Page 95 of SNOB

“If you’re unsure I can put you right back where I found you.” Picasso reaches inside the rusting mini fridge before tossing a can my way. “Here.” It hits my chest hard before I can catch it. A warm beer. “We can help each other. Like the artists in Paris or Berlin. This will be our home, while you can be my muse.”

Cracking the beer, I look around the sparse space again. “Or you can be mine.” I'm tired of putting the men in my life first, and that seeps through. But then I find the inspiration I need to embrace this. “Like Frida and Diego.” Iconic.

The chatter from the men quiet, my eyes turning to them as they all stare at me like I’ve grown an extra tit. After what seems like forever, the room erupts in laughter. Pulling my beer to my lips, I eye them over the can, ignoring their laughs.

They’re too old to be in an artist squat. One has a gold tooth that shines under the single swaying lamp over the sofa. The other looks like one-half of the bandits from Left Alone. They look more like mafia rejects than artists. With a sip of my drink, my mouth twists. The Hill ruined my palate.

Ignoring the chill in my bones, I look around for supplies again. A canvas. Paper. Paint. Pencils. Anything. My mind craves to get lost in my work but how can I do that if there’s nothing around? “Where do you keep your supplies?” I ask.

Picasso stops laughing before the men look at him, waiting for an answer. He clears his throat. “Don’t worry about that. Right now, why don’t you get settled? Come here.” He beckons me closer with a tilt of his head. The men near him smile, their eyes still wandering my frame.

“Uh, I rather work on my art.”

Bang!

“Well pardon the fuck out of me.” My ears rise to my shoulders when Picasso's hand pounds on a wooden crate. “It’s all work and no play with you isn’t it, Butterfly? Did I make a bad decision?”

“Can you stop calling me that?” I ask through a tight jaw. “I have a name.”

“We don’t use real names here.” The men chuckle as Picasso walks towards me. I step back but he’s faster, grabbing my wrist and pulling me to him.

His grip tightens, a sting on my skin. “Stop, that hurts.”

“Ever try a Lady Killer?” Picasso ignores me, leading me towards the makeshift living area where I can see his men eyeballing me even closer.

Cringing at the name, I move over to the ring of mismatched sofas, a small heater making this area much warmer than where I stood. Picasso moves to an empty seat before he takes my hand. Despite pulling back, he’s stronger, tugging me on his lap.

“Evan.” He snaps a finger at one of the men. “Make this one a Lady Killer and make it strong.”

“Can we get to work?” I ask, trying to move from his lap but he wraps his arms around me. It should make me feel better with how lonely I’ve been but it only makes my stomach churn. I try manners. “Please?”

“Sure,” Picasso chuckles. His voice in my ear makes me want to rip off my skin. “Right after a drink with the crew. We’re a team, remember? Act like one, it’s not all about you, Princess.” He scoffs, “Narcissistic artists.”

Evan slams a glass filled with purple liquid on the table. “Drink up.” He has an accent I didn’t expect. Polish? Russian? Either way, he’s not from here.

They all hold out their drinks. A beer and a glass of brown liquid. “Prost,” Picasso says. “To the new crew.” His beer can hits mine. They all look at me, waiting for me to drink. “Don’t tell me you don’t party. Shit, maybe I did make a bad decision.”

Thinking about being in the parking garage alone makes me look around the space again. A roof over my head and art. Heat. Company. What more can I ask for? After everything? I made my mess and it’s only up from here.

So what’s a drink?

I’m away from Saint Bons and Hannah. I’m away from the mother who never wanted me.

I’m away from Mac.

My chest tightens at the last thought before I tap my glass of purple drink against Picasso’s. “Cheers to a new life.”

Without Malcolm McKinsley.

A cold drop on my face stirs me awake.

Another brings me back to reality.

The only light I can see is a sliver coming from my right. Pushing up, my hand hits a cold hard surface. Concrete.

Pushing my hair out of my face, I try to make sense of my surroundings, but I can’t quite place it. Everything hurts. My head. My thighs. My legs. My throat.

“He-hello?” My voice comes out a small rasp, echoing around the room. No one answers but as I perk my ears up, I hear that same sound I heard earlier.

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