SNOB: A Dark College Enemies to Lovers Romance

Chapter 28

“Hello again, McKinsley.”

His face stares back at me, painted onto the brick wall.

Once again, Mac is the subject of my imagination. Taking a step back, those iron eyes cover the work of my enemy.

At least I think it’s my enemy.

Tilting my head, I size up my work. I’m missing the depth of darkness in his eyes. The soul-sucking energy that sends you into oblivion.

Shaking the can, I fill in the spots that still have paint peaking out from underneath, committing to my work. Once it’s all filled, I pick up my brush and paint butterfly wings in the corner, leaving my stamp. My signature.

Contrary to his belief, this butterfly set herself free.

But he still lives in your mind.

And the painting in front of me proves it.

Sirens wail in the distance, my cue to wrap things up. It’s hard to tell if they’re for me but I don’t want to risk it.

Moving on from Grim Valley was a risk. But it was riskier staying beneath The Hill after what I did. As for Newhaven? It’s far from that, a haven. It’s a place where the fittest survive. My art is the only thing keeping me from succumbing and if I need to keep myself afloat, I’ll need to get back to it.

With my backpack of paint and a couple new sketchpads under my arm, I move to my spot near the community centre and set up again.

It’s hard keeping my artwork down with the gusty wind today. As I fumble with a rock, one of my drawings of Uncle Jake drifts off under the late afternoon sun. Just like the rest of my dreams.

I wanted a fresh start. A fresh beginning. But it feels like the opposite. It feels so much worse than where I was before. With Jake.

With Mac.

“Drive that bullet into my heart.”

“End us.”

And I did.

Thing is, it’s not that easy getting rid of Malcolm McKinsley. At least not in my head. I didn’t kill him. I couldn’t and he knew it. But I made sure we’d never come back from that.

We can’t come back from that.

“Well, if it isn’t the Butterfly.” A croaky voice makes me lift my head as my stomach flips, that nickname loud and clear. My heart pounds as my body stills, my hand tightening around the rock.

When I look up, emptiness fills me again.

An older man with a salt and pepper beard eyes my work, each signed with those butterfly wings. “I knew I recognized that signature.” He pulls the drawing that got away from behind his back. He smiles but it doesn’t feel like one, crow”s feet by his tired brown eyes. His brown leather jacket matches the fanny pack he wears across his body. A white tee shows off his dad-bod. I wonder how many moms fawn over him at the PTA. “You’re the one painting over my shit.”

“Wait, what?”

“Didn’t you just paint over my tag under the bridge?”

My brows lower. “That’s you?” Sure street artists come in different shapes and sizes, but this is not what I expected from Pavement Picasso.

“Sure is.” He winks, and that tells me he’s not as mad as I thought he’d be. Not when he’s eyeing me like a piece of meat even in my torn-up jeans and dry hair. I keep it piled on my head, no use in letting my matted coils out. The last time I looked in the mirror, I startled myself, the lack of sleep really showing.

“Sorry.” It’s best not to fight with him. Getting by out here isn’t easy. Especially on my own. Selling supplies and whatever clothes I could get from The Hill got me some cash for food and a few days at a motel. That got used up, so selling my art is the only thing left to support my daily meal of Cheetos and jerky.

As for accommodation? The abandoned parking lot near the highway is a huge downgrade from The Emerald.

I couldn”t stay in The Hill after what I did. I proved I’m a murderer. The Valley was too close and Uncle Jake was way behind on the lot payments for our trailer. Not only did they wheel Uncle Jake away, but our home too. Angelo’s current life would only bring more danger, especially after I stole his gun. So hitching the five hours to Newhaven was the safest bet. At least until I can get enough money to move on.

“No apologies necessary,” he says, crouching to get a better view of my work lined up on the pavement. His finger trails each page as he stares into my eyes. “I didn’t expect you to be this hot.” He’s as forward as he presents himself, my cheeks heating at his compliment. With a wider smile, he bites his thin bottom lip. That should lower the threat of his presence but my muscles remain tight. “When my guys told me they saw the Butterfly selling out here, I was ready to throw some punches.” He takes a page off the pavement, moving a rock away. “But there’s something here.”

He rises, his eyes falling to my chest before I pull an old Saint Bons sweater around me. Made out of wool, it’s the warmest thing I own. It still smells like him, and I’d be lying if I said that didn’t heighten the comfort.

“So, whaddya say?” he asks. “You wanna be part of PowerUp Crew?”

Woah. “The PowerUp Crew? That’s you too?”

PowerUp is a popular street art collective on the east coast. Real political. Real badass. Their work gets featured in social media, magazines and even the news. And they want me?

“You really like my stuff?” I ask. They’re mostly sentimental, and not nearly as thought-out as PowerUp’s stuff.

“Yeah, want to be on our team?”

My eyes lock on his when he says that word.

Team.

I’ve been on my own for the last while and I’ve wanted nothing more than to be on a team again. A real team. And now, without Mac helping with my art, a team like PowerUp is useful. We could be like the CoBra Movement or the Guerrilla Girls. I could be part of a team that means something.

A gust takes another of my drawings, Mac’s face floating with the wind. A twist comes to my gut and when my eyes move back to Picasso, that twist tightens.

I have to let go of Mac. I have to move on. There’s no coming back from that and I’d be stupid to pass this up. “Tell me more, Picasso.”

“You can stay with us. No cost.”

That does it. A roof over my head is crucial. I’ve made worse decisions. So with a smile, I hold out a hand. “Deal.”

“This is it,”Picasso says, lifting the gate to the freight elevator.

Thisis a far cry from The Hill, but it’s much better than where I’ve laid my head lately.

The smell of tobacco blends with the haunting blend of industrial decay, musty but I”m used to it. I didn’t expect much walking into what looks like an abandoned warehouse, but I try to keep my spirits high as my eyes wander the space.

Weathered brick walls surround us, concrete floors under my shoes. Worn-out mismatched furniture is one of the few things in the large open space, another large wooden door at the far end.

Three men sit around old wooden crates, all their eyes on me as Picasso ushers me in. With the way the large windows take up the space, it should be brighter in here. But pieces of wood and yellowed newspaper block out much of the sun. The only lighting includes an old lamp next to a tattered ottoman, and a spotlight hanging near the large wooden door.

Clack!

My shoulders rise to my ears as Picasso locks the gate to the elevator behind me.

“What’s wrong, Butterfly?”

That name makes my stomach flip, my ears so unused to that name coming from anyone but Mac. I thought using it as my street artist alias would take away some of its power, but it still does something to me when I hear it.

And it always reminds me of him.

While it’s warmer here, a chill runs through me when Picasso puts his hand on the small of my back. A distant siren wails in the background, another sound coming with it. My eyes follow the closer sound to the large wooden door at the far end. Reminiscent of an old garage door, it fits the industrial vibe.

The sound comes from beyond it again, my brows furrowing. A moan. Or a cry.

It gets drowned when music fills the room. Old-school hip-hop. It plays from an old stereo near the ripped leather sofa one of the men sits on.

“So? What do you think?” Picasso asks, appearing in front of me with his arms spread wide.

“It’s uh, nice?” I wince, hating the influx at the end of my response. I expected more art on the walls or a ton of supplies, but I don’t see any. Looking on the bright side, there’s a lot of opportunity to brighten up the place with my work.

“What, you think you’re better than this?” Picasso crosses his arms.

While there’s a roof over my head, and heat filling the space, it feels cold here. Colder than it did with Uncle Jake, way colder than at The Emerald.

A coldness I never felt with Mac.

“It’s uh, it’s great.” Better than the floor of a parking garage. Forcing a smile makes Picasso’s arms drop before he moves to a small kitchenette at the side of the space.

“If you’re unsure I can put you right back where I found you.” Picasso reaches inside the rusting mini fridge before tossing a can my way. “Here.” It hits my chest hard before I can catch it. A warm beer. “We can help each other. Like the artists in Paris or Berlin. This will be our home, while you can be my muse.”

Cracking the beer, I look around the sparse space again. “Or you can be mine.” I”m tired of putting the men in my life first, and that seeps through. But then I find the inspiration I need to embrace this. “Like Frida and Diego.” Iconic.

The chatter from the men quiet, my eyes turning to them as they all stare at me like I’ve grown an extra tit. After what seems like forever, the room erupts in laughter. Pulling my beer to my lips, I eye them over the can, ignoring their laughs.

They’re too old to be in an artist squat. One has a gold tooth that shines under the single swaying lamp over the sofa. The other looks like one-half of the bandits from Left Alone. They look more like mafia rejects than artists. With a sip of my drink, my mouth twists. The Hill ruined my palate.

Ignoring the chill in my bones, I look around for supplies again. A canvas. Paper. Paint. Pencils. Anything. My mind craves to get lost in my work but how can I do that if there’s nothing around? “Where do you keep your supplies?” I ask.

Picasso stops laughing before the men look at him, waiting for an answer. He clears his throat. “Don’t worry about that. Right now, why don’t you get settled? Come here.” He beckons me closer with a tilt of his head. The men near him smile, their eyes still wandering my frame.

“Uh, I rather work on my art.”

Bang!

“Well pardon the fuck out of me.” My ears rise to my shoulders when Picasso”s hand pounds on a wooden crate. “It’s all work and no play with you isn’t it, Butterfly? Did I make a bad decision?”

“Can you stop calling me that?” I ask through a tight jaw. “I have a name.”

“We don’t use real names here.” The men chuckle as Picasso walks towards me. I step back but he’s faster, grabbing my wrist and pulling me to him.

His grip tightens, a sting on my skin. “Stop, that hurts.”

“Ever try a Lady Killer?” Picasso ignores me, leading me towards the makeshift living area where I can see his men eyeballing me even closer.

Cringing at the name, I move over to the ring of mismatched sofas, a small heater making this area much warmer than where I stood. Picasso moves to an empty seat before he takes my hand. Despite pulling back, he’s stronger, tugging me on his lap.

“Evan.” He snaps a finger at one of the men. “Make this one a Lady Killer and make it strong.”

“Can we get to work?” I ask, trying to move from his lap but he wraps his arms around me. It should make me feel better with how lonely I’ve been but it only makes my stomach churn. I try manners. “Please?”

“Sure,” Picasso chuckles. His voice in my ear makes me want to rip off my skin. “Right after a drink with the crew. We’re a team, remember? Act like one, it’s not all about you, Princess.” He scoffs, “Narcissistic artists.”

Evan slams a glass filled with purple liquid on the table. “Drink up.” He has an accent I didn’t expect. Polish? Russian? Either way, he’s not from here.

They all hold out their drinks. A beer and a glass of brown liquid. “Prost,” Picasso says. “To the new crew.” His beer can hits mine. They all look at me, waiting for me to drink. “Don’t tell me you don’t party. Shit, maybe I did make a bad decision.”

Thinking about being in the parking garage alone makes me look around the space again. A roof over my head and art. Heat. Company. What more can I ask for? After everything? I made my mess and it’s only up from here.

So what’s a drink?

I’m away from Saint Bons and Hannah. I’m away from the mother who never wanted me.

I’m away from Mac.

My chest tightens at the last thought before I tap my glass of purple drink against Picasso’s. “Cheers to a new life.”

Without Malcolm McKinsley.

A cold dropon my face stirs me awake.

Another brings me back to reality.

The only light I can see is a sliver coming from my right. Pushing up, my hand hits a cold hard surface. Concrete.

Pushing my hair out of my face, I try to make sense of my surroundings, but I can’t quite place it. Everything hurts. My head. My thighs. My legs. My throat.

“He-hello?” My voice comes out a small rasp, echoing around the room. No one answers but as I perk my ears up, I hear that same sound I heard earlier.

A moan. It was a moan. It’s louder, an echo coming with it.

“Where am I?” Muttering doesn’t get me out of my haze as recent memories flood back. Picasso. The Lady Killer. Those are the last things I remember. At least I think it is.

“Come here, baby.”

“Aren’t you a pretty girl?”

Flashes come back to me as I cringe. A hand on my chest. Men surrounding me. Red lights. But then it’s black after that.

“Picasso?” I call, another moan coming through the walls. It hurts as I drag my body towards the sliver of light. Reaching up, I tap around for a knob. My hand lands on something cold and smooth. Gripping it, I twist. It doesn’t budge.

With whatever energy I have left, I bang my fist on the door. It’s not even half the power I expect, but I try again, my body collapsing against the floor when I do.

“Picasso?”

Am I locked in here? Wherever this is?

Moving my head, I look for another light, but there”s nothing. It’s dark. And cold. Patting my body, I’m only met with skin. Where the hell are my clothes?

My heart pounds against my tightening chest as I try to peer under the crack of the door. There’s not enough space to see. Fitting my fingers underneath doesn’t work either.

“Hello?”

Right now, it’s easy to miss the comfort of The Hill. The comfort of Mac’s room. His arms.

He played you.

We made each other miserable. But we were a team. At least for a little bit.

My mind swings back to The Shed. The helicopter. My old bathroom. The way he held me. The way he made sure to watch me.

You shot him.

But he deserved it. Right?

Slap! Click!

A sound comes from the door. Pushing my pained body up again, I lift my gaze.

Cree-ak!

The door sounds heavy as more light streams into the room. A dark figure appears through my blurry vision.

“Our little artist is awake,” Picasso chuckles, that evil laugh echoing.

“Wh-what did you do?” I mutter, my vision blurring in and out.

“Shhh,” he says as another pair of shoes appears at the door. They’re shinier than Picasso’s brown boots. Expensive. Like something from The Hill.

Have I seen those shoes before?

Squinting, I see two men exchange a wad of cash before Picasso steps aside and counts. I try to back away as the man enters, but my body feels too heavy.

“What’s happening?” I ask, my throat closing, heat coming to the surface of my skin.

A grip comes to my wrist, pain ripping through my body when I’m pulled forward. “Quiet down and be a team player will you?” Picasso’s voice.

Trying to pull away doesn’t work, his hold tightening around me.

“Is this going to be a problem?” Another voice sounds familiar too.

“No,” Picasso says, a slap coming to my face. It doesn’t bring the same feel that Mac’s hand does. No, this is punishment. Tipping my head back, Picasso whispers, “Open up for me, Butterfly.” Folding my lips closed doesn’t work. It takes almost nothing for him to tip my mouth open before cold liquid hits my tongue and pours down my throat.

It tastes familiar.

Sweet and bitter.

But by the time I remember, it’s too late.

The Lady Killer sticks to its name as the world around me dims. Picasso chuckles, his voice turning into a distant murmur. “Atta girl.”