His Canvas

by Tymber Dalton

  Miserable.

  I wish I’d left with her.

  Although, at the time, she’d been sixteen, a minor, and since her uncle was her legal guardian, it would have been too much of a fight to go through it. Better to give in and just suck it up. Although when she turned eighteen two years later, she’d given serious thought about doing it. Except by then her aunt had moved out of state, and Mallory had already been accepted to the Ringling College of Art and Design. Mallory didn’t want to go to school anywhere else, especially since three of her friends were going there.

  And she had a hard enough time making friends. The last thing she wanted to do was move away from the few she had.

  She reached over and cranked up the car’s AC another couple of notches. It was a scorching late-April afternoon, meaning May, June, July, and August would be like living in a sauna.

  Then again, it beat living up north in the winter. Even though it was difficult for her to remember what South Dakota winters had felt like. She remembered biting cold, and snow, and fun things like going out snowmobiling with her mom and dad, but it’d been so long…

  With a shake of her head, she drove away those memories. It only made her cry lately when she thought about her parents not being around to see her academic achievements.

  I’m a dang wuss.

  She needed to pull her act together before her shift at the consignment store that afternoon. Otherwise, nosy Lucy Scarborough would be all up in her face wanting to see what juicy tidbits she could squeeze out of her and then gossip about to the other employees.

  Vulture.

  At least it was Friday, and she had this weekend off. The main reason Mallory worked at the consignment store was to get the discount on clothes, when they got any in that fit her. That, and to earn spending money. Considering trying to pry money out of Uncle Scrooge for extras like clothes was nearly impossible, she needed the job despite him riding her about the master’s program. He was a tenured professor of literature at New College, with a virtual alphabet of degrees after his name.

  Maybe he doesn’t understand not all of us want to be academics.

  She didn’t want to attend USF in Tampa and get her master’s. She wanted to finish her final two semesters at Ringling and go to work. She’d already applied to a couple of firms for a summer internship, but hadn’t received any responses yet. That had only been a week ago, so she hadn’t given up hope. If one of them accepted her, she’d have to get by on the bare minimum weekly stipend her uncle doled out to her without her job at the consignment shop, but it’d be worth it to have her foot in the door after graduation.

  I’m going to be twenty-three in a few months. I need to get out on my own sooner rather than later.

  She also knew it’d mean finally pinning her uncle down, possibly having to get a lawyer of her own, to unravel the trusteeship her parents had left behind at their deaths when she was ten. She didn’t know all the details about it. She didn’t even know if there was any money left. For all she knew, there might not be. Every time she’d asked her uncle about it, he’d blown her off and told her to focus on school and then usually found an excuse to immediately leave the room.

  At least it was one way to get him off her case about applying to grad school when he hounded her about it.

  * * * *

  Mallory arrived twenty minutes early for her shift. Much to her relief, Lucy wasn’t there.

  Even more to her relief, the store’s owner, Karen, told her Lucy had called in sick. “Do you mind working late tonight and doing the closing with me?”

  On Friday nights, they stayed open until ten. Being close to Ringling, many of the students who got paid on Fridays came in to sell, trade, and buy clothes for weekend parties they were attending. It was their busiest night of the week. And with three large, popular restaurants right around them, they also received a lot of walk-in traffic from patrons.

  “Not at all. I’ll be happy to.”

  “Thank you! You are a lifesaver.”

  Mallory quickly texted that news to her uncle before shutting her phone off, shoving it into her purse, and locking them both in a locker in the back. Snowbird season was quickly shambling to a close, meaning summer cutbacks on hours and possibly even staff. Mallory had been lucky the owner liked her, maybe even felt a little bit sorry for her due to her family status, or lack thereof. Mallory had worked for Karen ever since her high school graduation.

  If Mallory had a chance to show that bitch Lucy up, she’d take it in a heartbeat.

  There was a large pile of sorting to go through in the back, too. New items to get cataloged and put out on the racks. Aimee Stetson, who was maybe a size two, if that, walked in. She worked the morning-to-afternoon shifts.

  “Don’t bother thinking you’ll fit into any of those.” Aimee’s sharp laugh cut through the air. “I already glanced through them to see what was there. Not a damn thing in there nearly big enough for you to slide over your fat a—”

  “Aimee!”

  Mallory and Aimee both jumped at the sound of Karen yelling.

  Despite the heat filling Mallory’s face over Aimee’s all too familiar jab, the anger on her boss’ face when Mallory turned made her gulp. Karen stood in the curtained doorway that separated the back area from the showroom.

  And she looked pissed.

  “Miss Stetson,” Karen said, icicles forming in the air from her tone. “Kindly grab your belongings and join me in my office. Right now.”

  Mallory barely held back her desire to do a victory dance in front of Aimee. The girl, a bestie of Lucy’s and two years younger than Mallory, headed for the break room.

  Heart pounding, Mallory started sorting and hanging the clothes, getting them ready to take into the showroom once she knew the coast was clear.

  Fifteen minutes later, Mallory heard the buzzer for the front door go off, but when she started toward the doorway, Karen walked through the curtain into the back room.

  “Don’t worry,” her boss said. “It was just Aimee leaving.” She sadly smiled. “You want to tell me how long that nonsense has been going on?”

  Mallory’s face heated even more as she shrugged. “It’s okay,” she said. “I’m used to it.” She resisted the urge to tug at her top. Today she wore jeans and a flowing short-sleeved tunic over them that helped hide some of her extra pounds. At five six and approaching one-seventy, she wasn’t exactly svelte, and she damn well knew it.

  “No, it’s not okay,” Karen insisted. “Do any of the others do that?”

  When Mallory didn’t answer, Karen nodded. “Lucy does it, too, doesn’t she? I know she’s best friends with Aimee.”

  Mallory studied her sandals. Which, while cute, had cost her less than ten dollars. She’d bought them from the beachwear section at a local drugstore.

  Karen finally let out a sigh. “I appreciate you not wanting to be a snitch, but I do not want someone like her working for me. No telling what other kinds of shenanigans they’re pulling when I’m not around. I only want people I can trust working for me. That means I can trust them with their fellow employees, not just my customers or the till. So for the last time, has Lucy been picking on you, too?”

  Mallory couldn’t look Karen in the eyes. She forced herself to nod.

  “I see.” Karen let out a sad-sounding sigh. “The only reason I hired her is because her father is a friend of my husband. I don’t need little jerks like that working for me. I know I said you’d have this weekend off, but would you mind coming in tomorrow and working from open until two? I’ve had several people fill out applications over the past few weeks with summer approaching. I’m sure I can find someone next week to hire.”

  For this, Mallory could look up. She eagerly nodded. “I’d be happy to. Thank you.” A chance to get out of the house and away from her uncle on a Saturday, and make extra money?

  Hell yes.

  Karen gently clasped Mallory’s hands and squeezed them. “Don’t ever let me catch you putting up with tha
t kind of nonsense, all right? You’re beautiful. And you have talent. You are the kind of person all those jealous little bitches pray they can one day aspire to be. Got me? So don’t let them tear you down when you are the better person.”

  Mallory nodded. “Thanks.”

  Karen left her alone to finish the day’s sorting. Mallory struggled to walk an emotional line between gloating that the two little bitches would no longer be harassing her at work, and the sad fact that she still had her obnoxious uncle to go home to. In fact, things getting better at work made home feel that much more loathsome.

  I hate my life.

  Chapter Three

  When Mallory finally headed home that night, she didn’t even bother taking her phone out of her purse and turning it on. She’d be home soon enough to find out what kind of bitching she was in for when she walked through the front door. She swung through McDonald’s on the way for a fast meal, even though she knew it was the last thing she needed.

  She didn’t care. She wanted it, and considering the emotional ups and downs of the day, she felt she’d earned it.

  Her uncle didn’t disappoint. He glared disapprovingly at the fast food bag in her hand when she walked through the front door.

  “Why didn’t you return my texts?”

  Mallory didn’t slow her progress to the kitchen. “I was at work, Uncle Saul. You know that. I texted you that I was working late tonight.”

  Unfortunately, he got up from the couch and followed her into the kitchen. “That’s no excuse. I texted you before you got to work. I know what time you go to work.”

  “Not having this discussion with you tonight.”

  “We most certainly are.” He grabbed her arm and spun her around.

  Something inside her snapped. She looked down at his hand, where his fingers dug into the soft flesh above her elbow. Then, her gaze slowly traveled up to meet his. “If you don’t take your hand off me right now,” she said, not even recognizing the steel in her tone, “I will call the cops and have you put in jail.”

  He released her like she’d tased him. “How dare you talk to me like that, young lady!”

  “If you don’t want our next talk to be through a plexiglass divider at the county jail with you on the wrong side of it, you will leave me alone. I’m not in the mood to deal with your shit tonight.” She grabbed her food and headed for her bedroom, her heart pounding in her chest, nearly painfully, in a way she’d never felt before.

  Wouldn’t that be fucking ironic, if I gave myself a heart attack arguing with him and needed him to call 911 for me?

  She slammed and locked her bedroom door behind her, not knowing or caring if he’d followed her down the hallway.

  Her best friend, Chelbie, had been pestering her to talk to an attorney. Mallory hadn’t wanted to make waves over the years. She’d wanted to get through college and graduate without having to worry about a roof over her head or bills or all of that stuff. Her uncle wasn’t much, but he was—literally—all she had. Mallory knew if she didn’t have a basic degree that it would make things that much harder for her when it came time to find a career.

  She dropped her purse on the bed and sank down onto the mattress, kicking her sandals off before drawing her legs up. She reached for the TV remote and turned it on, bumping the volume up on a cheesy SyFy movie so she wouldn’t have to hear her uncle moving around in the house.

  Then she unwrapped her chicken sandwich and started working on that, and the fries.

  I need to lose weight.

  She hated her ample curves. She hated the fact that her mother’s whole family was shaped like a bag of Granny Smith apples, while her father’s family—including Uncle Saul—was long and willowy.

  Well, except for Saul’s pot-belly. And that horrible comb-over.

  Then again, maybe having hair and being apple-shaped is a good trade-off.

  And she had taken after her mother, other than her blue eyes. Even her mousy brown hair, which she dyed a brassy reddish color, had been her mom’s.

  Of course, nights like this, she’d give anything to have them both back, looking like a bag of apples or not.

  She stared around her room as she munched on another French fry. She’d covered every spare inch of the bland, white walls with her own drawings, sketches, paintings, printouts of her computer art and anime—everything. Her uncle had bought the house and moved them there after the divorce. He had also refused to let Mallory paint the room the way she wanted. He’d told her she could go with white or off-white.

  If she couldn’t paint the walls, she’d cover them. The unintended bonus that she’d never admit to him was that she could change things around to suit her mood.

  At least he’d capitulated and let her make curtains to hide the ugly white horizontal blinds in the window. Swirling purple and turquoise fabric, with silver threads shot through it. The simple sewing machine her aunt had given Mallory her first Christmas with them got plenty of use. Mallory would never claim to be a world-class seamstress, but she could follow a pattern and had made plenty of clothes and costumes for herself and for friends.

  In high school, she’d been in the drama club, and almost always ended up helping out with the costuming even if she didn’t get much stage time. That, and set design.

  Still, it felt good to see her name in the program, recognized for her achievements, for once.

  After eating, she dug her phone out of her purse and turned it on. Sure enough, there were messages from her uncle from earlier, which she immediately deleted.

  And one from Chelbie sent a couple of hours earlier.

  How ya doin girlie?

  It wasn’t too late to text her friend back, so she responded with several, condensing the highlights of the afternoon and evening.

  A few minutes later, her phone rang.

  “So when are you moving out of there?” Chelbie asked without preamble.

  Mallory collapsed back on her bed. “You know the answer to that.”

  “Is Slimon right there?” That was one of the nicer nicknames Chelbie had for Mallory’s uncle.

  “I’m home. Locked myself in my room.”

  “Gotcha.” Her tone softened. “Look, let me talk to my mom and dad about this, okay? If nothing else, you can move in here with us for a while. Please? Life’s too short to be this miserable. I can’t believe that he’s not hiding something from you from the way he acts. He didn’t give a rat’s ass about anything until you turned eighteen, then he was all hot-to-trot to make sure you stayed in college and applied to grad school. Something’s hinky.”

  “I know.” And she did. In her gut, she felt it.

  Problem was, she didn’t know if she had the strength to fight him on it other than slinging the threat at him that she wanted to see all the trust paperwork to shut him up about graduate school. It felt like she’d spent the past thirteen years of her life in one constant battle after another against the man.

  All she wanted was a peaceful life of her own where she could do what she wanted, how she wanted, in her own space, without feeling like she was being harshly judged the whole time.

  Even her room couldn’t truly be a reflection of who she was. Her bookcase in the corner was crammed to overflowing with mostly used books she picked up at thrift shops and the local Goodwill bookstore. She did buy e-books here and there, and read them on her iPad. The only reason she had an iPad was because she’d needed it for some of her college classes.

  It seemed the only time her uncle shelled out money without complaint was for anything relating to her schoolwork.

  But she wasn’t allowed to hang shelves on the walls. That meant her room felt cramped, tiny, on the verge of exploding from everything she had tucked away inside it. Her dragon statue collection was nestled amongst the books, on the very top of the bookcase, covering her dresser and chest of drawers—even on top of her TV. She had even more, carefully packed away in plastic storage tubs in her closet. She rotated them out every couple of months. She owned v
ery few things that had belonged to her parents, other than pictures. A couple of china cabinets that had apparently been heirlooms from her mom’s family. They sat out in the dining room and held a few dishes and pieces of ornamental glassware that had also belonged to her mom.

  The rest of the house felt more like a museum than a home.

  “We still going to Venture tomorrow night, or is your job going to prevent it?”

  “I can go.” She didn’t know if her uncle was listening on the other side of her door or not, so she was careful not to say too much. “I’ll meet you there.”

  “I heard Tony and Kel talking last week that they’re filming a bondage shoot tomorrow afternoon as part of the class. Do you think you can make that?”

  “I don’t know.” Mallory loved watching the rope riggers at the club, the artistry in some of their ties. Especially riggers like Kel, who made the most intricate patterns look stupidly easy to tie.

  Not that any of them would likely ever want to work with her. Most of the rope bunnies they worked with were either their own partners, or friends, or had model-worthy bodies.

  No one would want to suspend a chub like her.

  “Probably not. I’ll probably just come for the play session.”

  “Come on,” Chelbie said. “If it’s money, I’ll pay your way. I sold a book cover yesterday. Class and dinner and the play session. I’m paying. I is flush wit’ da moolah.”

  Mallory laughed. Chelbie had always been able to make her smile. “You are, huh?”

  “Yeah,” her friend said, returning to her normal tone. “BDSM cover for a self-pubber. They wanted a one-off, not a stock cover, so I made a couple hundred dollars on it.” Chelbie was a fledgling photographer in her own right, as well as a graphic artist. She’d traded design work with some friends of theirs in exchange to photograph them for stock photos she could use for book covers.

  It seemed they had a tightly knit barter network amongst them. Not that Mallory was complaining about that. She’d picked up extra cash here and there sewing, drawing, and designing artwork for websites or projects for their friends.