"Don't lean. Do it."
"Nowhere else feels like home. It's a big decision for me and I don't want to continuously move between rental homes."
"Buy one of these houses up here," Nathaniel says. "Be my neighbor."
"These estates are a fortune," Zachary replies.
"You can afford it."
"I enjoy visiting San Francisco and the bay area, Nate. Who wouldn't love waking up every day to the view you have, whether sunny, like today, or shrouded in fog? I know this is your paradise. But it would not feel like home to me."
"All right, go back to warmer temperatures, but you are slashing your options down unnecessarily."
"For fights, press, and media, it is best to be near Las Vegas anyway," Zachary says.
"As long as you remain out west," Nathaniel responds, "everything is close to Vegas. Just a one-hour plane ride or so away. You have to stretch your horizons. Like Phoenix, living in Palm Springs or the outskirts of Las Vegas, like I used to, would have similar problems for you with our enemies and opponents."
"Look at your home, Nate. I think you prove that a sanctuary can be hidden anywhere."
"No, an asylum can be hidden anywhere. There is a big difference between a sanctuary and an asylum. You have to remember our world, our fighting subculture, is a mental contest. Acquiring a sense of security is a vital requirement."
"I agree. You know I do."
"You can become the world middleweight champion, Zach," Nathaniel states. "It is not one fight. It is a series of clever decisions and lifestyle choices, in tandem with exact mental conditioning—you must never waver from your hunger to win—and unexpected physicality."
"If anyone knows what it takes, you do," Zachary replies.
Nathaniel fiddles with the ends of his mustache, twists his leg inward, and reaches his fingers inside his leg cast to scratch an acute itch.
"I have healed from so many injuries, both major and minor, but something is different this time," Nathaniel says. "For the first time in my life, I am consumed with a different type of longing."
"You have always been a horny bastard," Zachary laughs.
"The longing is not for sex. It's for a partner. Someone to share all of this with. I find myself daydreaming about a guy—someone who has nothing whatsoever to do with fighting or sports or media—and building a relationship with him."
"You are lonely? With all of these bodyguards?"
"It's not the same," Nathaniel counters. "Not even close."
"True," Zachary agrees. "But there will be plenty of time for true love and all that syrupy stuff once your career is over."
"You don't think I can fall in love with someone and maintain the required mental acumen to regaining my title belt?"
"No, Nate. You just reminded me about staying desperately hungry for victory. If you fall head over heels for some dude, you are going to get all soft and smoochy, gain weight, descend into jealous tantrums, and lose your focus. That's the real truth."
"I am not convinced you are right," Nathaniel responds.
"You are considering early retirement?" Zachary asks.
"Hell no."
"Then don't confuse your desire for sexual conquests with fantasies about melodramatic romance."
"I won't argue with you," Nathaniel says. "Each man, each person, must make an individual choice. We have previously debated your notions about the benefits of promiscuity. I am not in your life to change you. I appreciate you as an unconditional friend. I never want to lose that. Continue hooking up with guys, if that is what you must do for yourself. But fair warning that your best friend here might be tangled up in a love match—all squishy and sappy, as you speculated—and I will want your continuing support, not your disapproval."
4
Studio
While ambling to his studio, Gustavo Vila Nova is lost in his thoughts, ignoring his surroundings and the warmth of sunshine on his face.
Though Gustavo does not dare compare himself to Pablo Picasso, he often privately thinks of the great master and wonders how he would be influenced and inspired in Los Angeles in the twenty-first century. Would he become an expert with digital art and technical advances? Or would he perfect traditional skills and be impacted by the greed, income disparities, or modern lifestyles in southern California?
With Gustavo's hunched shoulders and hands in his pockets, any perceptive passer-by would notice that this man, this artist, is struggling and in pain.
If Picasso was fascinated by gender, power, war, and the boldest experimentation, Gustavo ponders how he would characterize his own career at twenty-six years of age. He understands it does not seem to resemble Picasso's at all. Gustavo's journey began with the glory of nature—finding and capturing magical imagery in the waves, waterfalls, mountains, and rivers of the Hawaiian Islands. Though not unique or trailblazing, his oil and acrylic paintings possessed a lyrical quality that garnered him attention, sales, and a fan base.
If the majesty of Hawaii was Gustavo's first period, or developmental phase, then his second period was the transition into mixed media portraits concentrating on the shapes and candid expressions of the human face. He personalized the portraiture with objects, broken or in original form, giving each piece depth with symbolism and a three dimensional quality. His artworks were a minor success, though many previous fans felt betrayed by his new direction. Private commissions and gallery sales afforded and enticed him with the opportunity to leave the islands and establish himself on the West Coast of mainland North America.
But now, after three years of creating and selling these portraits, Gustavo is aware he must advance his talents and expand his client base. The reasons extend beyond artistic clout and prestige. His dreams of using Los Angeles to springboard his career internationally have stalled. Sales are so poor he won't admit them to anyone. Not only is he tired of creating the portraiture, the art collectors, dealers, and benefactors are bored with his output too. Though he lives modestly, and privately, believing that an aura of mystery about an artist's life is especially beneficial, Gustavo is running out of money and his mettle is waning.
He reaches the studio, unlocks the entry, turns on the lights, and sighs, knowing soon he will no longer be able to afford it. Though nothing fancy and infused with a smoky scent, Gustavo was once convinced it would help propel him to fame and riches. The studio was originally a carport behind a Victorian residence just south of Hollywood Boulevard in the 1920s. In the decades that followed it adapted into an unattached, two car garage and then transitioned to a guest home, surviving the main residence that was demolished in the 1950s and replaced with a bungalow-style structure with stucco walls and a large porch. It also survived a fire in 2010 that ended its usage as a guest house. The owners, a couple who live in Long Beach, decided against having it torn down and replaced, perhaps for sentimental reasons, and have since rented it out for storage.
The only items Gustavo stores are his lights, equipment, art supplies, and dozens of canvases in various stages of completion. He tucks all of this away behind a faux wall, opting for a barren and large open space to embark on his creations.
Gustavo moves a plain wooden chair to the center of the space and stares at the empty walls.
"I need a miracle," he says aloud. "Please. Is a miracle lurking around in here? Why do you hide from me? Reveal yourself. Today. There is little time left."
Gustavo's eyes slip to the floor and his thoughts tumble into worries about bills, deadlines, and humiliation. Realizing he is astray, he perks up, arches his back, and returns his gaze to the walls. Throughout his career, Gustavo has imposed a strict discipline for his daily time in the studio. Every moment must be devoted to artistic creation, even if it means just sitting in the void and musing about ideas. If he fails to lift a paintbrush today, it will be the fourth consecutive day of complete futility.
"I am steering toward the edge of a cliff and doing nothing to save myself," he complains, cringing his face and hitting his fist again
st his thigh. "Nothing!"
5
Ferry
On the top deck of the ferry boat, the icy winds rumble against their bodies and faces. Aleksey and Zachary zip their jackets up to their necks and joke about how it could possibly be so chilly when there are no clouds or fog to hamper the sun rays.
"My head is freezing," Aleksey says.
"I bet it is," Zachary replies, reaching up and feeling the buzzed scalp of his bodyguard. "Your helmet of hair is gone."
"I was wondering when you would comment about it."
"Well, I was just waiting for you to bring it up."
"You hate it?" Aleksey asks.
"Wrong," Zachary answers. "It's a hot look for you. If I were you I would always keep it clipped close to your head like that."
Aleksey smiles and nods, grateful for Zachary's opinion, and changes the subject.
"Did those rusted old poles look any better at Nate's place?" Aleksey asks.
"Sure, they were tucked inside a bed of trees around a garden," Zachary chuckles. "He has a little nature preserve up there."
"That artist looked so smug. She never said a word to us. She did not try to explain it or anything."
"You might wear airs like that too if you just banked ten grand for selling a sculpture that may have—shall we say—a limited audience."
"Ten grand!" Aleksey stamps his foot and his eyes are wide. "For that heap of metal?"
"She is likely laughing so hard she is crying right now—banging her fists onto her floor and whatnot."
"Nate needs an intervention."
"Whoa! Who would dare attempt that? He is a big boy. He knows where his money is going."
"But ten thousand dollars?" Aleksey repeats. "That boggles the mind."
"I never asked Nate the cost," Zachary responds, "but think about it. It cost him a few grand just to line up the helicopter for us and the transport across the bay. For all I know the sculpture could have cost him twenty grand. Half that is the bare minimum I would expect."
At the end of the half hour ferry ride, they exit at Fisherman's Wharf, walk a few blocks west, then turn right and southward on Hyde Street. Aleksey follows Zachary as he ascends Russian Hill, passing Russian Hill Park and weaving around the apex on Chestnut and Larkin Streets. They return to Hyde Street and Zachary observes the long line of cars waiting to plummet down the world-famous zigzagging Lombard Street.
"What is your concern?" Zachary asks, noticing that Aleksey is preoccupied by something behind them.
"Two bike riders," Aleksey answers. "They were on the ferry with us and now they are roaming around this hill too."
"How far back?"
"A block."
"I don't see them."
"They keep popping up and disappearing, Zach."
"Are they watching us? Filming us?"
"They don't appear to be," Aleksey answers. "But that means nothing. I suggest we catch a shared ride and get out of here."
"Not yet," Zachary decides. "I want to circle these blocks again."
Zachary, with Aleksey a few paces behind him, roves south to Greenwich Street, studying the residential high-rise buildings surrounding George Sterling Park. Confident with Aleksey's skills and conscientiousness, Zachary never looks back and charges down a narrow flight of steps back onto Larkin Street.
"Do you know someone up here?" Aleksey asks.
"I really like this neighborhood," Zachary answers. "I have no intention of moving to northern California, but if I did, I may choose to live in one of these towers."
Aleksey spots the two bikers again back on Lombard Street. They are slight of build and wearing helmets and casual clothes. Aleksey sees no sign of weapons or secrecy about them, but he is a suspicious man and expects first-rate disguises. One of the men, who appears to be no older than twenty years of age, seems transfixed with Zachary. Aleksey's boss, with intense dark eyes, protruding ears, and a slightly crooked nose, is sexually desirable to strangers for reasons apart from classically handsome features. Zachary's appeal is based mostly on his ruggedness, confidence, and exceptional physique. Zachary has thick dark hair and a goatee, and his shirt does not cover the tattoos on his hands and hairy forearms.
The young biker, now gawking as they approach, smiles and alerts the biker beside him. Aleksey forces Zachary off the sidewalk, up the slope onto the park, and uses his phone to line up a shared ride. By the time they return to the base of the steps on Greenwich Street, the car is waiting for them. To ensure they are not followed, Aleksey has the driver take them east and through numerous small streets. Eventually, they scale Nob Hill, exit the car at the concrete steps in front of Grace Cathedral, and then disappear into the Gothic landmark. Aleksey is ready to take him to the hotel, but Zachary is captivated by the colorful stained glass windows, particularly the one visualizing the 1906 earthquake fires, and the serenity of the vault-like atmosphere.
People are coming in off the streets to pray, read about the cathedral's history, and walk in a trance-like state through the medieval labyrinth. All of the noise and bustle from the city streets has vanished. A frail, elderly woman bursts into joyous tears as she accompanies her adult children into the palatial Nave under 90-foot arched ceilings. A beaming young couple is getting married in an intimate side chapel named The Chapel of Grace. A woman holds the hands of her two daughters and guides them to a front row pew.
Aleksey peers outside of the cathedral and confirms the shared ride vehicle is no longer there. He and Zachary cross Taylor Street, enter the brick-paved walkways of Huntington Park, and sit on a bench in the elliptical center facing a copy of Rome's "Fontana della Tartarughe"—Fountain of the Turtles—designed in the sixteenth century by Giacomo Della Porta and Taddeo Landini. The elegant marbles with pink, red, and beige tones are the focal point of the 1.3 acre park that fills approximately half of the city block.
"Where did these clouds come from?" Zachary asks, glancing at the wispy forms swiftly moving over the hotel skyscrapers.
"It reminds me of Seattle, Portland, and the rest of the Pacific Northwest," Aleksey says. "The weather changes every few hours."
"I agree. But you will remain with me if I choose this city, right?"
"Of course."
"Good. Thank you."
"Your decision is drawing close?" Aleksey asks.
"No, it's not," Zachary answers. "Knowing me, it will come out of the blue, like a thunderbolt. I did not expect to have to leave Phoenix. But even if I moved to a new neighborhood, eventually, the temptation of falling back into my old life—going to the same stores, restaurants, gyms, and so forth—would be too natural and easy."
"Yes, there is no doubt you need a fresh start."
"Sometimes I wonder if this obsession with secrecy and evading peril is counterproductive. An utter waste of time, energy, and money. Most pro fighters do not live like this."
"But those guys are not at your level," Aleksey counters. "Most do not realize how critical the mind game is for ultimate success. Others are naive to what is happening underground with some of these leagues. Most vital of all, none of those guys is best friends with Nathaniel Balder."
"You are right," Zachary replies. "It is too late to change now. Nate's friendship comes with giant peaks and hopes, as well as the deepest trenches and dangers. There is no use howling at the moon about it."
"When you first hired me I prayed that Nathaniel would metamorphose upon becoming the super middle weight world champion. Having reached the pinnacle of glory, he would no longer need to provoke his enemies—real or imagined—and be swept up into an existence full of threats, taunts, and fear tactics. By association, you would be safer too—not painted with the same brush, so to speak."
"Nate only intensified upon becoming the champ and then losing his title."
"I have accepted Nathaniel is not going to change," Aleksey says. "I don't fret. I just dedicate myself to keeping you protected. I would put you in a force field bubble if you would let me."
"I
trust you would," Zachary says. "No force fields though. I need a bit of freedom for my vices."
They cross the park, pass the grand brownstone James C. Flood Mansion, and enter the legendary forecourt of The Grand Vestige Hotel between two Gothic columns topped with beacon-like lanterns. Perched precariously at the juncture of two steep slopes, the wings of the hotel appear to grasp the southeastern corners of Nob Hill while maintaining a stately countenance and rising to prominence in the San Francisco skyline.
Among the guests exiting vehicles in front of them is a brawny man with unruly ginger curls getting out of a taxi. He is attired in a blue tartan kilt and dark brown boots and politely declines a valet's offer to carry his knapsack and suitcase. Zachary and Aleksey are only steps behind him as he walks over the brick pavers and up four steps adorned with red carpeting. The man glimpses back at Zachary and locks eyes with him before moving through the center entryway and nodding his head in greeting to the uniformed doorman. Instead of veering leftward toward the check-in counters and elevators, the kilted man, about thirty years of age like Zachary, goes forward to a sophisticated lobby seating area with couches and comfortable, oversized chairs next to tables with fanciful lamps. He turns half way around for a better look at Zachary and sets down his suitcase.
"Give me a minute," Zachary winks to Aleksey. "Go on up to the room."
6
Self-Portrait
Four bare outlines, arranged on easels in a crescent shape around him, hint at the possibilities of exhibiting expressed emotion. The angle of the face varies by canvas, as well as the positioning of the eyes and the setting of the mouth. Though they are inspired by the same young man—the artist—they appear to represent four separate individuals.
As a professional, Gustavo has not embarked upon a self-portrait before this moment. He is ready to admit that there is always something of the artist in every piece created, but he has not attempted an outright physical representation of his likeness since art school. He does not know why he dreads painting himself—it is more than his aversion to vanity or discomfort with his flaws—but finds it to be an appropriate project today, perhaps to punish himself for having an artist's block that is paralyzing him at such a precarious time.
Guarding His Desires (Passionate Security Book 2) Page 2