Page 8 of Thunder

"Free food, free wine, hot guys in suits, what's not to love? Go get some. I'll catch up with you later. Or, even better, maybe I won't cause you'll be off with some lucky guy."

With a swirl, she disappears into the crowd, leaving me to stand alone with my wine, feeling lost and wondering if I really should go looking for a distraction-worthy guy. Being that I'm not buzzed enough, yet, I take my wine and decide to go look at more paintings.

I find myself in front of a portrait of an old woman and a young girl. It's trite. The message is obvious. It's called 'The Passage of Time.' I hate it, but I also love it for what it is: an easy thing to criticize and distract myself by heapinghateupon it.

"Beautiful painting, isn't it?" Says a man's voice behind me.

I turn.

Long-ish dark hair, a bit wild, a beard, tattoos, piercing green eyes, and a tall athletic build all totally overwhelm my sense of good taste and leave me stunned for a moment.

"Yes, it is," I say, surprised that I'm not too tongue-tied to get those words out. Then I shake my head. "No, I mean, no it isn't."

"It isn't?"

"Like, technically, it's okay. The artist has a little skill, but the message is so on the nose."

"It is?"

"If you look at the little girl's eyes, and then look at the old woman's eyes, you'll see they're the same. Like, exactly the same. And if you look at other details in their faces, it's that way, too. It's the same woman, just at two different points in her life. It's basic and trite and stupid and..." I realize I'm ranting, waving my wine glass, and that other people are looking in my direction. Also, I probably shouldn't be criticizing the painting so harshly if my best friend is trying to sell it.Calm down, Lia. You're being a bad friend and kind of a bitch right now."I'm sorry. I didn't mean to dump all that on you. I've just been having a rough time at work lately."

"You sound like you really know what you're talking about. Do you paint, too?" He comes closer. He's nicely dressed, a button-up shirt that fits him well, hugging his muscular body just right, and his eyes are open, piercing greens that look at me with curiosity and respect, which clashes with both the dangerous aura that radiates off him, as well as with how people in general have treated me lately.

I’m drawn in.

"It's a hobby." Then I add, "No, it's more than that. I love it, actually. But it's not what I do for a living. What I do for a living, I'd rather not talk about it right now. Too much stress."

"Well, either way, you know more about this stuff than I do. I don't know a damn thing about art."

"Then why are you here?"

He points at the group I passed through earlier, the group that was talking about motorcycle repair. "My best friend's girl loves art, culture, all that. He loves her. And the rest of us love free food and wine. Though I think I may have found something else beautiful to pique my interest. I'm Marcus. And you are?"

For a second, I contemplate him over the rim of my wine glass. He's clearly not my usual type. He definitely—nice clothes or not—has a look about him like he does more than just fix motorcycles, like they're probably a significant part of his life; the tattoos, the longer hair, the beard, the vague feeling of danger —they all scream 'biker' to me. A biker lost in an art gallery. Which is intriguing and definitely a distraction.

And then there's those eyes.

They connect with me. Look at me like they give a damn about me and suffuse me with an electric urge to do things that will definitely make me forget about work.

Plus, he's probably not the commitment type.

Which means, after any 'distractions' tonight, I'll probably never have to see him again.

"I'm Amelia, but you can call me Lia."

Just then my phone buzzes in my purse, and being that I am a professional who, as much as she's stressed by her job right now, has no desire to actually lose it, I reach into my purse and check my phone. A new email notification. The subject reads: "Urgent: Eco-Resort Project Meeting Tomorrow."

My stomach sinks.

"Bad news?"

"More of the stuff I'd rather not talk about, because it'd mean I can't enjoy any of these paintings or even my company."

"Then maybe you need to let go to really enjoy yourself."

"I've had four glasses of wine and more Crab Rangoons than I will ever admit. I think that qualifies as letting go," I say. It certainly feels like I'm letting myself go. Probably too much.

"You look like, even though you're here, you're not here. Enjoy what’s right in front of you and leave everything that’s bothering you for another time."

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