Page 51 of Choose the Bears

“Put an order in for the supplies you need,” Asher replied. “We’ll have them delivered.”

“Can some of them be burgers?” Kyle clasped his hands as if begging. “I’m damn good at cooking burgers and I haven’t had one for ages. Some potato buns. Oh, and bacon and eggs with some beetroot.”

“Wait until you taste my burgers,” she said, daring to smile, but that was when a cleaner walked past, carrying a plastic bag filled with rubbish. The light in her eyes dimmed for just a moment, but she shook her head and stood tall. “There’s a secret ingredient.”

“Love?” Kyle asked with a cheeky grin.

“Olive oil and Worcestershire sauce,” she replied, allowing herself to be steered towards the doorway.

The two ofthem compared notes while Asher and I followed behind, his eyes finding mine. Sometimes it felt like everything about our job sucked. People only came to us because they were hurting, and we did our best to make sure they left better, safer than when they first walked in through the door, but this situation? It was ten times more personal.

Fur prickled across my arms, there and gone again as we drove back to headquarters, but as soon as we got inside, I was off. Kyle was discussing the different food suppliers we had an account with and Asher handed him the company card to pay forit all, then he followed me into my sanctuary. My gaming rig and the server I used to centralise all our IT needs were all sitting there, lights gleaming in the darkness as we entered.

“Find those books.” Another credit card was placed on the desk, his personal one, I think. “Find every single one of them. I don’t care how much, or what it costs to get them expedited here, but do it. It wasn’t her clothes or her documents, or even her cookware, she cared about in that apartment, it was those books.” His eyes met mine. “Get our mate what she needs.”

I clicked on the mouse, sitting back in my gaming chair, and then went to work.

Chapter 27

Imogen

Busy. I needed to keep busy. Sure I could’ve hung out in the room I was given and had a sook about what happened, but where would that get me? It wouldn’t have Phil putting my door back on its hinges, all my stuff un-pissed on. Instead, we walked down the headquarter’s hallway, Kyle giving me suggestions about what to add to the shopping list.

“Could we do a roast?” he asked and then groaned at his own suggestion. “God, a lamb roast, not overcooked, and with rosemary.”

“And lemon,” I added. “Thyme also works really well with lamb, but roast’s are a prime cut of meat. That’d be expensive to do for…” I turned to look at him. “How many people do you have staying here?”

This was important information, something I’d need when we put the grocery order in, but right now Kyle didn’t have my attention. An open door lured me forward. The room was both completely empty and yet full at the same time.

Full of kids’ art.

There were paintings and drawings hanging in frames throughout the entire building, but this room positively exploded with it. Large pin-up boards had been installed on the walls and there were artworks pinned to every spot. More still were neatly stacked on a drying rack. Rows of paint bottles were lined up on the bench by the sink, brushes placed in jars along the wall. Charcoal, pencils, scissors, paper, and a massive box of coloured pastels drew me forward.

There was nothing like going to an art supplies shop. The rows upon rows of rainbow colours, the textures, the different products, each one was all potential. You could use the materials to make anything, and that’s what had me stepping inside the room.

In my head I saw it, my hand moving swiftly across paper with just a little tooth to it, the texture grabbing at the pastels as I sketched out a rough shape. Sharply pointed pencils that drew precise lines, then were used to shade in areas, the strokes overlapping to create the illusion of three dimensionality. Soft, liquid ink that dripped on the page or was swished around in fluid strokes. A metal pen could be loaded up with the black liquid, used to apply the ink in precise cross hatches.

“You can go inside if you like.” Kyle’s warm voice and smile broke the spell I was in, making me realise I’d just been standing in the doorway staring like an idiot. I went to step back, but he was there, stopping me. “This was supposed to be an art therapy room. We had a therapist that specialised in it for a while, but she moved on. We keep it stocked. A lot of the kids like to come in here, their mums bringing them in to do some art.” He shook his head slowly. “There’s a lot of killing time when people first come here, and while we’ve got a games room and play equipment, some kids…”

Were drawn to the paper and the paint, the mess of creativity. I knew exactly what had them stepping closer,because it was what flared up in my chest, burning hot right now. Most kids loved making art and some of us, we never grow out of it.

I needed to get out of here. Seeing what Phil did to my apartment, it damn near broke me, but I was rallying, coming back stronger, so why did a room full of art supplies threaten to break me all over again? Because this room was all too familiar.

The art teachersat my school knew that with each year there were a cluster of misfits who tolerated every other subject, only coming alive when they were in the art room. We were allowed in during recess and lunch, a teacher sitting in the classroom and working on their marking as we had half an hour of pure, unfettered creativity. Each time the school bell rang I was yanked out of it, what I was working on, but more than that, out of a magical place that just made sense to me. My hand knew how to move to draw the shapes my heart dictated, my fingers clasping the pencil tight. My injured ones ached right now, ready to wrap around a pencil, a paintbrush, even delve into some clay.

But I couldn’t.

What would I draw? My subconscious had been scoured clean of inspiration after years of not doing anything creative. Mike had taken that from me. He’d come to the art room to find me because I was his girlfriend. A possession that needed to be reclaimed, he’d sneer at the teacher on charge, then nag me until I put the pencil down. Walk away from the only part of myself that made sense to me, to what? Go and hang out with his friends on the far edge of the oval, listen to them talk shit, watch them smoke cigarette after cigarette, my happiness wafting away just like the bluish plumes of smoke.

Keep busy,my mind prompted, knowing somehow that I needed to keep moving, just like a shark. If I didn’t, well, there were bigger things, far more scary things in the ocean and they’d catch up to me if I didn’t keep swimming.

“If we’re going to get burgers on for dinner, we better get a wriggle on,” I told Kyle, but before he could answer, other people came rushing into the room.

One in particular.

I knew Scott. He was Mary and Phil’s son, but the last time I saw him, he hadn’t looked like this. With a shock of brown hair and eyes that sparkled, he was cute as hell, some part of me wanting to count every single freckle on his nose.

“Mum!” he shouted, looking back over his shoulder, but it was when he turned back that I gasped. One eye was bright, raking across the room, looking for the paper he was working on last time he was in here, but the other? A sick-coloured purple bruise forced the lids to swell almost shut, and that’s when I sucked in a breath, unable to let it out.

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