Chapter 30
“Keep up, will you?”
Picasso’s voice guides me, my hand in his as we walk the streets of Newhaven. At least I think that’s where we still are.
The world is a haze, streetlights a blur, and my head is in a state of non-stop pain as he tugs me along the sidewalk. No one bats an eye regardless of what I’m wearing here, a simple black mini, a black wig to hide my hair. They’re used to this.
Slap!
My entire face stings before I realize Picasso stopped in his path. “You fucking bitch.” He’s in my face, his thumb on my right cheek, the rest of his fingers on the other. He makes sure I look at him and only him. “Are you out here on your own?”
“Wh-what?” I mutter. I never know what he’s talking about. I’ve learned not to ask questions. Like why we don’t do any artwork. Or why he keeps me locked in what feels like a cell all night. And why there are always strange men around. On top of me. Under me.
I keep thinking it’ll be him. Mac. But it never is. And then I wake up in darkness, my body in pain again. My life feels like glimpses of reality. I don’t know what’s real. One thing I do know? Picasso and I are not a team. This is a dictatorship.
Slap!
My face burns for a second but it’s no different than my arms. Or my legs. Or between them. “Pay attention, cunt.” He positions me in front of him, my back to his chest. Then he tilts my head up. And for the first time in a while, I see something familiar.
It’s my old work. This one a shattered crown on a drawing of Mac. There’s more colour to it than I remember, making it pop against the dull brick. I’ve never seen it this large. Those iron eyes stare back at me, making my stomach knot in a way I haven’t felt in a while.
“Woah.” My eyes shift to the bottom of the paste-up. A hashtag sits next to a small black-and-white image of my face, my red curls the highlight.
#FindTheButterfly.
“When the fuck did you do this?” Picasso’s voice comes to my ear.
“I-I didn’t.” Not that I remember anyway. But the first smile tickles my face in forever.
“It’s the Butterfly!” A girl’s voice calls out from a distance.
“Fuck,” Picasso mutters, pulling me back from my work. A teenage girl runs to the art piece, her phone pointed at the art. “Well, thank fuck.” Picasso holds me back, his grip tight on my sore arms.
Evan is with us, his real teammate, and he says something to him in Russian. I’ve stopped trying to decipher it. Instead, my eyes stay on the girl’s phone. I watch as she posts the paste-up to the ‘Gram with the same hashtag painted on the wall. When she taps the hashtag, it renders more posts with the same one. She scrolls, revealing pages and pages of what looks like… my artwork.
She stops at one photo, a man standing in front of my work with a familiar smirk.
My stomach rolls, my eyes widening.
Holy fuck.
“Hey, what are you doing!” the girl yells just as the artwork… my artwork gets splashed with white paint.
My body stills, my eyes darting to Evan holding a bucket.
The girl approaches Evan. “Why did you do that?!” But an older man pulls her away from the chuckling psychopath.
Psychopath.
That’s what I called Mac.
But at least he encouraged my art. At least he believed in that. My hands turn to fists and before I know it, I’m swinging a limp one at Picasso.
I stumble when I do, all my power drained.
He lets me stumble around, humiliating me in front of the small crowd before he grabs my wrist again. Tight.
“We’re a team, remember?” he says. “Get it together. Evan is just putting up some real art for us.”
Turning to the ruined work, only my face remains, the hashtag gone. Evan dips his finger in the bucket, finger painting on the space right next to it.
Call 555-569-6969 for a good time.
Creak.
Plonk!
The door locks again.
And tonight? Tonight I’m risking it all.
Darkness takes over me as I scramble to the corner of my cell. But this time, I don’t sink in the corner. This time, I don’t retreat into the darkness hoping I wake up from this nightmare.
Pushing my finger deep down my throat, my stomach twists before the contents spew out. I do it again for good measure, the smell of acidic garbage filling the air. I can’t see the ground, but I smell that familiar smell of sweetened alcohol, and I hope I got it all out.
It took a few more days to work up the courage. To follow the routine. To really pay attention to the way Picasso runs this joint. There’s a key. A structure. And I hope I cracked the code.
Metal sticks to my sweaty skin as the noises outside die down. This is usually when I’d doze off but not tonight. Taking this key wasn’t easy. It took me fucking with Evan to do it. Sure that caused me a couple of kicks to the gut, and bruises to my body. They never hit the face. And without him knowing, I got my hands on a bit of freedom.
I”m careful pushing the key into the hole, trying my hardest not to make a sound. The lock unlatches, a relief in my chest knowing I grabbed the right one. I won’t have to go through Evan’s rage again.
I wince when the door creaks, and I hope no one can hear it.
Pushing the door open, I move into the dark, concrete hall. It feels like I”m in a pound for strays, a sole bulb hanging from the ceiling to light my path.
Squinting, my hand presses against the wall for support as I move closer and closer to the end of the hall. To the big brown garage door. One of the broken glasses at the top isn”t fixed, shattered enough for me to peek through it.
For a moment, my head spins, my mind flashing back to the very moment I met him. Behind a glass window. Before he ruined my life.
Before he changed everything.
And hell, now there’s no turning back.
I don’t see Picasso knocking back lines. I don’t see Evan tipping a beer into his mouth. As far as I know, the coast is clear. They go somewhere every night but not for long. For now, I’m happy my timing is right.
You don’t have much of it.
Things move like clockwork here. And if that’s true, I need to be quick.
While the space is mostly empty, finding my phone still isn’t easy. I check the crates, the chest in one corner and even the freezer in the mini fridge but nothing turns up.
My eyes land on a red tool chest, the paint stripping from it. Glancing at the elevator, I move towards the chest. Pulling out the smaller top drawer, my body stills.
Polaroids of women lay scattered across the drawer. I can’t tell how many photos there are. Hundreds? I don’t have time to count. The second drawer reveals tools. Tape, rope, glue, a hammer. Goosebumps rise to my skin when my eyes fixate on the rope, my mind revealing memories of Mac again.
Focus.
It’s not until I’ve searched the fifth drawer that I find what I’m looking for. An array of phones pile on top of each other and rattling through is like finding a needle in a haystack.
But the stickers on my phone help.
A bit of tightness releases in my chest when I see that graffiti sticker, my fingers wrapping around it. Then my shoulders drop.
It’s dead.
Biting my lip, I glance around the room before seeing an outlet, a white chord hanging from it. Moving to it, I plug my phone in, hoping it takes half the time it usually does to revive.
“Come on, come on,” I whisper, the time for the screen to light feeling like eons.
You’d think I’m on uppers the way my eyes dart around the room, my legs shaking. A brick lays near the elevator and while I wait for the phone to charge, I run across the room and grab it. If this goes sideways I’ll need to fight with whatever I have left.
Bing!
From where I stand, I see the phone light up before I move back to it, hopping over a crate.
My phone lights up with messages and notifications. The number ninety-nine fills the red circle above my texts and calls. But there’s something else on my mind first.
After tapping the QuickGram icon, I type in the hashtag I saw on the wall. When it loads, my back hits the cold brick, my hand coming to my mouth.
My artwork is everywhere. New York, Los Angeles, Paris, Madrid. Different work. All with the same hashtag and that little drawing of me.
Gripping tight to the phone keeps it in my grasp as I read the caption on a piece almost as big as a billboard. I’ve never seen a picture of my mom so huge.
“Found the guy behind the #FindTheButterfly project. Now to find his butterfly.”
Mac stares at the camera, those iron eyes boring into me even through the picture. A man stands next to him in a beanie with a wide smile, his arm around Mac like Mac is some celebrity. My eyes drift to the location.
Brightbrook.
It’s the town over.
He’s looking for you.
Time slaps me in the face when I see how old these posts are. He’s been looking for me since I left.
Time. Something I don’t have much of.
Tapping my messages, I’m floored when I see the last one from Mac.
Mac:I promise I will find you, Butterfly
It doesn’t read threatening or disturbing. It reads earnest. Despite what I did.
A heaviness lifts off my chest, my body filled with a feeling I haven’t felt in a while.
Hope.
I scan the rest of his messages.
Mac:Don’t ignore me
Mac: You’re worrying me, Ember
Mac:Don’t be fucking selfish
Mac: You are mine. Always
After everything? My eyes blur, and this time it’s not from whatever Picasso feeds me.
There’s a message from Greta and my heart skips when I see her name.
Greta: Im sorry things were so weird between us. Mac told me everything. Pls come back
A tear falls from my eye. She cares. They care.
My head pops up as a laughter comes from a distance. Low. That Russian accent follows.
“We’re so happy to have you with us.” Picasso’s voice comes next while I tap Mac’s name and hit the little phone symbol. There’s no way I’m calling the cops. Not after what I did. Mac’s my way out.
Ring ring ring.
The elevator starts to whir, my eyes on the mechanics.
Ring ring ring.
I watch as it lowers, the sound of footsteps on the wood.
“C’mon, c’mon…”
Ring ring ring.
The elevator whirs again, laughter coming closer and closer.
I’m out of time.
Pulling the brick to my chest, I pull the phone out of the charger but it comes with it. “Fuck,” I mumble, trying to put it back, my shaky hands looking for the plug.
The elevator comes to a stop. So does the laughter.
Silence takes over.
“Well, if it isn’t the girl in question,” Picasso says, his eyes narrowing as my back hits the wall. “Just the girl we’re talking about.” Picasso steps inside the warehouse in brown cargo pants and his brown leather jacket. “You’re famous. Want to say hello to our new guest?”
My phone clatters to the ground when I see who’s behind him.
“Hello, Butterfly.”