Page 63 of Gilded Saint

“Let’s go. Get your shoes on.”

Nerves light my stomach. My hands cool and the desire to change plans comes out of nowhere as if a dragon arose and instead of shooting flames, the monster shot doubt straight into my veins.

This is one dragon I must slay. I step back into his bedroom and into the closet where I placed my stuff.

Not everyone will like what I create. But someone out there will.

Foremost, I create for myself.

Haters teach. Either constructively, so I improve my art, or by strengthening my skin.

Leo is not a hater. I’ll read the truth in his eyes. That might hurt more than anything he says, but I don’t paint for everyone. My style might not be what he seeks. And that’s okay.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?”

I jump, palm pressed against my sternum. “You scared me.”

“Wanted to see what was taking so long. Do you have enough room in here?” He examines the walk-in closet. It’s a slightly smaller mirror image of his closet.

I didn’t pack most of what I own. There’s a ton of unused hanging space and drawers I haven’t used. “It’s good. I’ll spend some time organizing and make it neater in here.”

His closet is color coded, with the hanging clothes separated in sections by color, whereas mine has yet to be sorted. I ran out of hangers, so there’s one trunk that’s open against the wall that’s a haphazard mess.

He disappears, and I slip on a pair of trainers and bump into his chest as I exit.

“Forgot to give you this.”

The black credit card in his hand reads Willow Gagliano.

“My assistant said it was better to give you a card with the name on your identification. Since there’s no reason for you to legally change your name…” He holds it out, waiting for me to take it. There’s no need to legally change my name because this is temporary. “Use this for anything you need.”

“You know, I have some money. You don’t need to pay for everything.”

“My wife should have a credit card I supply. Take the card.”

I take it from him and absentmindedly slide it in a back pocket. “Ready?”

Silence descends. It’s not an uncomfortable silence, per se, but I can’t stop myself from wondering why a weight has settled on my chest. Is it the discomfort with financial matters? The reminder that this is an arrangement with an as-yet-undetermined end date?

He’s wearing jeans and a loose long sleeve t-shirt with the outline of bullhorns on the back, UT on the pocket, and frayed edges along the sleeves. Instead of his odd-looking cowboy boots, he’s also in trainers, and while I know he’s quite a bit older, this look shaves years.

In our Saturday outfits, we could be mistaken as friends from university, rather than an influential arms dealer and the young art student he’s mysteriously befriended.

“The workstations aren’t far away at all, are they?” he asks as I open the door to the brick building that might be mistaken as a refitted warehouse.

“Nope. How long have you lived here?” I ask.

“In this flat? Four years.”

“Where’d you live before?”

“A different flat.” He extends his arm, holding the door for me. The worn brick floor bears a sheen from age and polish, and my shoes squeak, a shrill sound in the mostly vacant space. “Is it quiet like this because it’s a Saturday?”

“Yes.” I unlock the door to my studio. It’s a one-room space with three spacious windows with iron grids on one wall. My paints are in boxes on the floor, and the dry brushes are put away in leather wraps. Cleaned, damp brushes gather in glass jars, handles down, tops airing.

“I’ve ordered some pieces for storage,” I tell him. “I thought about shopping in the area but figured it would be easiest to find what I want online.”

“So, this is where the magic happens?” he asks, traversing the space, slowing when he arrives at my easel and the work in progress. It’s a flurry of reds and oranges. Another piece, one filled with blues and grays, leans against a wall. “Angry?” he asks, pointing at the reds. “Sad?” He lifts an eyebrow and gestures to the blue painting.

---