Page 57 of Dice & Dekes

“I miss not having to worry about bills and quarterly taxes,” Viktor quips.

I nod. “That tracks. We both know how you feel about responsibility.”

Sofia and Knight exchange a worried glance over the tops of their canvases. I tell myself to rein it in—my problems shouldn’t ruin their night. Surprise, surprise, Viktor’s doing that kicked-puppy expression again.

I lift my paintbrush. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

The others do the same, though I can tell I’ve already soured the mood. And there it is. That familiar gut punch. The one where I realize I’ve swung too hard, too fast, and now everyone’s bleeding—even the people who had nothing to do with the original wound.

This is the one thing I don’t like about myself: I am completely incapable of keeping my shit on the inside. When I’m in a bad mood, I can feel myself poisoning every interaction, taking everyone else down into my crappy headspace with me. I did a lot of therapy after I left the military, and I thought I’d gotten this under control. Turns out, while I have gotten better at managing some of my darker moods, faking a positive attitude is something I still haven’t mastered.

At least I can make an effort to change the tone of the evening. “How’s your store doing, Sofia?”

“Oh, it’s really good!” She perks up immediately. Talking about her jewelry shop always has this effect. “I’ve started doing beading classes for kids, and it’s so fun! I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to corral a bunch of tweens, so I just make sure that they always come with a parent. I did a big weekend event with a Girl Scout troop a couple of weeks ago, and I’m trying out this daddy-daughter beading class. I only had four groups show up, but it was really sweet watching them create together. And I had a couple of moms tell me that their boys are interested in having a creative space, too, so now it’s kind of snowballing into this whole project that’s a lot less intimidating than I expected…”

Sofia’s enthusiasm lifts the mood of the evening. When Knight starts talking about his idea for a Venom/Bead Bar crossover event, I listen with half an ear, while the rest of my attention is dedicated to my canvas. Or, more accurately, on Viktor.

He’s painting slowly and with obvious care. Every few seconds, his eyes flick toward my face. I have to be careful to avert my own gaze so that we don’t keep making eye contact. Every time we do, it feels flirty.

This is definitely a trap. Trying to paint Viktor accurately requires intense study of his features. That jaw. Those cheekbones. His beautiful, lying eyes. Even more distracting are the little details my mind glosses over, like the slight angle of his nose from that time he broke it face-planting off the roof of the shed, or the little scar on his eyebrow from where he split his face open when he ran full-tilt into a swing set. We couldn’t have been more than six at the time, but I remember that day so clearly. He didn’t cry when blood dripped into his eyes, so I cried for him, even as I dragged him back to the bench where our dads were waiting for us.

I remember how it felt to see one of my best friends get hurt, and how that pain seemed to transfer into me, as if the suffering was mine.

I felt the same way when Mick died. Like all the pain that he couldn’t feel anymore became my inheritance.

The connection between those two events reignites my fury, and I channel it all into my painting. I don’t say a word for the half hour.

“Okay, let’s show our pictures!” Sofia chirps. She spins her painting to show a decent likeness of Knight. It’s not museum-worthy, but it’s good enough to hang on the wall without shame. Knight reveals his portrait, which is… made with love. Lots of love. Not much skill, but it’s the thought that counts, right?

“Ready?” Viktor asks me. He turns his canvas around almost shyly to reveal someone who looks a lot like me. The portrait is sketchy, and he is terrible at noses, but he’s captured something familiar. My hair is rendered in dark purples and blues, but my face is radiant. Imperfect, angry, and still beautiful.

I want someone to see me that way. The trouble is, I want someone to love me for what they see, and Vik ain’t it.

I flash him a piranha smile and flip my canvas so that he can see what I’ve made. It’s a lot less realistic than everyone else’s paintings, but there’s no denying the resemblance between the chiseled, blond man-ho before me and the little voodoo doll I’ve painted, chock full of pins and with Xs for eyes.

Knight shakes his head at me. “What the hell, Knova?”

“What?” I smile and bat my eyelashes. “Eyes are the windows to the soul.”

Sofia purses her lips. Viktor won’t even look at me.

I stare at the back of his head and feel something sick twist in my stomach. I did that. I made him feel like that. And for what? Some fleeting shot of control? A way to make my own confusion feel justified?

I rip the canvas off its tiny easel like it personally offended me. The legs scrape across the table with a squeal that makes everyone wince. I don’t care. I do care. But caring feels dangerous right now. “Thanks for the party. I’ve got to go.” I rush toward the door without waiting for anyone to respond.

I feel sick. Angry, but also guilty. Sofia didn’t deserve that. Knight didn’t either. But the anger in my gut is so hot and sour that I don’t know what else to do with it. I hate getting hurt. It makes me want to lash out at the people who hurt me.

And Viktor’s betrayal? That hurts like hell. I hate to admit it, but I want to be able to trust him. I want to believe that someone could look at me, and my bad attitude and all my bullshit baggage, and still love me.

I’m still mashing my feet into my shoes when Viktor joins me in the hallway. “This was supposed to be fun,” he whispers.

“Well, it would be a lot more fun for me if you weren’t fucking someone else!” I snap.

Viktor reels back like I’ve slapped him. “What?”

I want to tell him that I know. About outreach, about his Saturday plans, about all the times I’ve played second fiddle to some hookup. If I open my mouth, though, I might just start screaming and never stop.

So instead, I take my painting and go.

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