Beyond Heat

by Ashley Logan

  “Why are you getting defensive about painting a wall? Is it a money thing?”

  “Yes.”

  I make a sound of a negative game-show buzzer. “I’m sorry, that was a one syllable answer. Please try again.”

  “Yes, it’s a money thing. Any further probing will incite the eight or higher defense. Your turn.”

  Growling, I flop back on his bed. “I have never painted anything mint, or been strapped for cash. I suck at painting, but I can draw a decent cartoon from time to time. I like looking at all kinds of art and trying to understand what the artist was thinking when it was done. I once visited a tattoo parlor and spent a whole day looking at the designs on the walls.”

  Spinning around, he lies on his stomach, resting his face on his hands to be level with mine, and close enough so that I can smell the gum he’s been chewing. “Why did you go in?”

  Transfixed by the close proximity to those eyes and those lips, I forget what we were talking about. “Go where?”

  “The tattoo parlor. Were you going to get one?”

  I shrug. “I was thinking about it. I’d seen a bunch of videos online showing these amazing works of art tattooed over scars to alter their appearance and make them practically invisible. It looked and sounded like a perfect solution, so I went about trying to figure out what I’d want to look at instead of scar tissue.”

  Bruno is frowning at me in that disgruntled, ‘you’re perfect just the way you are’ way he has. I don’t bother to argue with him. Instead, turning my eyes to his ceiling, I carry on.

  “By the time I’d had a consultation, I was informed that my scarring was so bad in places, it would likely ruin any design I chose. Apparently the ink doesn’t absorb well into the scarred skin layers, not to mention that instead of dotting the ink in with the needle, they basically have to slice instead, and even then it might not take, and I’d need repeat sessions, and even then, it might not look as desired. My scar so sensitive to touch that I don’t even like rough fabric touching me. A tattoo basically sounded like a whole bunch of excruciating pain for something that might turn out worse than what I already have. Although I’d been determined to tolerate pain to a certain extent to hide the damn things, I couldn’t justify it after that.”

  Turning my head sideways so I can see his face, I find Bruno watching me, his expression thoughtful as he chews his gum slowly.

  “Why do you want to hide them so bad? They’re part of you.”

  “Is that a formal question?” I ask, quirking a brow. “The answer is: they’re ugly and I hate them with every fiber of my being.”

  His eyes don’t leave me. “I don’t believe you. For one thing, their presence bears no reflection of your beauty as a person in a physical, mental, spiritual, or any other way, and I know you love the strength and insights you’ve gained through the tragedy, so you cannot hate them with every fiber of your being. It’s more than that.”

  Staring at him a moment, I turn back to the ceiling. “Any other reasons I may have are eight or higher.”

  Silent for a long moment, he eventually resumes his chewing. “Final round?”

  “Fine. My choice.” Still looking to the blank ceiling for inspiration, I puff a series of short breaths into the silence, as if my train of thought is literally chugging uphill.

  “In the whole time we’ve known each other, you’ve mentioned your family maybe once.” I feel him tense and turn back to see his face. His eyes are avoiding me again. “Do you have any siblings?”

  Letting go of his breath, he chews a little before speaking. “Not in the conventional sense,” he says slowly. “I was my mother’s only child, but my father had three kids with his wife before I came along, and another two with her afterward. I am his shameful secret and I actually prefer it that way. I want nothing to do with him, or them. No point in ruining their ideas about an ideal father out of an artificial sense of rejection. I had a good childhood. I didn’t miss him. I had an uncle that was pretty damn special, so I learned what it was to be an honorable man from him. When I joined the army, I had more brothers than I could ask for. Sisters too. But I only really hang out with Shermansky and Jenkins these days.” He blows a bubble and lets it pop, as if punctuating the end of his contribution. “How about you? A sister, right?”

  My throat goes dry. “Debbie.”

  Bruno makes the same angry buzzer noise I’d made earlier. “I’m sorry. I must insist on an expansion of this Debbie. You close?”

  “In age,” I say carefully. “And height. She’s a year older.”

  “A year older,” he repeats, rolling onto his back. “You know, when I asked if you were close, I didn’t mean age. What’s it like having a big sister?”

  “I don’t know. Annoying?”

  “Why?”

  “Too many questions. You owe me.”

  He sighs. “What do you want?”

  Thinking for a while, I decide I want to get back to his reasons for becoming tense when I mentioned family. “Tell me about your Mom,” I say, taking note of how his eyes wince a little, even though they’re closed. “I imagine you must have been very close, given you really only had each other growing up.”

  “We were very close, yes.” His voice is strained, and I know I’m on the right track.

  “Were?” I press.

  “Were you and Debbie close once?” he counters, his jaw hardening.

  “When I was younger, I thought she was the most amazing person in the world and wanted to be just like her. Except I didn’t want to be the oldest, because then I could still sneak into her bed for a cuddle when I was scared of the dark. Your turn.”

  “When I was serving out of the country, Mom and I drifted apart. So far apart, we’ll never mend the rift.”

  Unsatisfied, I roll onto my side so I can look down at him. “When I learned you were new to Buffalo, I remember you saying you moved here for your mom,” I say, confused. “You’re telling me you’re not close? Even though you were extremely close and you live in the same town?”

  His eyes open, looking up at me through a glistening sheen. “Sometimes you can be right next to someone and still be a million miles away, Scar.”

  His words make me want to cry and I don’t know if he’s talking about his relationship with his mom, or if he’s talking about us. Close, and yet so far. I feel my own eyes threatening to tear up, and pull away. Perching on the end of his bed, I take a deep breath.

  “I didn’t come in here to upset you,” I say quietly.

  “I know. You mean well,” he says, pulling himself up to sitting too. “If it helps, I do feel better for having our invasive chat. I like it when you let me in.”

  “Likewise,” I say over my shoulder. “Thanks for trusting me enough to share.”

  “It’s not always easy to trust, is it?” he says. It’s not a question, more a statement of his knowing I keep some secrets close too.

  “With some things,” I admit quietly. “Others I’d entrust to you implicitly.”

  I rise from the bed and head for the door, wondering how much time we have before we need to head downstairs, and once we’re down there, if Bruno will start watching me dance again. Something tells me we both need more time. “Night, Bruno.”

  “Night, Scar.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  BRUNO

  Scarlett Warner has reopened the lines of communication. I don’t know what it means, but that little ray of hope that made life bearable before, is back within my world. For the first time in a few days, I look in the mirror. Cringing, I rub my hairy jaw and regard the shadows under my eyes.

  With a mind constantly twisting in circles, sleep is at an all-time low. I could really use a day off to recharge, but I can’t afford it. Dancing as a male entertainer is the easiest money I’ve ever made, but I’m lacking any energy for it.

  And my love-life is still mostly a disaster. I don’t want anyone other than Scarlett, but if I show her too much, I’ll scare her off again; after she’s made
an effort to mend broken bridges, that’s the last thing I want. The best I can do is keep my distance, which is easy enough with Jenkins and work occupying almost all of my time.

  I hadn’t realized how withdrawn I’d become until Scarlett pushed through my door and made me interact. That interaction lifted me to the surface when I was starting to drown in my troubles.

  Frowning at my reflection again, I decide on a shower before work. Freshly shaved, I step from the bathroom and run into Vi.

  “Much better,” she says as her eyes run over my face. “I was beginning to think we’d lost you to the dark side. See ya downstairs.”

  Mumbling my agreement, I go to my room to dress. I spend the night outside, not wanting to watch Scarlett and see what I’m missing in the short term. Instead, I try to figure out a way to be with her every day, for forever.

  I know I need to get to the bottom of the Kenny thing. Maybe I can ask her family some sly questions when we’re over there for her birthday next weekend. This weekend is the charity exhibition and I promised Father Franco that Jenkins and I would help with the set up in the days leading up to it.

  I still need to work in time to see Mom, and fit in the rest home dance sessions, and I definitely need to spend time reading to Magnus, because he’s about as close to losing the plot as Jenkins. Scanning the near-deserted street, I take out my phone and text Shermansky. My phone rings quickly after.

  “I can’t text fizzledick, remember?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Enough of the sob story. If I text, I know you’ll call when you can. Is he asleep?”

  “Yup,” he says, sounding as if he’s stretching. “The miracle of night-time sedation.”

  “How has he been? And his mom?”

  “He seems the same, really. Can’t see any shift in him, but he’s survived the wedding, so we’re halfway there. His mom is worn out. She’s on sleepers too while I’m here; catching up on the months she’s been lacking. How are the days going? He bitches about you all evening. I gather you’ve been keeping him busy.”

  “Yeah well, I’m busy. If he’s tagging along, he’s busy by proxy.”

  “You sound exhausted.”

  “I’m pretty tired, Damon.”

  “Me too. Last night your mom came over. Bitch is fit! Had me up till five.”

  “Moms,” I say in understanding. “When yours was over last night, she was dead set on keeping me up, but after sucking cock all night, she collapsed in a heap on the floor and I had to call your dad to come get her. Bitch didn’t even get a rise out of me.”

  Damon’s laughter rings through the phone and I can’t help but smile.

  “How’s Blondie?” he asks, causing my smile to quickly fade. “Still out of your league?”

  “Miles out, but I’ll keep working the long game. Jenkins, Mom and work are all keeping me pretty busy, so what I want will have to wait a while longer. It should give me enough time to solve a few mysteries too, so I’m more prepared when she slaps me down again.”

  “You’re expecting her to keep pushing you away?”

  “Yeah, but I’m wearing her down.”

  “Dude, I don’t want to hear details of your bedroom antics to woo a resistant woman.” He pauses briefly and sighs. “Actually I really do. It’s been so long since a woman looked at me without a mixture of pity and disgust, I can’t even remember what genuine interest looks like.”

  Laughing sadly, I look up at the stars. “What a couple of fuck ups we are, huh?”

  “Speak for yourself. At least I can get laid, even if I have to settle for your mom.”

  “Like she’d even look twice at your bearded, unicycling ass. Get yourself a clown wig yet?”

  “Fuck off. I’m going to bed. See ya when I drop off Jenkins.”

  “Fine. Any chance of a sleep in?”

  “What’s a sleep in? Six?”

  I make a raspberry sound. “Make it eight, bitch. Nine if you can stretch it. I’m not doing so well.”

  “Fine. Eight-thirty. Pussy.”

  “Thanks man. Why don’t you come up and meet some of the guys? Some of ‘em might be awake by then. I’ll carry Jenkins upstairs. You can lift his chair.”

  Damon remains quiet for a while. “Any of the chicks be up?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I don’t think Jenkins will want them staring at him, or feeling sorry for him and shit.”

  “Jenkins? Or you? Because it really wouldn’t be like that. Jenkins will tell you. He met Scar last week.”

  “I know. Asshole wouldn’t shut up about it. In fact, she was all he talked about for three days. If he was in better form, I’d say you had some serious competition. His dick works and everything.”

  “Whatever asshole. See you at eight-thirty.”

  CHECKING THE TIME AGAIN, I move the ladder to the left. Eying the large landscape next to me, I lift it, checking its weight.

  “At least three anchors,” I mumble to myself before calling over my shoulder to Jenkins. “Toss me the level,” I say, pointing in the vague direction where I left it with my other tools.

  “Where’s the level again?” he asks, a little distant.

  “In the tool bag. Dude, we’ve been over this.”

  “I know, I just don’t know why you keep putting shit away when we’re still using it. It’s lame.”

  “You’re lame, asshole. I put it away to make it easy to find, and to keep the workspace tidy and safe, now turn your fucking brain on and bring it over. And get another anchor pin.”

  “You going to say please?”

  “Not until you start caring.”

  “Wow, never?” Jenkins asks, oozing sarcasm. Tut-tutting he leans toward Shermansky as he arrives with another picture to hang. “He was always such a well-mannered young man. I think we broke him.”

  “You broke him, shit-for-brains. Now get him what he needs. He’s got work in an hour and neither of us are going to get this shit hung.”

  Sighing, Jenkins rolls over to the toolkit as Father Franco approaches.

  “Thank you so much for helping with the set up boys,” he says, viewing the two full walls of artwork and the several movable walls placed through the center of the large space. “It looks fantastic,” he adds, his voice full of awe. “I’m so pleased the gallery lent us the space. Hopefully we get a good turn out and raise a decent amount for the rehabilitation suite upgrade. Thanks too, for your contributions. Will you be able to attend tomorrow?” he asks, turning back to us. “I know people love to hear the artist’s take on their work, and I know they’d be particularly intrigued by your foot and mouth work, Damon.”

  Damon blushes and busies himself flipping through the next lot of pieces. “Thanks Father, but I prefer not to make a spectacle of myself. I’ll take a polite pass.”

  “Me too,” Jenkins adds, wheeling away to avoid further conversation.

  “Bruno?” Father Franco asks, turning to me.

  “Sorry Father. After I help set up the final wall in the morning, I have other commitments. They’ll take me through to when I start work, so I definitely won’t be available.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” the old man says, frowning. “Well,” he adds, “Be sure to tell as many people as possible about the exhibition. The more in attendance, the more likely we are to raise interest and donations. I’ve even sent invitations to a few professional dealers.”

  “Some of this is pretty good,” Damon agrees, studying the painting in his arms.

  “It sure is,” Father Franco says, nodding to each of us as he strolls along admiring those pictures already hung.

  Climbing up the ladder, I mark out the anchor placements.

  “You still working out final placement for that last wall?” I ask Damon as I screw an anchor over my pencil mark.

  “Mmhmm,” he says, switching two around and taking a step back as his eyes travel to the wall, picturing how it will look. Shaking his head, he switches them back around and moves to get a different painting.

  “Wil
l it be finished in time for me to hang them in the morning?” I ask with a smile as I climb down to retrieve the large landscape.

  “Fuck you asshole. I’m trying to showcase your talent. The least you could do is not rush me.”

  Frowning, I climb back up the ladder and set the painting on its anchors. Setting the level on top, I check it’s positioned right and climb down again.

  “There’s talent here from all over Buffalo. Mine is no better than any of these other pictures. Just set them out how you think they’ll best sell. That’s what’s important.”

  Not bothering to look at me, Damon reaches for another painting, holding it to the wall above another. “I am, numb nuts. Yours will sell. Just shut up and do your own job. You’re killing my vibe.”

  “You’re lucky that’s all I’m killing. Where’s Jenkins?” I ask, looking around.

  Laughing a little, Damon sets the painting down and takes a few steps to the left. “He’s parked in front of the 'nudes' wall.”

  “Gross. He’s not whacking off is he?”

  “Nah, just staring,” he informs me in a serious tone. “Hope his mood picks up soon.”

  “You and me both. This must be what parenthood feels like. I think I’m about two days away from my first gray hairs.”

  Stepping closer, Damon studies my head. “Too late,” he says, squinting.

  I punch him in the shoulder and he starts laughing, but something about his face tells me he might not have been kidding. “Are you serious? I’m going fucking gray?” My hand moves protectively to my hair. “I’m only twenty eight years old!”

  “Yeah but you’ve lived about six lives in that time. This shit takes a toll.” Sighing, he gives me an apologetic smile. “There’s only a couple. No-one will even notice them until you get one of those distinguished streaks. Then the girls will start calling you a silver fox, so you see, it’ll all be okay in the end,” he says with a chuckle.