone. “I’m a fraud, but I’m not a puppy that needs to be cuddled. And I’m damn sure not an angel.”
I zipped up my hooded jacket and stalked down the street toward my studio. Couples disappeared into Wynwood’s few darkened alleys. The police patrolled. A few of the residents from the neighboring ghetto prowled around the rich and artsy. Both groups appeared uncomfortable.
Everyone gave me space when I walked down the sidewalk. I wasn’t sure if they spotted the scars or was put off by the glasses.
“I’m Kush.”
I picked up my pace.
“Fame makes people lazy.”
I rounded the corner into the path that led to my studio. It was so dark, the trees towered over like black monsters, wagging their branches and flicking their leaves. Pulling out my phone, I decided to look up this narcissist neighbor who for some reason decided to spend his day messing with my head.
Muse? Stop it. You just want to fuck the freak show to say you did. You get off on sleeping with damaged goods?
I typed in Kush and stopped in the middle of the path as hundreds of results appeared.
“I’m Kush.”
He was older than I thought. Earlier, I’d guessed he was my age of twenty. Actually, he’d just hit thirty and had been introduced to the art world at fourteen. I went to the images search and so many came up, my thumb hurt as I slid them across the screen. Tons and tons of photos—Kush posed with hot women and gorgeous men. There was even one with him kneeling by a dwarf actor and tonguing him between the lips.
The magazine spent more than enough words analyzing Kush’s sexuality. The most recent images showed him strolling around with Saka on the beach.
The article read: “Kush comes to Miami. Will the hot city ever be the same?”
Why is he sitting in that dingy studio next to me if he’s this famous?
Then I realized something.
Shit. I got to get that painting from him. Dad would go crazy if some famous artist had me all over the world, scarred. Especially since Dad has no idea I’m injured to begin with.
At first, modeling for the painting was no big deal. I didn’t think anybody would see it. I’d hoped it would be therapeutic, and in a way, it had been. The modeling kept my mind off of everything.
But now…
He can’t show that painting to anyone. I’m not ready for all of that yet. I just want to hide for a year.
My phone buzzed. A text popped up. I was surprised anybody was up this late on any coast. I checked the screen and cursed.
Mrs. Elaine: No one has heard from you. I’m calling your father.
“Fuck.” I rushed to type.
Me: Pls, don’t contact him. I just need time.
Mrs. Elaine: Are you okay?
Me: Of course.
Mrs. Elaine: They said you were in the hospital.
Me: I’m out now.
Mrs. Elaine: They said you snuck out.
Me: I’m fine.
Mrs. Elaine: Talk to me on the phone.
Me: I can’t.
Mrs. Elaine: I love you.
Me: I know.
Mrs. Elaine: Don’t you hurt yourself, boy. Do you hear me? I love you. We all do.
Me: I got to go.
I sighed and typed again.
Me: Loves!
Mrs. Elaine: Loves! A whole lot of loves! Bible loves and Jesus loves and God loves!
Even though tears glazed across my eyes, I had to chuckle at her last text. I didn’t type anything back. I couldn’t think of anything else to say. For some reason, it hurt to tell her I loved her back. Any other night, I could yell it out with no problem. And I always meant it.
Not in that moment.
I shut my phone off and dropped it in my pocket. “I just need time.”
Someone whispered behind me, “Need time for what?”
I jumped and turned around with fists in the air. Raising his hands, Kush stood in front of me, laughing.
“Dude, I’m a lover not a fighter.”
“You’re also a creep who scares people late at night.”
He kept his hands up. “No, you’re just a scared man.”
“Why are you behind me like that?”
“I wanted to say sorry for that last comment and make sure you got back safely.”
“I Googled you.”
“And?” He lowered his hands, checked his pockets, and pulled out a small joint. “Are you impressed?”
“I don’t want that painting of me revealed to anyone. I thought you were a low-time artist, not an internationally known one.”
“Too late, papí. You signed a contract.”
I leaned my head to the side. “What contract?”
“The paperless one.” Kush tapped his head.
“I want the canvas.”
“Okay.” He walked off.
“Are you going to give it to me now?”
“Sure. Just come have a drink with me.”
“I don’t want to—”
“Just one and I hand over the image.” He disappeared off into the darkness in front of me.
Just one drink, get the fucking canvas, and then probably find a new place to hide and sulk.
Chapter Thirteen
Pipe
One drink with Kush represented three glasses of Jamaican rum and two finely packed blunts. I had a clear plan: drink a little, be nice, grab the painting while he’s drunk, and leave.
Getting Kush fucked up was the biggest problem. He finished the bottle of rum before I could start my third glass. When we started smoking the first blunt, he began rolling a new one. The man lived like a Roman—orgasming off of the pleasures of life with no end in sight.
He reminded me of me.
“What’s your sign?” I asked.
“Guess.”
“Cancer.”
“Goddamn. You’re good.” He licked the side of the blunt paper with a long tongue, one I may have gazed at longer than was necessary, and then he folded it down into one thick, long, smoking phenomenon of good weed and tobacco paper. “How did you get Cancer right on the first guess?”
“Cancers overdo it.”
“Really?”
“They’re ruled by the stomach. Always hungry. Always eating, drinking, and fucking. I’m a Cancer.”
“Cancers rock.” He set the second blunt on the side, probably to let it dry. “When’s your birthday?”
“Guess.” I handed him the blunt I was smoking.
“Naw. I don’t know enough about you to guess. You’re too closed-mouth right now.”
“Maybe.”
“Definitely.” He stood up and went to the record player. “We should get a bit more relaxed.”
“After this blunt
, I’m done. I’m going next door.”
“That can’t be true. I planned for an all-nighter.”
“It’s close to dawn.”
“Good.”
Now I know how Evie and Jay feel.
“This is the last one,” I said.
“Yeah? I hope not.” He handed the blunt back to me. “I was hoping to be with you all morning too.”
Something about the way Kush looked at me made me want to shift. It didn’t make me uncomfortable. The gaze triggered lust inside of me. When I grabbed the blunt from him, he slipped his fingertips along my hand. I shivered, not ready for his touch, but craving it just the same.
I held the weed in my hand yet didn’t touch the end. “I really have to go.”
“Stay the night.”
“Meaning?”
“It’s an invitation, Pipe. Not a request to rape you.”
“An invitation for what?”
“Fun.”
“What sort of fun?”
“All types.” He returned to his album collection and perused some of the titles. “What do you feel like listening to next?”
“Anything but that reggae song.”
He chuckled. “We no love tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Is that true, though?”
“Is what true?”
He glanced over his shoulder and hit me with that breathtaking green gaze. “We no love tonight?”
“Oh God. You’re a talented artist, but your verbal game needs work.” I inhaled just to have something to do. Getting more wasted wasn’t a smart idea around this one. At least, I knew that he wouldn’t go too far like Malcolm.
Kush hid his true self. I understood that for sure. But whatever sexual vice he possessed, it hadn’t revealed itself yet, so he couldn’t be too sick. Dark desires revealed themselves pretty early. Besides, his aura stayed bright and green. Tonight, there was even flecks of gold.
He was beautiful.
No. Hell no. Don’t think about that. Get the painting and get out of here.
“There we go.” Kush flashed an album with a black man on the cover holding up a shiny trumpet. “You ever heard of Supreme?”
“No, but I’m guessing he’s ‘supreme.’”
“You would be right.” Chuckling, he took his time slipping the black album out of its cover.
“How long have you been into albums?”
“Since I’ve been able to hold a record. My mom was big into them. Plus, Dad had a record store.”
The COMPLETE Coventon Campus Series: Books I, II, & III Page 44