Page 106 of SNOB

With one last glance around the new street, I move inside with him.

“There she is!” Gray greets me as my feet enter the space I no longer recognize.

“Wh—what are you doing here?” He’s not who I expected to see.

“Welcoming you back, Rookie.”

I’m still in a daze as I look around the space. Fresh paint blends with the earthy aroma of exposed brick, the space the cleanest I’ve ever seen it. White walls complement brick ones while brass lanterns hang from the beamed ceiling. Mismatched armchairs sit throughout and a scatter of ornate rugs makes the space feel welcoming and vibrant.

But that’s not what floors me.

My art covers half the room. Some are copies of the paste-ups I saw on social media. Some are new. Different. Moving to a hanging emerald velvet curtain in the middle of the space, my fingers trail the burnt edges of the art hanging in front of it.

“This is from my sketchpad,” I say, the image of Mac’s face darker with burn marks. “You saved it.” Turning to Mac, he stands at the door, his iron eyes on me.

“I’d hope so after the hell this asshole put me through.” Gray’s voice comes from behind the curtain before he wheels a wooden chair to where I stand. “Wanna see the best part?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer, instead, he sits me on the chair and wheels me back to our old storage room. His hands cover my eyes. “Hope you’re ready because if I touch you longer than this, I’ll need a new nose.” When his hands disappear, I gasp.

A bed hangs from four thick ropes at one end, swaying with the bit of air moving through the room. Easels and supplies sit on the other end, a long white desk separating the space. One wall has a giant mirror, another has more artwork from my sketchpad. A giant window reveals a wall of green beyond it like a garden. It's so much bigger than it ever was before.

“What is all this?” I ask.

Mac’s voice comes from behind me. “I’m giving back what’s yours.” Turning around, he leans against the doorframe, his hands in his slacks like when I first laid eyes on him. Except he’s not careless at all.

“Does your dad know about this?” I ask.

“My father’s taken care of.”

My eyes narrow at his words, but Gray shakes me out of my dark thoughts. “So? What do you think? It was Mac’s idea to turn your old digs into a gallery space. Your gallery space. You’ll need one now that you’re some crazy famous artist.”

My hand comes to my neck, reaching for my locket but I’m reminded it isn’t there.

“I hear artists need a roof over their heads,” Mac’s voice comes behind me before something cold slips into my hand. “Now they have it.” My locket. When I open it, my mother’s face is gone. But Uncle Jake’s is there. I’m not sure where he got the photo, but looking into those brown eyes brings tears to mine again. “They’d be proud of you.”

“Damn, Mac, you used to be ice cold,” Gray chuckles. “Now look at you.” A paintbrush flies at Gray but he ducks as it hits the glass wall.

“And… you guys are okay?” I ask, choking back more tears. “I was worried about you, Gray.”

“Oh?” Mac asks, a bite to his tone that I’ve missed. “Were you?”

Gray laughs, “We’re always okay.”

“I thought you were missing,” I glance between them. “Where did you go?”

Gray glances at Mac and when I follow his eyes, Mac shrugs, leaning against the wall as he stares at me the same way he always has. With the intensity of a psychopath.

“Let’s just say Mac sent me on a vacation I didn’t know I needed,” Gray says.

“That’s ominous,” I respond.

“That’s Malcolm McKinsley. The only fucker to get me black-out drunk so he can put me on a flight to Mexico. He won. Again. And I learned not to touch his girl.”

“Mac…” I say, hearing his unconventional, manipulative ways again.

“At least I didn’t shoot him,” Mac says.

Silence overtakes us as my head whips towards Mac, those iron eyes heating my insides. Then laughter breaks between us as quickly as silence came.

“You two? Fucked up,” Gray says, but he laughs along with us. “But hey, the best people are.”

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