Page 110 of Fury

I’d made it to LosAngeles and, through a friend from school, I’d found work as a tailor, a seamstress, which led to being a wardrobe person, then an assistant to a celebrity stylist. In the beginning I’d volunteered for a lot of different projects and willingly took low pay on a lot of jobs. All in the name of networking, keeping busy.

After all, I was haunted.

Two years later, I’d found my stride as a stylist for photographers and independent films and music video productions.

“Really? You like this shirt on me?” Eric, the lead guitarist for an up and coming band who were shooting their second video today, shifted his weight for the umpteenth time, wiping his wavy light brown hair behind his ears.

“No, I love this shirt.” I tugged at the slanted edge of the ripped shirt I had created for him. “It’s hot. You’re hot. You in the shirt—way hot. See how that works?”

His hazel eyes lit up, and he let out a nervous laugh. “I guess. I don’t know. I’m just used to wearing my jeans, old tees, and flannel shirts. What a cliché, huh?”

“If you tell me you’re from Seattle, then yes, that would be a cliché.”

“Well, that’s a relief. I’m not from Seattle. I’m from South Dakota.”

“Oh, really?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve been there?”

“No,” I lied.

“Where are you from?”

“Chicago originally,” I lied again. “Now I’m here.”

“Now you’re here.” He held my gaze, an index finger flicking at one of my long beaded earrings. “And I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me too.”

He traced a zig zag over my shoulder and down my upper arm where my latest tattoo design sprawled over my skin, and I stiffened, moving away from him.

“What’s all this?” he asked.

“A treasure hunt.”

I had continued my odyssey with tattoos, getting more and more. Erasing the scars the Smoking Guns had left on me was important to me, but it had quickly transformed into commemorating the beautiful that could arise in the aftermath of hell. I needed to remind myself every moment of every day that I was persevering, that I’d found a way, even though the price I’d paid had been extraordinarily high.

The ultimate price.

Eric chuckled. An eyebrow quirked, a lopsided grin. He was cute. The boy next door who gave good hugs and whose gaze lingered on you when you spoke. “A treasure hunt, huh? I like hunting. What am I looking for?”

I stood up and eyed the results of my Eric Lanier makeover. “Treasure, of course,” I replied.

Yes, treasure, but it wasn’t for anyone to find. It was for me, buried in flowers and fairies and suns and moons, in stars and sea waves rippling over my skin. A desperate symphony of my endurance.

“Your whole damned body is a treasure,” he blurted.

I let out a laugh. “Well, don’t you say the nicest things?”

He laughed with me. “You think? Jesus, I’ve been a jerk lately, just ask my manager. All this promotion and publicity shit makes me nervous. So many details, so many new people involved all of a sudden.”

“People like me?”

“Yeah. It’s not just me and the boys anymore. Everything’s different, and it’s all moving and changing so fast.”

“You’re on the verge. You guys are good, Eric. Everyone’s saying this album is a winner. I really like the song for this video.”

His shoulders relaxed, his features eased as if I’d pulled a string and made it happen myself. “What’s your name again? Sorry, I’ve just met so many people today, and I don’t want to not remember you.”

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