Page 26 of Deliverance

I have no idea how long I’ll be in the studio, but I like to have all my bases covered. “You don’t happen to have an extra one?” I give him my best smile. A friendly attitude goes a long way and takes its owner places. It’s the one lesson my parents gave me that I’ll never forget.

“Sorry, no.” The guy shakes his head.

“All right. I’ll be back by seven then.”

I leave my Spyder where Fernando indicated and blatantly jaywalk across the street, ignoring the police cruiser lingering a few blocks ahead. As soon as I’m in the clear, I take a second to appreciate the architecture of the building. It didn’t look as impressive from afar while I was in a volatile state of mind looking for some damn parking. But now that I get a chance to study the structure up close, I can somewhat understand Drew’s choice. The red brick walls, stark against the cloudless California sky, ooze untold history. There’s a small faded mural to the left of the entrance, not visible to traffic because of several vans blocking the view. It’s an image of a young woman in a long white dress with a scythe in her hand, and I imagine she’s some obscure comic book character. The top floors are lined with rows of tall arched windows, a few of them open with music pouring out.

I walk up to the metal door and, as instructed, press the suite number into the keypad below the intercom speaker. Two seconds later, I hear a crackle and then Drew’s distorted voice. “Who is it?”

“Zander,” I reply.

There’s a soft click and a buzz at the door and I quickly pull it open and slip inside. A dim foyer with a row of narrow mailboxes and a single fake palm tree in the corner welcomes me. It’s quiet and hot and I carefully survey my surroundings in search of the elevators, but I don’t see one, so I take the stairs.

Drew’s studio is on the third floor and I access it by going down a dark corridor and a set of double doors she’s already unlocked for me. Her form lingers in a doorway up ahead of me as I stride past the graffiti-dotted walls. All the artwork seems to be music-inspired. I glimpse at The Beatles and Deep Purple among an abundance of other faces that don’t register, simply because there’s not enough light in here.

“I believe getting into The White House is easier.” I chuckle, slowing for a quick second to look at what appears to be a cartoonish version of Hall Affinity. “Neat.”

“Artist is a big fan.” Drew laughs softly. “I think he rents the space above me. All of this was already here when I signed the lease.” The white tank she’s wearing is splattered with some kind of silver substance, and her faded jeans are tucked into construction boots.

There’s a Marilyn Manson tune playing in the background. Unwittingly, some of my teenage memories crawl up to the surface. He was a huge influence, and I take it as a good sign.

“Am I going to find myself here if I look carefully?” I ask, closing the distance between us. The sharp scent of sage floods my nose.

“You might. I still haven’t had a chance to figure out who all’s on these walls,” Drew confesses, stepping aside to let me in.

The first thing I see is the back of a young guy sitting on a wooden stool. Naked. His entire body is covered with the same silver substance that stains Drew’s clothes.

Well, now that makes sense. Kinda…

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” I say, coming to a stop, my gaze darting between her and her subject.

“Oh, you’re fine,” the guy says and spins to face me. “I’m not shy.”

A flash of panic rushes through my stomach as I’m anticipating seeing his junk out and about, but—thank fuck—he’s wearing briefs, which are also silver to match the rest of his skin.

Behind me, the door lock snaps.

“This is Kristof,” Drew makes the introduction. “Kristof, this is Zander.”

“Hey, man.” I give him a nod.

He grins. A flash of white on his silver face looks terrifying. “You’re right on time. We’re about to get lunch.”

“I’d shake your hand, but I don’t want to mess up hours of work,” I joke, my gaze sweeping over to Drew.

She bites back a smile and moves to the center of the room. “You like sushi?”

Random.“Sure.”

“Have them double the order,” Kristof says and Drew huffs and snatches her phone from a folding table to make the call.

“You really don’t have to—” I try to tell her not to bother on my account, but she makes an irate hand gesture and hides behind the area sectioned off from the rest of the studio by a three-panel room divider.

The painted guy leans toward me as much as his delicate situation allows and whispers, “Mama doesn’t like it when people get bossy with her.”

“Except you?” I joke, referring to his haughty request to upgrade the order.

Kristof’s mouth spreads into a sassy smile. Dude’s a flirt. “You in a band?” he asks, staring at me.

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