Page 15 of Deliverance

“Lots of physical therapy.” He laughs softly. “But, yes, it was a bit challenging.”

“Does it bother you when you play drums?”

“Not really. Not anymore.” He shakes his head, and I sense he’s holding back.

“Sorry I didn’t mean to pry.”

“You’re not prying. It’s all over the internet. Old surfing injury, then I had a drumstick land wrong and another surfing accident.”

“Ouch,” I say. “Could I see it?” I extend my hand and when he obediently holds out his wrist, I take it and run my index finger over the skin discoloration, feeling the imperfection of the tiny ridge. I can’t explain why damages stir something deep and wild in my essence, urging me to make those damages permanent. To freeze them in time and catch the pain that always lingers beneath the surface.

“Scars fascinate you,” Zander whispers, his voice suddenly raw and low as if he knows, as if my walls fall for a moment and he has a chance to look into my mind and see my secrets.

I flick my gaze to his face, our hands still connected. “I’ve made thirty pieces that contain real scars that I’m still not sure the world is ready to see. I only showed Tina three.”

“I think if we keep covering the world with bubble wrap, everyone will forget that there’s hurt all around.”

I let his hand go and he follows me when I move to the next exhibit. In silence, we study the paper-thin streaks of blue and purple that shine at us from the wall.

“When someone buys my artwork, it’s not just the canvas and frame,” I explain. “The person buys the entire palette of emotions and the history that comes with the piece. The pain, the anger, the frustration.”

“Are there happy moments?”

“Sometimes, but this art is a child of darkness.” I don’t add more. I don’t want to. Trips down memory lane always rattle me. It’s more than enough that I channel my pain during the process of creation.

“Rhythmis still my favorite,” Zander confesses.

“I can see why.” I nod. “Would you like me to grab Tina so she can get you set up?”

“Sure, let’s do this.”

3 Zander

I takeJustice up on his offer and drive to Santa Barbara on Saturday.

It’s been a long while since I spent three hours behind the wheel in the company of my own thoughts. After non-stop partying in Bali, the solitude seems strange. Not unpleasant, but, rather, unknown. Distant. Hard to grasp. As if I’ve forgotten how to be alone.

But as I travel farther from L.A. and as the landscape begins to appear more peaceful, I allow myself to relax and enjoy the wind tossing my hair and slapping my face while the music pours from the speakers and into the cool coastal air.

It’s nearly noon when I reach Santa Barbara. Casa Cross is nestled on the edge of the city, away from civilization and prying eyes. It’s a massive estate with a small private beach and a mile-long driveway lined by tall, neatly trimmed jacaranda trees. Security cameras hide behind almost every branch.

My Spyder halts in front of the metal gate and I lower the volume of the music before reaching for the intercom to let myself in. Ahead, a light gray Range Rover is parked in the driveway.Cruz is here.A bit farther up, there’s another SUV, and I note a smallKids on boarddecal on the rear windshield. I’m guessing it’s either Hazel’s or Justice’s car, because the sticker features cartoonish figures of a mom, dad, and two youngsters—a boy and a little girl.

A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth as I bring my ride to the spot next to the SUV and kill the engine.

“We can hear you all the way in the back!” a voice shouts from the direction of the house. “Mr. Lamborghini.”

I step out of the car, not bothering to put up the top, and open my arms to greet Wendy. She’s wearing a two-piece swimming suit that showcases all her ink work. Years and years of it.

We exchange a quick hug and she strolls over to my ride, plants her ass on the driver’s side door, arches her back, and strikes a pose. “How do I look?”

“You look great,” I tell her, noting the new hair color. Red.

“And you look better than you did the other day.” Wendy grins and lowers her voice to a whisper. “Don’t tell my husband my rear kissed your car. He’ll get jealous and try to buy one too, and we don’t have enough room in our garage anymore.”

“Your secret’s safe with me.”

“You do look rested.” She gives one last lustful look to my Lamborghini and motions for me to follow her into the house.

---