Page 77 of Thunder

The thick, enveloping aroma of oil paint and turpentine fills my nostrils. These scents, which once were nothing more than fond memories of my college days with Sera and the occasional day where I allowed myself to indulge in my hobby, now fill most of my free waking hours. The backroom of Tide & Palette, Sera's art gallery in Costa Oscura, is a labyrinth of my emotions, with canvases strewn everywhere, echoing every shade of my soul.

I stand before an easel, brush in hand. The canvas in front of me is a riot of colors, each brushstroke trying desperately to make sense of the storm raging inside me. Love, confusion, betrayal—my emotions blur into one another, much like the paints on my palette.

The door creaks, pulling me out of my reverie. Sera, ever the radiant gallery owner with an impeccable sense of style, steps in. Her heels make a soft clickety-clack as they touch the wooden floor. Her gaze flits from one painting to another, each glance seeming to dissect and understand the stories behind them, before finally resting on me.

"Wow, you've been busy," she notes, her voice a mixture of surprise and admiration.

"It keeps my mind off things," I reply. There’s a lot I’m trying to keep my mind off of: a lost job, a lost purpose, an evil criminal empire trying to make me lose my life.

Sera walks over to a landscape I'd worked on last week, her fingers brushing gently over the textures. "The way you've captured the ocean—it's like it's alive," she observes. "You've got a gift, Lia."

Her words touch me, unexpected and warm.

"You think?" I ask, a vulnerability seeping into my voice.

Sera nods, her eyes holding mine. "I know so. These aren't just distractions. They're masterpieces."

Despite the flood of compliments, doubt creeps in.

"They're just hobbies, you know? It’s not like anyone else would want them. They’re just things taking up space in your back room. Which, I promise you, as soon as I get another job, I’ll pay you back for all the paint and canvas."

Sera's eyes soften, her voice tender. "You're going through a lot, I get it. But maybe, just maybe, these aren't mere distractions. Maybe this is a sign, nature’s way of pointing you to a new beginning."

"A new beginning sounds nice, but it's hard to see it now."

Sera's laugh, light and melodic, fills the room. "That's because you're too close to the canvas. Sometimes, you need to step back to see the bigger picture. Or, at the very least, step back, look at your art, and realize that you’re really fucking talented. You could sell this stuff, Lia."

“You’re joking,” I say. Her words, so simple yet profound, pull a genuine laugh from me. For a fleeting moment, the weight on my shoulders feels a tad lighter.

“I’m not. I’m really not.”

“Well, maybe someday,” I say.

There’s a soft creak as the door to the studio opens again, and Marcus enters. Every time I see him, my heart does this funny little dance that chases my worries away. Today is no different.

He steps in, Steel Reapers MC cut on his chest, his gaze searching the room before settling on me.

"Hey there. How’s my artist today?" He says.

"Hey, you," I reply, trying to mask the warmth that bubbles up every time I see him. Our lives are worlds apart, I feel so adrift and he has the MC, the garage, so much going on, yet somehow, with him, everything feels right in my life.

He strides over, and as his arms envelope me, I'm immediately comforted by his familiar scent—a heady mix of leather, cologne, and that unnameable essence that's just him.

He kisses me, and for a moment, I feel anchored.

"You look like you’re caught up in your head. How about we go for a long ride?" he suggests. The idea of the wind in my hair, the open road ahead, is irresistible. The feeling of freedom, even if short-lived, beckons.

“I’d like that.”

“Good. Sera, I’ll have her back to you in a few hours. At least three,” he says, and he and Sera trade a momentary look.

“Are you two planning something?”

“Lia, you know I’m not the planning type. Come on, let’s ride.”

Taking my hand, he leads me outside and then helps me onto his motorcycle. In minutes, we leave the city behind for the incredible stretch of road that runs along the California coast. The world becomes a blur as Marcus accelerates down the coastal road, the motorcycle's engine roaring beneath us. I cling to him, my fingers digging into the supple leather of his cut, feeling the firmness of his torso beneath. The wind whips through my hair, sending tendrils flying wild and free, and I feel it pulling away all the cares and worries that weigh down my heart. Every breath I take is a gulp of salty sea air, each exhale ridding me of the tension that has held me down for so long.

To my right, the vastness of the ocean stretches out, its waves rhythmically crashing against the cliffs, sending sprays of white foam into the air. The azure of the sea melds seamlessly with the sky, their vastness making my troubles seem so minuscule in comparison—even the looming threat of the Santoro Syndicate’s retaliation. Every curve Marcus takes, bending the motorcycle just so, sends a new rush of exhilaration coursing through me. The mundane realities of life all fade into nothingness.

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