by Tara Lain
Samu grabbed one of the extra plastic sheets they’d dragged from the basement that lay piled in a corner next to Michaela’s bed. John leaped up and took hold of the other end. “Uh, how do we hold it?”
Michaela held up a finger. “Ah, I know—”
The doorbell rang.
Wen glanced around. “Who are we expecting?”
“I’ll get it.” Michaela walked out, but Samu fell in behind her. Definitely everyone’s bodyguard.
Wen, John, and Peter all stared toward the door, but Peter looked noticeably tense. A minute later, Michaela walked back in with a staple gun. “Somebody named Map?” She shrugged.
Peter breathed and frowned, but he looked more relaxed.
Samu returned, grabbed the staple gun, and attached the dropcloth to the wall.
Wen heard footsteps, and through the bedroom door swept the guy he’d seen that night in the subway—the one of many ethnicities. Medium height, with smooth brown skin stretched over good bones, eyes that managed to be round and almond at the same time and light green rather than the expected dark brown, and a mane of shiny black hair, the guy looked like an ad for America. Handsome America.
Michaela gaped. John grinned.
Peter glanced over his shoulder. “Hey, Map. How the hell did you get here?”
Map looked a tad guilty. “Tink told me where you were. I figured out you must be working for this dude, so here I am.”
Peter squinched his red eyebrows over his nose. “Why is Tink telling people where I am?”
The guy shrugged. “She seemed kind of upset. Plus I’m not people.”
Peter stared at him, then nodded once and returned to stalking his canvas like Patton planning the invasion of Sicily.
Samu said, “This here’s Map, cause he’s got the map of the world in him. Map, meet John and Michaela and Wen.”
Map nodded at the kids, then turned a glare on Wen. “Okay, man, you’re not getting any work out of the master here until we’ve negotiated his contract. Got it? No pay, no play.”
Wen tried to control his need to grin. “I’m fully prepared to pay Peter for his services. What I need to do, however, is establish a base price for the art in the event the client doesn’t buy the campaign. If that’s the case, we’ll return rights to Peter and pay him a fee for the use. If the client buys the campaign, then, of course, he’ll receive a larger fee, and we’ll buy all rights to the image.”
Map looked stern if a bit confused, but he caught on. Glancing at Peter, who was already picking colors from the pile of paints he’d assembled, Map said, “Yeah, well, this here is what you might call a custom job, right? I mean, Peter wouldn’t be taking his valuable time to paint this if you, the party of the first part, hadn’t requested it from him, the party of the second part. Therefore and to wit, the base price, so to speak, should not be that low, right?”
“Uh, well, normally we pay a $500 use fee for a piece of original art that isn’t ultimately used in a campaign.”
“Oh.” Map licked his lips. “And how much will you pay if it’s used?”
“Probably $5,000.”
Wen could practically see Map calculating in his head. Was he adding up rent and food? “Seems like the use fee should be higher since Peter’s not gonna have any use for that art himself.”
Wen smiled. Yes, Map had seen one too many John Grisham movies, but the guy was smart. “I imagine it can come up a bit.” Of course, he might end up paying it out of his own pocket if Arnie or Mark didn’t agree. Think about that later. He glanced at Peter—Peter’s back, actually, since he didn’t show any sign he’d heard one word of Map’s negotiation. He walked to the windows and threw them wide. Glancing over his shoulder, he asked, “Anyone got a fan?”
Michaela nodded and bounded from the room as Peter handed everyone a funny paper mask, then slipped one on himself.
Wen raised his brows. “Seriously?”
Peter nodded as he slipped his on.
Map said, “So we’ll say a thou for the kill fee.”
Wen cracked a half smile. “We’ll say seven-fifty and be happy to get it. This client is already not on our side, so our chances of getting the campaign are low. My agency won’t agree to invest too much in a losing proposition.”
“Yeah, well, they haven’t seen Peter’s art.”
“True. So if you’re confident that the client will use the art, then you shouldn’t be worried about the kill fee, right?”
Map gave Wen a look out of the corner of his dark eyes. “You guys could screw it up.”
“True, but you have no way to present it yourself, so that’s moot.”
Map chewed the inside of his cheek, maybe considering the meaning of moot, but he nodded. “Okay, write it up.”
“I’ll tell you what. I have to go to my office to tell my team what’s going on.”
“Hey, man, it’s Saturday.”
Michaela walked in with the fan and handed it to Peter. “Advertising knows no weekends.” Her expression wasn’t happy.
Wen nodded. “Sad but true. I’ll get a contract while I’m there and bring it back. If you’re not here, I’ll take it wherever you say.”
The fan whir started up, and then the hiss of paint from a spray can filled the air. They all turned to look at Peter. One whiff and they all snapped on their masks. A splash of deep midnight blue sailed across the big canvas, followed by a stripe of yellow, then red. Peter grabbed the lid of a can and squished the paint into a rainbow arc, then wielded a brush to apply some texture.
Whoa. Wen wanted to drop to the floor and absorb every thrilling moment of creation. No way. He’d end up with a sick stomach and zero objectivity. This wasn’t some vision in universal truth, for crap’s sake. It was an ad for peanut butter, and the outcome could mean the difference between employment at Allworth and serving fast food—between music lessons and fighting to survive. “Okay, I’m going to the office. Call if you need me.” He started toward the door. Michaela looked at him anxiously. He smiled at her. “Michaela’s in charge. Got that?”
Samu smiled and nodded. Peter never even turned his head. He just kept applying paint to the canvas. Wen felt heat creep through his chest. Shit. Going.
Wen escaped down the hall, out the door, and down the stairs. Twenty-five minutes of determined not thinking later, he key carded his way into the office.
Music played and Laila walked out of the break room carrying a mug of something big enough for a footbath.
“Hey, got some more for me?”
“Hey, Wen. Yeah, there’s lots. Mickey and Brock are both here too.”
“Great. I’ll be there in a minute.” He walked by her toward the smell of coffee. “I’ve got good news.”
Two minutes later, deeply inhaling the scent of Costa Rica’s finest, he walked out and found Laila still standing where he’d left her. She stared at him. “What do you mean, good news?”
“I found the artist, Lai. He’s painting in my apartment as we speak.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Nope.”
“Holy—my God. How? What?”
“Let’s go sit and figure out what we’re going to need to turn this art into a campaign.”
She clapped her hands and ran toward the creative room. “Yahoo! We’re not going to get fired!”
“Wait, don’t—” Oh hell, which was worse, being the cause of despair or a cause of unverified hope?
Energy swirled through Peter like a whirlwind from Oz. Color, texture, form—the elements of creation. God. I love it! He reached for a tube of black to deepen the shadows and heard a voice—
The worm of irritation that had been stealing into his brain for the last hour grew wings and turned into a butterfly of anger. He whirled. “Tink!”
The noises in the other room got quieter.
“Tink.”
Her pained face appeared around the corner of the doorframe. “What?”
“Come in here.”
She frowned but wa
lked in.
“Close the door.”
That actually made her eyes widen. Slowly she closed the door.
“Why did you think it was okay to tell Map where I was? And now I hear Dudish and Wingman out there. Who said you could tell them where I am?”
“YoutoldSamu.”
“Yes, I tell Samu lots of things. But I didn’t tell the other Boys, did I?”
“No.” Her arms hugged her narrow chest so tight she practically folded in half.
“You keep warning me about danger and taking care of myself, and yet you effectively told all the boys what I was doing so if someone asked, they’d answer. How does that work in your protection plan?”
“Youdon’tcare. Idon’tcare.”
Well, shit. Tink had never really been mad at him before. “Look, maybe it seems like I don’t care, but that’s not the case. I just want to help Wen, but that doesn’t mean I’m not taking care of me or that I don’t value your discretion. I’m sorry if I gave you a different impression.”
“Whydoyoulikehimsomuch?”
An excellent question that he couldn’t even answer for himself, much less for her. “I don’t want him to lose his job because he has to take care of those kids, and he can’t do that with no job.”
“Whysthatyourproblem?”
“Why am I your problem, Tink? You feel responsible for me. I guess I feel some of that for him.”
She stared at him with her wide eyes and never blinked. Neutral. Did she look neutral okay or neutral pissed off?
Two hours later, Wen left the office building with the digital department notified of the animation plan, the creatives working on headlines based on Cosmic Kittens and Chaos, and Wen’s belly flipping over the prospect of seeing what Peter had created.
As he walked up the last flight of home-gym stairs, laughter and voices floated toward him. Wen smiled at John’s chortle and grinned even bigger when he heard Michaela laughing. That didn’t happen much.
He got to the door, which stood half-open—the reason he’d been able to hear the laughter—and pushed it a little farther. Holy shit. What the hell?
The whole living room, admittedly not a lot of space, had been converted to a dance hall—furniture pushed back, the phony Middle Eastern rug he’d worked so hard to afford and carry home lay rolled up in the corner. Samu drummed on a cardboard box while the lead musician of the Lost Boys fingered his guitar in the middle of the living room. Dipping and twirling, Michaela danced with the guy from the band who was so handsome he’d stun a rock into breathlessness. She looked up at him like she was seeing the face of a god. If not a god, definitely a close relative. Capping off the bacchanal, John pranced in a circle with Tink, his Ninja Turtles T-shirt complementing her striped purple jumpsuit and plaid vest.
Wen’s stomach twisted. He’d left for a couple of hours, and somehow his whole world had traveled back in time. How often had he come home to find his mother with five strangers playing music, smoking dope, and reading bad poetry, while the two kids played on the floor in the cigarette butts? Shit. He inhaled slowly. “Uh, hi. What’s going on?”
Michaela froze even though the guy she was dancing with kept going. She tripped and fell against the couch. The handsome guy caught her.
John didn’t get the memo that Wen was stressed. He bounced over. “Hey, Wen, we’re celebrating art. Isn’t it great? Tink and I did a whole scene from Bye Bye Birdie. It was so fun.” He pointed at Michaela’s gorgeous partner. “This here is Dudish.” Then he poked his chin toward the guitarist. “And that’s Wingman.” He grabbed Wen’s hand. “Wait till you see what Peter’s done. Oh man, it’s so dope. Come on.”
By now everyone else was quiet. No more music and dancing. They just stared at Wen. “Uh, okay. Yes, I’m anxious to see it.”
As he followed John, he heard the sounds of furniture moving behind him. Shit, Darling, you sure know how to kill a party.
Chapter Eight
Wen followed as John pushed the bedroom door open and—oh.
The painting looked nothing like the one in the subway.
It was ten times more amazing.
Chaos and culture.
Madness and order.
Whimsy and wonder.
Wen just stared. The room reeked of paint, and the dropcloths on the wall and floor dripped like someone had committed murder on a pack of aliens. But in the midst of the insanity, the partly finished painting glowed.
Wen peeled his eyes away from the art and gazed at Peter, who sat on the floor leaning against Michaela’s tarp-covered bed, his paint-smeared hands resting on his raised knees and his head hanging.
John said, “You okay, Peter?”
John’s voice startled Wen. He’d forgotten his brother was there.
Peter looked up at John. “I’m fine. This one’s just taking a lot.” His eyes connected with Wen’s and held. “I hope it does what you want it to do.”
The words slipped out on their own. “It’s much too beautiful for peanut butter.”
“But I thought we wanted peanut butter to rule the world.” He grinned.
Well, damn. “You’re exactly right. We do.” He smiled. “And this definitely rules. There’s not enough money on earth to pay you for this, but I’ll see you get the initial fee as soon as possible. Map seems kind of anxious.”
Peter shrugged. “I’ve got to finish it first.”
“You need to rest. Have some food. You can paint more tomorrow. I mean, can you paint more tomorrow?”
“Yeah. For sure.” He reached out an arm. “Hey, John, pull me up.”
John rushed over and grabbed an arm as Peter struggled to his feet, the red hair flying. He started toward the door.
“Uh, Peter.” Wen gazed after him.
He looked over his shoulder with a grin.
“It’s great everyone got to have some fun, but I need to get things back in order so the kids can have food and get some sleep too.”
“Sure, I—” He must have seen the stress on Wen’s face because he nodded seriously. “Yeah. Come on, John. Let’s finesse this place.”
Wen followed behind as Peter entered the living room. The group had replaced the rug and moved the furniture back, but glasses and paper plates of leftover cookies still decorated all the surfaces, and the guys lay around playing music on makeshift coffee table drums and soda bottle flutes.
Peter waved an arm. “Hey, Fam, this place looks trash. Clean it up, FR.”
Wen frowned and glanced at John, who whispered, “He said the place looks messy. Clean it up for real.”
Everyone grabbed something and carried it into the tiny kitchen. Samu found a trash bag and gathered up anything that wasn’t permanent. Map started washing the glasses while Wingman dried.
Samu said, “I’ll take this down to the trash when we go. We have to get ready to play tonight.”
John sighed. “Wish I could hear you.”
“Don’t think you’d make it past the bouncer, my man.”
Michaela glanced at Dudish. “Maybe you could play for us here sometime?”
“We’re pretty loud.”
John grabbed Samu’s arm “We could invite all the neighbors. That way they wouldn’t complain.”
Samu looked at Wen and probably saw serious horror at the idea. “Could happen, but we need to let Peter finish his painting first.”
“Oh, sure. Right.”
Everyone stood awkwardly—Wingman bored, Michaela smitten, Dudish avoiding her eyes while glancing guiltily at Wen, Map probably wondering what the others were weird about, and Tink glaring at Wen like he’d stomped on her parasol. What’s with her?
Only Peter and Samu looked relaxed. Samu said, “Come on. Let’s get home to change and then to the club. We got music to make.” He herded the group toward the door.
Tink stopped at the entrance and crossed her arms, staring at Peter. “Youcoming?”
“No. Dudish is singing tonight. I’m going to sleep here so I can finish the painting in the
morning. Michaela even made a bed for me.”
Her frown deepened, which looked a little scary on her almost clown-like face. “You’rebeingstupid.”
Peter sighed and stared at his shoes. “I’m sorry you think so, Tink. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He glanced up and met her eyes. “Probably.”
She made a hissing sound and hurried out the door and down the stairs.
John said, “Man, what’s wrong with her? She was so cool before when we were dancing.”
Peter shook his head. “She’s okay. She just worries about me a lot.”
“How come?”
Peter looked like he didn’t expect John to ask that. “She’s just a worrier.”
Michaela came to the rescue. “So who’s hungry? I can make hamburgers.”
Wen shook his head. “Nope. I’m going over to Eddie’s for tacos or whatever he’s got that looks good.”
John applauded.
Peter said, “How about I come and help carry?”
“Uh, that’d be great, thanks.”
John enthusiastically helped Michaela get plates from the shelves, since Eddie’s food ranked high on the John Darling scale of culinary preference.
Peter followed Wen down the apartment stairs. When they got outside and started walking toward Eddie’s, he said, “They sure are great kids.”
“Yeah. I’m lucky. They could so easily have been damaged by their upbringing, but they’re smart, well-behaved, and responsible.”
“Sorry my crew caused so much upheaval.”
Wen tried to keep his face neutral. “Yeah, well, sorry I was such a stick-up-the-butt. The kids don’t have enough fun, but they lived through so much crap when they were little, I like to keep things calm and predictable now.”
“Still, Michaela’s a cute girl. Don’t you have to beat the boys off with a machete?”
This time he couldn’t hide the frown lines. “Actually, she thought you were cute until I told her you’re gay, but she sure couldn’t keep her eyes off Dudish. What’s his story?”
Peter gave him a side look. “Like you see, he’s too beautiful for his own good. He ran away from home when he was fifteen, taught himself music, and joined up with the Lost Boys about a year ago. The girls love him, and he loves them back, more than is good for him. Actually, he does a lot of shit more than is good. He’s a nice guy, though.”