Page 8 of Deliverance

“Shortly after I moved here, I met someone. He was a musician,” she continues. “I worked in a small club in Hollywood, where we had live music every Friday night and he played drums for one of the bands that performed there.”

“What was the name of the band?”

Drew turns her head and gazes up at me through her long, dark brown lashes. “You’ve never heard of it.”

“The world is smaller than you think.”

“Zero Ecstasy.”

I’m a little upset that she won this round. “You’re right. Catchy name though.”

Drew switches her attention back to the frame. “We made this together. It’s an original Zero Ecstasy song.”

She brings the flute to her mouth and finishes the drink in one swallow.

Heart pounding, I wait for further explanation, but none comes and despite the lack of words, I feel a strange connection to this piece of art and this woman. It’s the sudden tension of unuttered questions that binds the three of us.

Unable to stay still, I draw my hands from my pockets and fold my arms on my chest. My eyes study the canvas. “Do you mind telling me about your process?”

“It’s a trade secret,” she whispers, but I catch a lick of mischief in her tone.

“And if I ask Google?”

“Don’t believe everything you read online, Mr. Shaw.”

“Please, Zander,” I press. Formalities make me feel old and I don’t want to feel old or like I’m a thousand miles away. Not from her.

“It’s an overhead view,” Drew explains.

I stare at the canvas, dumbfounded, as endless seconds tick by.

“You see it?” She turns to face me. Although my eyes are glued to the artwork, I can still feel the burn of her gaze on my cheek.

Finally, it hits me like a lightning bolt, and the images suddenly begin to make sense.

“His drum kit?” I glance at Drew over my shoulder, seeking confirmation.

She tips her chin, barely a nod.

Now my need to know how exactly this piece was created is overwhelming, but I choose to tread lightly because everything between us seems so fragile. “Okay, let me just say it.” My eyes meet hers. “I’m fucking impressed.”

“Thank you. I’m glad my work has that effect on you.”

“Any other pieces I can look at?”

“I believe the rest are in storage until tomorrow.”

“I’d love to see them.”

“The gallery will put them back up in the morning. You can come by after lunch.”

“Are you going to be here?”

“Tina’s in charge of sales.” Drew pauses as if she’s battling with the words that are about to come out from her mouth. “But I should be here in the afternoon too,” she adds quietly with a smile.

My mind is blown away and full of so many questions, but I don’t get to ask any, because we’re interrupted by one of Drew’s friends.

Ten minutes later, I’m in the car on my way to the Roosevelt. Driving home to Laguna Beach just to come back here tomorrow doesn’t seem appealing.

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