Page 26 of Volt
“Okay, Mr. Judgey,” I say with a laugh.
I tear my eyes away from my canvas and walk over to the kitchen and lean against the wall while I watch him prepare the coffee. It’s just one more of those small gestures that make me really like him. He’s thoughtful in ways most people aren’t. As he stirs my now white coffee, he looks at me. I can see something moving behind his eyes, but I don’t know what it is. I cock my head and look at him as he slides the coffee mug over to me.
“What is it?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Nothing.”
“What is it? Tell me.”
He takes a sip of his coffee and sets his mug down, seeming to be pondering whether to tell me what he’s thinking or not. I get the idea that it’s related to my work, and I’m guessing he just doesn’t want to hurt my feelings or something. Which is appreciated. When it comes to my work, I admit to being a little raw. But given how perceptive he is and how much he seems to instinctively understand, I am curious what’s going through his mind.
“Tell me,” I say. “If it’s about my work, I honestly want to know what you think.”
He frowns, obviously reluctant to criticize my work thinking I might take it as an insult. I reach over and take his hand in mine and give it a firm squeeze.
“I’m a big girl, and I’m made of tougher stuff than most people think. I’m not going to turn into a quivering puddle because of a little constructive criticism,” I tell him. “When I decided I wanted to be an artist, I knew it was a path built on criticism and that if I wanted to make it, I’d have to grow thick skin. And I have. I promise.”
A faint smile touches his lips, and although I can still see he’s reticent about it, his eyes take on a firmness about them. Blake, I can tell, is a direct man. He tells it like it is which is refreshing to me. It’s sweet that he wants to shield me from criticism—and drunken idiots. But I can also tell he’s got a keen mind, and I’m really curious to know what he’s thinking. Especially about my work—and especially after his grand deduction about its inspiration.
“It’s just… I almost feel like you’re not putting yourself into it. I don’t know how to explain it, but that piece in particular has such a depth and power to it—and like I said, I can tell it’s personal to you—but it’s almost as if you’re holding yourself back. It’s not as emotional and powerful as it could be. I mean, it’s a really good painting, Fallon—”
“But it’s not great,” I cut him off with a smile.
He shrugs. “For lack of a better word, I suppose. Yeah. Like I said, I’m no expert but I do enjoy art quite a bit. And sometimes I run across works that really stick with me. That I can’t stop thinking about even days later,” he tells me. “And I really think your work could do that for people—if you stop holding yourself back and just cut loose. Pour all your heart and soul into it. Because to me, it almost feels like you’re afraid to turn it loose.”
A small smile touches my lips. “It’s funny because some of my instructors used to tell me the same exact thing—my works lack an emotional depth. They felt removed from them. Basically, everything you just said.”
“I’m sorry—”
“No, there’s nothing for you to apologize for,” I say. “I asked you. I wanted to know. And I’ve known for quite some time that my pieces are missing something. That they’re missing that emotional depth. I just don’t know how to unlock it.”
“Well, maybe that’s something we can work on,” he offers.
I give him a smile. “Thinking about sticking around a while?”
He shrugs. “At least until I finish this cup of coffee.”
We laugh together as we make our way over to the couch. We sit down, and I nuzzle close to him, laying my head on his shoulder and holding my mug with both hands. We sit in silence for a few minutes, sipping our coffee and just enjoying the sense of rightness in the moment. It feels so domestic as we sit there. It’s so strange and yet, it feels so natural at the same time.
“He was murdered,” Blake says suddenly.
I sit up and look over at him, my eyes growing wide. “What?”
“My friend—our club president. He was murdered,” he says softly. “In front of me.”
“Jesus, Blake. What happened?”
The look on his face says he can’t believe what he just told me. Like he blurted it out without realizing what he was saying. But he knows he can’t walk it back either. He swallows hard as he sits up and clears his throat.
“A little while back, we had an issue with a cartel boss who was trying to take over Blue Rock,” he says. “Things went down, and he ended up being killed in the fight. It’s been a little while, so we were kind of hoping it had all blown over. But his brother came calling. Jumped Prophet, me, and a couple of our guys while we were out on a run one day. They hauled us to this old warehouse where they killed a couple of our guys, then the cartel boss’ brother shows up and shoots Prophet right in front of me. Tells me to tell my club that we need to disband or more of us are going to die. All of us are going to die”
I stare at him wide-eyed, not sure what to think or make of any of it. I knew guys in motorcycle clubs don’t live the cleanest, most law-abiding lives, but I never expected that they’d be mixed up with cartels and that sort of violence. It scares me, and I can’t keep myself from shuddering. And when I look over at Blake, he turns away. I can feel him pulling away from me. In that moment, I’m not sure if it’s better to let him.
But as I look closer, I see the fear. I see the anger. I see a host of emotions scrolling across his face and feel my heart go out to him. But I’ve made so many bad decisions in my life when it comes to men that I vowed a while back that I wasn’t going to get involved with anybody. That I wanted to focus on myself and my art. The bad boys brought nothing but bad stuff into my life and I needed to wean myself off them.
And yet, here I am with another one. And this one with the potential to bring bad things into my life I’ve never considered before. If his club is mixed up with a drug cartel, he could bring a shitstorm of violence and chaos into my life—things I don’t need. Don’t want. I don’t want to believe that Blake would willingly be involved with a cartel. For being so gruff, he’s sweet and kind. He’s compassionate and seems to have a good heart. I don’t want to believe it’s all a façade or that he’s knowingly involved with a group of murderous drug dealers. I don’t want to ask, fearing the answer, but I have to know.
“A-are you and your club… Do you do business with the cartels?” I ask.
