Page 16 of Butterfly
SHILOH
Transferringto a new school can be such a bitch in some ways—you have to worry about credits and classes still counting. You have to find a new place to live, and make sure you know your routes and schedules.
But… in other ways, it’s nice. Everyone already knows each other, so I’m mostly left alone to do my work. I’m sure it would look better if I made friends, if I seemed social… but I’m not really interested in anyone. There isn’t even a person in class who makes my fingers itch to spill their blood so I can work.
No one has caught my eye except…
I blink at the canvas in front of me. I’d saved enough money in California to pay for my apartment for a year, but that doesn’t mean I can suddenly get lazy. So I’d put aside my homework a few hours ago to work on something for my website. But even as I look at the work in front of me, I know there’s something missing.
A body in the middle.
A face with freckles.
I frown and lift my brush, streaking a slash of black across the center in a fit of irritation that instantly makes my chest constrict.
Ineedto sell this. I’m running low on paint… and…
Fuck. The only person I can think about taking a knife to is a damn hockey player who everyone wouldnoticegoing missing.
My fingers move without thinking, and IknowI’m doing something I shouldn’t when I paint a swirl of eyes amongst the black, little dotted slashes of red that are familiar to me and me alone.
Donovan looks back at me, and I can’t stop myself when I paint another swirl of red—lines that would connect the dots of his freckles if I drew them in.
I’m careful as I put him all over the canvas, and the sudden black slash behind him makes sense.
It’s me.
A dark shadow. A tear in his existence, ready to rip his light into nothingness.
With a frown, I dip my brush into red—the red that I’m running so fucking low on—and then flick the bristles at the canvas.
It comes out in a spatter of red dots. Freckles. Stars. Blood.
I pull out my phone and snap a photo of the piece while the paint is still drying, putting it up on the feed of my website after I pull off my gloves and make my way back to my living room, flopping onto my couch without bothering to turn on the lights.
The low glow of the screen fills my vision as I instantly get a message from one of my clients.
New piece going up for bid or sell?
I sigh. Sidney is a regular—a man in his early forties who collects expensive art like some people collect cards.
Probably for auction.
Even as I type it, I know what’s going to happen. It happens every time I put up a piece that he wants… and if I’m being honest, at this point, I kind of depend on his bottomless bank account and lack of impulse control to make sure I can pay the bills.
I’ll give you 5,000.
After the mess I made with the black slash and the fact that it’s a smaller canvas, that’s probably more than it’s worth. I still push my luck.
I might let it go up just to see if I can get more. Moving has been a real bitch.
“One… two… three…” I was giving him to the count of five, but another message dings on the screen.
7,000.
Sucker.
I just finished, so it’ll be a few weeks before I can ship. Are you good with half now to hold?
